Man…
I wanna be rich and popular.
Yet here I am—living in a house nobody remembers.
Just an abandoned shack, half of it being eaten by moss. Cracks running along the concrete walls, that you'll wonder to yourself on how the entire thing hasn't collapsed yet.
The roof leaks whenever it rains, flooding my room should the rain last more a few minutes. The floor creaks when I step a bit too loud, and the walls? They whisper like old men muttering secrets that no soul should ever hear whenever the wind passes by.
The best part? It's all tucked away at the edge of a forest so forgotten and so little of value that no person even bothers to enter.
So yeah—I'm all alone here.
At least, it's mine. More mine than the rest of the world will ever be.
I'm no one's son, no noble blood in my veins, no sect's secret martial art carved in my mind, no cults trying to drag me into their stupid beliefs, and no master waiting to call me "disciple."
And whenever people ask where I came from, I just tell "Nowhere." It's just super easier that way. I'd rather not waste my time trying to hear their sympathy.
But, truth is, it's lonely. Most days, I have nothing but my imagination and the voice in my head to keep me company.
But there are times where my day would become interesting. Like that one time I picked up a broken, rusty sword that I found on the roadside.
It's been months since I last found it, and to this day I still I swing it until my arms ache. But whenever when I'm not working or training, I just lie to myself that I'm strong— and that maybe one day, I'll be so famous even the prettiest girl in the world will kneel before me, and a thousand others will follow.
But the truth? I survive like a rat. Gnawing on scraps others leave behind. Hunting small rabbits. Chopping firewood for passing merchants. Fixing broken tools in exchange for crumbs of bread.
And I'm sick of it. I'm sick of everything.
I've bled for every mouthful of food I've ever eaten.
Just to survive.
Just to see another day.
Just to keep hoping.
But I want more.
Not food. Not coins. Not peace.
I want power. Glory. Fame. The kind of name that forces people to look up when they hear it.
Because without that, I'll rot here like every other forgotten fool.
Clans rule this world with their Power. Sects hoard their arts like dragons to their gold. Cults worship false gods and chase their own beliefs.
And me? I stand outside it all—like a beggar staring at a feast.
But not for long.
The National Youth Tournament comes once a year. Clans send their proudest heirs. Sects parade their prodigies. Cults offer up their child of prophecy. And from the shadows, The Mystic Academy watches.
Rank 8th or higher, and you earn sponsorship plus free ride to the Academy and a better place to call home. Just 8th. That's I all I need to shatter the chains that hold me back.
I'll win.
I may be weak—but I'll win.
I'm not strong. I know it. My body was never honed by masters. My veins carry no ancient bloodline. My fists have never shattered boulders since birth.
But I have something they don't.
I don't quit.
So I'll walk into that arena.
And if I bleed, I'll bleed forward.
If I fall, I'll drag someone down with me.
My gaze drifts toward the waving trees. My broken sword leaning against the broken wall, the light shining down on the rust of the blade.
1 month. I'll train for 1 more month, and then I'll devour everyone who stands in my way.
Not that I might.
I will.
So my training started. Time slipped away quite fast as I swung my sword, from morning till night.
I never understood how those so-called sword prodigies in the stories could split a tree with a casual flick of their blade.
While me? After hundreds of swings and countless hours, I barely managed to scratch the bark of a single tree. The tree just stood there. I just knew it laughing at me in silence.
But who even cares? Even if those legends are real, I'll swing until I can cut down ten trees in one strike.
So I continued to train.
Days blurred together, my hands blistering, arms burning from the pain.
After a week, I collapsed on the forest floor, chest throbbing, "Huff… Huff…" My rusty sword slipped from my shaking hands.
Every breath felt like fire, but I forced my feet to drag me back to that rotting shack I called home. When I finally fell onto my straw bed, my bones screamed with pain.
"Three more weeks…" I whispered, staring at the cracked ceiling. "Three more weeks, and I'll devour them all." My voice reeked of greed.
I know my ego's bigger than it should be. I know the truth—standing on that stage, I'll probably get slaughtered by some rich brat trained by the best masters or some lucky fool blessed with divine talent.
But I want it.
No—I crave it.
I want to see them kneel. I want to watch their ugly faces realize that they just lost to a nobody, that they just lost to a rat from the gutter.
I made a promise to myself long ago: I'll become both free and the strongest. Not a chained dog of a clan, not a pawn of a sect, not a nameless corpse in the dirt.
No—I'll be like a butterfly, soaring higher and higher as the world watches in awe and kneeling before my very existence.
I reached for the old book sitting on my table, my hands trembling but not from exhaustion this time. "Magic…" I muttered.
I flipped it open, eyes lighting up on the fading letters due to its age and read aloud the title with excitement: "The Basic Concept of Magic."
It had taken me months—months of scraping by from chopping wood, fixing tools, hunting small animals—just to buy this ragged thing. The pages were yellow, and the ink was smudged, but to me it was treasure.
Too late to start? Maybe. But time and age mean nothing for me.
"I'd rather suffer the pain of progress," I whispered, "than the pain of regret."
So I studied. I burned my nights in candlelight, memorizing every crude diagram. Medidated until my head throbbed, reaching for mana like a man clawing for air underwater. Then at morning I swung my sword until my muscles gave out, then swung again.
Sword. Body. Mana. Mind.
I forced them all to grow, even if only by inches.
And then, before I knew it—only a single week remained before the Tournament.
I stood at the entrance to my house. My hand gripping tightly to the hilt of the broken sword, as my lips curled into a grin. "I won't forget to make them remember my name—from every single vowel, to every single consonant." I raised the blade toward the sky. "Nova Arclight!"
With that, I tied my sword to my waste as I looked back to my humble house one last time, giving it my final goodbye.
Then before I knew it, I stood before the forest path, a bag slung over my back, my crude sword tied to my waist, my ego bigger than ever before, and a dream that seemed impossible.
"I can't be late," I said.
Not when my story was about to begin.
Not if I want to carve my story to the world. "No.. I'll carve it!" I announced to myself with excitement as my journey finally began.