Chapter 8 – The Sage's Child
The wind carried the smell of rain as Fay sat on the roof of his parents' home, legs dangling over the edge, white hair catching the sunset. His crimson eyes shimmered like polished rubies, a mark he had grown used to hiding beneath a calm smile. Yet his mind was far from calm.
That night weeks ago, he had felt the unmistakable aura pulsing from the necklaces his parents wore — emblems, ancient and heavy with power. When he confronted them, they told him the truth: they were not simple villagers, but Sages. Humans who had climbed close to the pinnacle of mortal ability, just below dragons, demon kings, and gods.
He laughed at the memory. "So even my parents were hiding things…"
His father had ruffled his hair that night, chuckling. "A Sage's duty is to watch over the world, Fay. But sometimes the strongest duty is to live quietly."
That stuck with him. He knew all about living quietly — for he was the strongest god, Nirvana, reincarnated by choice.
But "quiet" was not something he did well.
The roof groaned beneath him, and before he realized it, the tiles cracked under his weightless kick. A startled bird took off into the sky. Fay winced. "Not again…" He leapt down and landed softly on the grass, then looked up at the missing tiles with guilt.
"Faaaay!" His mother's voice carried from the kitchen window. "What did I tell you about roofs?"
He raised his hands in surrender. "I was just… enjoying the view!"
"You were enjoying breaking it," she huffed, though her lips twitched like she was holding back a smile.
Life after the emblem revelation had become… different. Not only did Fay know his parents weren't ordinary, but they knew that he knew. Sometimes his father would spar lightly with him in the fields. Sometimes his mother would lecture him about restraint while secretly reinforcing her own barrier spells around the house — because Fay, despite his progress, had a talent for destroying everything he touched.
At age twelve, he had grown taller, leaner, but still carried the energy of a mischievous child. His power was a vast ocean inside him, difficult to bottle up. The tiniest flicker of will could split a tree trunk, crack stone, or send a training dummy into orbit.
The villagers had noticed too.
"Did you hear? Fay Lorian fixed the water wheel last week… with one push. The whole thing spun like it was new."
"Fixed? He broke it worse than before! His poor father had to rebuild the axle!"
The whispers reached his ears often. Children stared at his crimson eyes, both fascinated and unnerved. Adults muttered about the Lorian family being odd, though respected. Fay played the fool, pretending not to care, but deep down he wrestled with the thought: If they knew what I really was, would they still smile at me?
One summer evening, as fireflies began to rise from the grass, Fay sat with his father outside. The man's emblem gleamed faintly, hiding his true aura.
"Father," Fay said, tilting his head, "why keep your power sealed? You could protect everyone openly. The village would respect you even more."
His father leaned back, pipe smoke curling in the dusk. "Respect is a blade, Fay. If people bow to you, they also fear you. If they fear you, they demand from you. A Sage does not live for glory. We live to keep balance." He looked at his son with steady eyes. "One day you'll understand the weight of hiding what you are."
Fay smirked faintly, trying to sound casual. "You'd be surprised how much I already understand."
The conversation ended there, but it echoed inside him for nights afterward.
He tried harder to control himself. Practicing alone in the woods, he whispered spells under his breath, focusing on precision instead of raw strength. A fireball the size of a fingertip. A sword slash that cut grass but not trees. For hours he worked, sweat soaking his shirt, until his control sharpened enough that he could play with children without knocking them flat.
But clumsiness followed him like a shadow.
One night, unable to sleep, he sneaked out again. He crept past his mother's wards, tiptoed across the grass, and climbed the old oak at the village edge. He sat on a branch, staring at the stars. He wanted to feel small, but the stars only reminded him of what he once ruled.
The branch cracked beneath him. He reacted too late, landing with a thud that left a crater in the soil.
Lanterns lit up in nearby houses. Dogs barked. His parents' voices carried across the night.
"FAY!"
He scrambled from the hole, dirt on his face, laughing sheepishly. "I was… uh… stargazing!"
His mother dragged him home by the ear while his father apologized to the angry villagers. It became a story that spread quickly: "That Lorian boy, always breaking things in the strangest ways."
Despite the embarrassment, Fay couldn't help but smile at their exasperated faces. It felt warm.
Years passed like that. Clumsy accidents. Secret training. Quiet family dinners. A boy with crimson eyes, white hair, and too much power stuffed into a mortal frame. By the time he reached fifteen, the village had accepted his quirks, even if they shook their heads at him.
Then, on a misty morning, a stranger arrived.
She was short, almost Fay's height, with sharp eyes behind round glasses and a staff taller than herself. Her presence was unshakable, as though the ground bent politely beneath her feet. Whispers spread fast.
"A mage?"
"No, not just any mage. That's… the Headmaster of the Academy."
Fay, half-asleep after another late-night escapade, rubbed his eyes as the woman approached his family's home. She stopped in front of him, glanced up at his crimson eyes, and gave the faintest smile.
"You must be Fay Lorian," she said, voice clear as crystal. "I've come a long way for you."
He blinked. "Uh… me?"
Her gaze sharpened. "Yes. The Academy rarely makes exceptions, but for you, we will. Pack your things, child. You are joining us as a special admission student."
The words struck like a bell, ringing in Fay's chest.
His quiet life was about to end.
That's the full Chapter 8