The process of casting magic in Lunara was straightforward—at least for everyone else.
First, you formed the mana circuit for the specific spell. Then, you channeled your magic power into that circuit using an incantation. That would activate the spell. There was no shortcut. You couldn't just dump magic power directly into the world and expect fireballs to appear. You needed the right circuit.
The amount of magic power you pushed into that circuit decided how strong the spell would be. The more mana, the bigger and more detailed the circuit became. The better your understanding of the spell, the more efficiently you could form and strengthen it.
My problem?
Even though I had an MP stat in my status window, I couldn't form a magic circuit at all. Not even a basic one. Something that came as naturally as breathing to others was completely out of my reach.
And that pissed me off.
But… I wasn't completely hopeless. After spending days in the Royal Library, I'd finally found a loophole—artifacts.
Artifacts were magical tools with runes carved into them. The runes already held specific spells. All you had to do was pour mana into the artifact, and the spell activated instantly. No circuits. No incantations. No need to actually understand magic theory.
Think of it like a refrigerator or an air conditioner back on Earth—but instead of cooling your food, the artifact could throw a fireball or put up a barrier.
For example, there was a combat glove with a rune for [Stone Fist] inscribed on it. Feed it mana, and it would harden your punch like rock. More damage to your opponent, less pain for you.
The catch? They were insanely expensive. Way out of my budget.
And that's why nobody in training even bothered suggesting it to me.
Why spend gold on someone they all saw as dead weight?
That's probably exactly what they were thinking.
During the past two weeks, Oliver's classmates had officially labeled him as worthless. He didn't even bother to argue anymore. What could he do? The only thing he could realistically build up was knowledge… and his sigh count.
'My future's a black hole, and all I'm adding to it is more air through my lungs.'
He slumped back in his chair, eyes drifting toward the library window. The sky outside was a perfect shade of blue, stretching endlessly above the bustling capital.
"Bah… might as well just go travel," he muttered under his breath.
His gaze lingered on the clouds as his thoughts began to wander.
'Where should I even go? There's too much out there… Elyndor, the elf kingdom… Dwargon, the land of dwarves… Taurvann, the demi-human nation… and dozens more. Imagine meeting those races in real life instead of behind a 2D screen.'
He let out another sigh.
"But my strength doesn't allow it."
The fantasy was nice, but reality was cruel. The world wasn't just elves and cute beastkin—it was also filled with demonic beasts, demons, and hostile forces that could turn him into a corpse within days.
'If I tried to travel now, I'd probably be wolf food before I got ten kilometers out.'
Another sigh escaped him. 'In the end… if I want to go home, I can't just run away from all this.'
Then he glanced at the clock and winced. 'Ah, crap. Training.'
Shaking his head to shove the thoughts aside, Oliver shoved his books into place and bolted out of the library.
The Imperial training grounds weren't far, but the streets were alive with noise. Merchants calling out their wares, kids darting between stalls, elders scolding their rowdy grandchildren—it was the kind of peaceful day you almost forgot could exist in a world with monsters and war.
~~~~
When Oliver reached the training grounds, several students were already there—chatting, laughing, and practicing with ease. Apparently, he had arrived earlier than expected, but so had they.
Sighing, Oliver retrieved the standard-issue western sword they'd given him and started his own light drills. He was barely halfway through his first set of swings when a sudden rush of wind grazed his back.
He instinctively stepped forward, and an unsheathed blade swept past where he'd been standing. Cold sweat broke out instantly.
Oliver turned—and saw exactly the face he'd been dreading.
William Smith. And right behind him, his two faithful lackeys: Andrew and Nick.
Oliver's personal nickname for them—The Bastard Trio—wasn't just for fun. Every day before training, they made it their mission to mess with him. They were half the reason he hated coming here. (The other half was his own glaring incompetence.)
"Yo, Oliver," William grinned, resting the flat of his blade on his shoulder, "what's the point of carrying that sword? You couldn't cut bread with it."
Andrew snorted. "Hah, William, that's too harsh… but also true."
Nick chimed in with a mock-innocent tone. "Seriously, why do you even show up? If I were you, I'd stay home and spare myself the embarrassment."
"Oh, come on, Nick," Andrew smirked, "don't be like that. Maybe we should let him train with us. You know… out of pity."
William's eyes lit up in fake generosity. "Yeah, let's help him. We're such nice guys, right?"
"Super nice," Nick nodded solemnly, though his grin gave him away. "Oliver, you must be grateful."
Before Oliver could answer, they were already draping their arms around his shoulders, steering him toward a more secluded corner of the grounds. The other students glanced over briefly—then went back to their own business, as if they'd seen nothing.
Oliver tried to wriggle free. "No, I'm fine training alone. Really."
William's smile dropped. "Hey, we're going out of our way to help you, and you're refusing? That's not very polite. All you gotta do is shut your mouth and say 'thank you' later. Simple."
Without warning, William jabbed an elbow hard into Oliver's ribs.
"Urgh!" Oliver gasped, pain shooting through his side.
He didn't remember them being this openly violent before… but then again, give adolescent boys sudden power and authority, and restraint tended to vanish.
And Oliver, powerless as he was, could do nothing but grit his teeth and endure it.