"You're not good enough."
Those words weren't a single memory, but a constant thought of disappointment that followed me everywhere.
The first time I heard those words was from my mother
There was no anger in his voice; it was a sigh that carried the weight of his unfulfilled dreams.
I was born into a highly competitive world.
To be successful, you had to be either exceptionally strong or brilliantly intelligent —a child touched by destiny.
I was neither.
As children, we were thrust into military academies to learn the art of war.
Thanks to my family's influence, I was part of the elite, the most prestigious class.
At the time, I saw it as a privilege, a sign of my superiority over the common people. Head high and chest puffed out, I joined my upper-class companions in tormenting the less fortunate.
I didn't know it then, but my place on that pedestal was only temporary.
My hell began in the third year of the academy, when I was only nine years old.
That year, we took the aptitude test. I remember being very confident; failure wasn't even on my mind.
At the end of the test, my result was considered mediocre. That was the beginning of my misfortunes.
Months later, after receiving my blessing from destiny, the talent I had received was considered useless by the empire's standards.
My last hope was the qualifying tournament. Unfortunately, I only made it through the first stages and was disqualified.
At the end of that school year, due to my poor performance, I was demoted to a regular class.
When I came home that summer, my mother didn't even look at me during dinner. Instead, she just said, "Rhys, you're not good enough." She never treated me the same after that. I was a failure in her eyes.
I don't blame my mother for her words and actions; we were both thrown into a world where winning was the only currency that mattered.
Despite being the firstborn of House Acheron, a family known as the Empire's Gladius for their distinguished military career, as heir to the house, I should have been able to awaken the power of the Obsidian Gladius upon receiving my blessing.
This power was a blood oath passed down through our lineage, a ritual that would mark me as one of the true elite.
My failure was a blow to the family's reputation—an indelible stain.
I, Rhys Acheron, the firstborn and heir, hadn't been able to fulfill my destiny. I had failed, and in doing so, I had become a blemish on my family's pristine record.
For an Acheron, failure wasn't just personal; it was a betrayal to the entire house.
The weight of my surname became a crushing burden. The Empire's Gladius had sired a useless son. And in that world, failure was an unforgivable sin.
If you're a perceptive person, what happened in my life upon returning to the academy won't surprise you. If even my mother, whom I considered the being who loved me most, abandoned me, I couldn't expect my friends to do anything different.
I went from being the one who harassed the weak and unfortunate to being the persecuted and tormented. I remember Elian, the best swordsman in my class. One day during training, he stopped and looked at me with contempt. "I don't waste my time on trash," he said, his words carrying away what was left of our friendship.
I also remember Lyra. It was said she was the best in our class, the one who could reach the rank of Archmage. She had fascinated me from the first day I saw her. At the Feast of the Immaculate Victory, when my demotion was public knowledge, she refused to share a dance with me. As she walked away, she whispered, "Elian is right. Trash is useless, no matter how pretty it is." In that moment, I understood that my place in that world was fleeting, and my status was more important than any relationship I could build.
Back then, I often felt that life was unfair; the anger inside me was constant, but unable to unleash it, I was consumed by frustration and helplessness.
But later, I stopped caring and don't hold a grudge. If what happened to me hadn't happened, and one of them had also lost their place, I most likely would have done the same to that person.
My talent, a blessing of destiny that was supposed to make me great, was the ability to analyze and comprehend the most intricate laws of nature and magic.
While my companions could manifest gusts of fire, summon steel shields, or heal wounds with a touch, I could only see the composition of their gifts.
To me, magic was a complex formula, a scientific problem I could solve in my mind but not replicate with my hands.
My instructors called it a "theoretical talent," useless on the battlefield.
At that time, I considered it my curse, the reason for my failure.
But the frustration of my early years turned into the curiosity of my adolescence. I understood that the solution to my situation wasn't in lamenting, but in becoming someone better.
If I couldn't be a warrior, I would become the greatest scientist that my world had ever seen. I studied magic, chemistry, physics, astronomy, and biology. I obsessed over finding a way to use my gift, to understand why I was the exception to the rule.
The story of my fall from grace is the story of my expulsion, of how I was cast into the garbage of my society.
But I didn't stay there. I accepted the weight of my failure, embraced it as part of my identity, and became the maker of my own future.
I promised myself I would never again be cast out or trampled on like a thing of little worth.
The first part of my life had ended; the second, my climb through the rubble to the top, was about to begin.
Now, I will tell you the second act of my existence.