Four months had passed since the grand tournament, and I had devoted every breath to training, determined to grow stronger. Each morning, I pushed my body beyond its limits, swinging the blade until my arms burned and my vision blurred. My breath tore from my lungs in ragged gasps, my muscles ached, and my hands grew calloused from gripping the hilt of my practice sword. Yet, no matter how much I pushed, no matter how many times I clenched my fists and vowed to rise, something felt… wrong.
Days turned to weeks, and weeks to months, but my strength and mana—once vibrant and full of potential—remained unchanged. Not a single sliver of growth. Not a single flicker of progress. My body, once eager to respond, grew still, as if the very essence of my being had turned to stone. The flame that had once burned within me, the spark of my lineage, now lay cold.
I tried to ignore it at first, brushing aside the gnawing dread that clawed at my chest. I told myself it was a passing weakness, a fleeting obstacle that I would overcome with time and resolve. But each morning, when I stood before the training grounds, I felt it: the emptiness within. The sword grew heavier in my grasp, my movements sluggish, as if my very blood rebelled against me.
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My father, Duke Reinhardt Raelthorn, wasted no time. With growing fear etched across his noble features, he summoned the finest healer mage in the realm—a man renowned for curing ailments thought impossible. His name was Elder Harkon, a master of the arcane, a man whispered to hold the wisdom of centuries.
When Elder Harkon arrived, the household held its breath. He was an imposing figure, draped in flowing robes embroidered with ancient runes, his beard silver and long, his eyes deep pools of knowing. He entered my chamber without a word, his staff tapping softly against the marble floor, each step echoing like a herald of fate.
He bade me lie upon the bed, his hands hovering above my chest as he closed his eyes. The air grew tense, heavy with expectation. His magic seeped into my body like warm light, a gentle warmth that promised healing—but instead of comfort, I felt a hollow, endless darkness pulling it in. His brows furrowed. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. His hands trembled as if grasping at shadows.
For days, Elder Harkon worked tirelessly. Potions were brewed—liquids of strange colors that hissed and shimmered in the candlelight. Rare herbs, gathered from the farthest corners of the realm, were crushed and mixed into poultices that smelled of bitter earth and ancient power. Incantations were spoken in forgotten tongues, the air shimmering with the weight of old magic. My father spared no expense; treasures worth more than a kingdom's wealth were burned in the attempt to heal me.
But the outcome was always the same.
Elder Harkon's voice was grave the day he spoke the truth.
"Your son… bears a black mana core. It is unnatural—an abyss that devours all new strength and mana, leaving nothing behind. No matter how much effort is poured into training, no matter how many elixirs or spells are used, it will absorb everything. I have tried to destroy it, to even weaken it, but…"
He trailed off, shaking his head. His hands fell to his sides, the staff tipping slightly as though even its weight had become too much to bear.
"The black core is… endless. A chasm with no end. Even when I used my full strength—strength capable of shattering a King-level core—it did not budge. The moment I channeled my mana into it, it was drained as though swallowed by a void."
He fell silent for a long moment, then spoke the words that shattered my world:
"Your son's growth has stopped. No strength will rise. No mana will return. His efforts… are futile."
The words cut deep, deeper than any blade. My father's shoulders sagged, the fierce light in his eyes dimming. He dismissed the elder with a nod, his expression carved from stone, though I could see the tremor in his hands, the grief he dared not show before the servants.
When Elder Harkon left, the news spread like wildfire. By the next day, the palace grounds were flooded with nobles, servants, and common folk alike, their voices sharp and cruel. They gathered not in concern, but in curiosity, eager to feast on the downfall of a Raelthorn.
"Is it true? Has the young master truly been rendered worthless?"
"Such a shame. To think, a noble scion brought so low."
"Perhaps the Raelthorn bloodline is not as strong as we believed."
"I heard the Duke is considering disinheriting him… what a disgrace."
" then who is gonna save us from the monsters. "
Their whispers coiled around me like snakes, each word a venom that seeped into my bones. I stood silent in the courtyard, the weight of their stares crushing down. I had once dreamed of becoming a shield for the people, a sword for my family. Now they saw me as nothing—less than nothing. A noble son stripped of purpose, a hollow shell where greatness should have been.
A boy barely older than myself, dressed in fine silks and bearing the crest of a minor noble house, smirked as he passed me by. His voice, low but cutting, reached my ears.
"Perhaps he should take up embroidery… or find a proper trade fit for the useless."
The words struck like a lash, and for a fleeting moment, I longed to draw my blade, to silence the venomous tongues with steel. But I could not. My strength had left me, and the world knew it.
And in that moment of despair, my heart, which had burned with hope and determination, faltered. I felt the first tear slip down my cheek, silent and unseen. My hands trembled at my sides, clenched into useless fists.
It was Alice—my sister, my only light—who stood by me. Her voice rang out, fierce as a lion's roar.
"Enough!" she shouted, stepping forward with fire in her eyes. "Leave at once, all of you! If you refuse, I will summon the knights, and they will not care if you are nobles or commoners. The Duke's word is law, and I am his heir!"
Her voice carried authority, sharpened by fury. The crowd, startled, fell into uneasy silence. Beacuse if they offend her then who knows what will happen in the future if she desided to abondend them then...They knew Alice trained with a blade as fiercely as I had once done, that she was a Raelthorn by name and blood, the next hope of the family.They Reluctantly, they scattered, leaving behind only whispers. Their footsteps faded into the distance, but the echoes of their scorn remained, festering in the walls and halls.
That night, the mansion lay in heavy stillness. The torches flickered in the darkened corridors, their flames casting long shadows that danced across the walls like wraiths. I sat alone in my chamber, the chill of the marble floor seeping into my skin, clutching a worn book close to my chest. Its title—The Hero's Sacrifice—glowed faintly in the candlelight.
I had read it countless times before, but now… it felt different.
My hands trembled as I opened its familiar pages, the leather binding worn soft from use. I traced the lines of the hero's tale, each word like an old friend now turned stranger. Alric of the Silver Blade—once a figure of inspiration—now seemed distant, almost hollow. His sacrifice, once noble, felt cruel. He had given everything—his family, his love, his life—for the kingdom, and in the end… who had wept for him? Who had stood by him when his heart broke beneath the weight of duty?
I felt my breath hitch, my chest tightening as tears welled in my eyes. I had believed in sacrifice, in loyalty to family and kingdom, but now… I wasn't sure. The path I had dreamed of seemed a mockery. My fists clenched around the pages until the paper crumpled, my tears staining the parchment. I was no hero. I was no savior. I was a hollow vessel, drained of worth, left behind by the world.
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"( The so called Villain
He was a man born into a world that had already turned its back on him. A soul cast aside, abandoned by all, and cared for by only a precious few—his family, his beloved, those rare hearts who saw beyond the scars and the silence. He had tasted loneliness from the cradle, endured cruelty, and watched as the world he lived in cared little for his pain. Yet, in the face of rejection, he did not bend, nor did he break.
As he grew, his strength blossomed—sharp as a blade, unyielding as the mountains. Many had thought he would use that strength for power, to seize titles or carve a name into the annals of history.