"Look at him go," one kid said, nudging another. They are in the training ground of the traditional school, where kids under the age of 12 go. It was time to go home, but the boy was still going at it with the dirt dummies, which were used for sword training.
"Look at him trying to train, he is so clumsy and emaciated I could break him with a finger," the other scoffed. The four bigger boys were ready to leave the school grounds before their eyes beheld their target.
"I mean, the high school entry exam is in six months, I hear he is twelve like us," another added as the boys changed their trajectory and started approaching the smaller boy.
"He looks six years old to me," another commented.
"He is not even a pureblood of our clan, does he think he is going to master the clan's secret art?" another kid snickered. "If he manages it, learn before I do, I will renounce my clan name." They all burst out laughing.
Their eyes were fixed on a young boy with unusual bronze hair. No, it was not his natural hair color. The kid had been rejected by his father, and when his mother, who saw it fit to get pregnant by a man from another clan, died, no one could take care of him. So, he was shipped back to his father's clan.
A child bore its father's clan name and the tribe's name, so no matter how much the father wanted to reject it, he could not. Therefore, he left it around the clan for anyone who saw fit to take care of it.
No one really even paid attention to the kid because it did not look like any of the clan members. It was so dainty, like a girl, and it was a boy. I mean, how did he even look like a sack of bones at twelve? The boy just ended up staying with his great-grandmother, who had progressed in age.
His father had a family before meeting the boy's mom, and he had only met the boy's mom when he went to war south of the west for war. Being a warrior general and still brimming with youth, he was a heart trope.
Rumour had it that the boy's mother fell head over heels for him, being their direction guide in the south. She was from the Anki clan of the Sotek tribe, and the terrain was tedious. She was a guide since in the West, even in the southwest west women and men are equal. That is when a love story began between the warrior general and the guide. She did not know that he had a wife up north west, and they had soon got married during the war. The war went on for three and a half years with the state of Safaya, which had wanted to claim tribes in the southwest of Tagayia.
He was born during the last winter of the war, in a tent that smelled of smoke and wet earth. His father was a general from the North, a man spoken of in ranks and victories. His mother was a guide from the southwest, hired to lead armies through unfamiliar land. She did not know the general had a family waiting for him beyond the mountains. The war folded them together in quiet moments between marches. By the time it ended, she carried his child.
When peace was declared, the general rode north with his banners and men. He left her with an infant and promises of his return. Their son was born bearing his father's clan name and his mother's tribe mark, though only one of those worlds would ever claim him. The general, however, never rode south again, even when messengers were sent north to tell him that the woman was seriously ill. It is a shame to grow up without a father. The mother had greatly dishonored her clan since the marriage had also been unknown to her clan. The general had not even sent dowry, dishonoring the woman further. A child belongs to the father clan and bearing a name of a different clan, the boy naturally did not belong in the Anki clan nor the Sotek tribe. He needed to be joined with his father's clan and learn the ways of his clan. He was a boy after all, and he could soon become a man, so he needed to bear all the qualities of the tribe name and the clan he bore. It was a prestigious clan after all, and it was everyone's wish that the boy go north.
The mother, however, was a prideful woman, and after the general failed to come back south to pick her up or fulfill his promise of marrying her, she refused to give in to the clan's requests to go north with the child to seek him. It led to her committing the greatest taboo. denying a boy of his birthright and disobeying her parents after bringing them dishonor. She was cast out to live with the shame of the clan. That is when she started to fall ill. She was a prideful woman, and having been reduced to nothing had been too much to bear. She died when the boy was five. Fever took her in three days. After that, the world thinned. He learned hunger early. His limbs shrank. His ribs showed. He survived by begging, trapping small animals, and sleeping where he could.
When word reached the North that a child existed, one carrying the general's blood and name, he was summoned, not welcomed. Sent for like some object. After all, a general of his rank could take as many wives as he wished, but letting a child who bore his name to keep living like a shamed one could have brought dishonor to his name. So, his being summoned north was not because his father wanted him, but because he wanted to save his honor.
His arrival was not welcomed at all. He was too young to defy a general and too feeble to fight his scouts. Even more, he wanted to survive. He had spent most of his life living like a sewer rat, but instead of that, making him give up, he had wanted to rise above and make those who had made him and his mother suffer, know pain. Among the northern tribe, he was small. Too thin. Too quiet. His accent marked him as foreign. The boys called him war-spawn, guide's mistake, southern filth. It didn't take him long to become an object to be beaten. They beat him for training alone. They beat him for falling. They beat him for trying again.
(Kero-filth) Is the name they gave him.
They spoke of his mother as if she were stupid for loving a man above her station. They said he was worse for believing effort could raise him. His father never looked at him long enough to recognize him. Orders were given through others. Food was provided, but never warmth. The general's wealth did not reach the boy's hands, only the weight of his name reached his back.
It was his great-grandmother who took him in. Old, sharp-eyed, bent with years. She did not defend him with words. She gave him a corner to sleep in, a blade to practice with, and silence to grow inside. She was almost blind from age and could only help the boy so much. The boy did everything around the house.
Every day, he was insulted. Every day, he was beaten. Still, he trained. The boy must have carried with him the pride of his mother and resilience because no matter how much he was despised, he still sought to rise. He trained day and night because the military school was the only door he could see. Not for glory. Not for his father's approval. But because leaving meant surviving, and staying meant breaking. Even so, he was still weak, and no matter how hard he worked and trained, he was still weaker than his peers. He had been late to join the traditional school. He had to learn what others had learnt since they were old enough to walk when he joined it at eight. He only had four years to learn the art of war of his father's tribe and study all they had to know.
He was bullied openly, without shame.
"Hey, Kero, you can't swing a sword like that." The biggest kid came to stand before him, laughing at his sword-handling skills.
"I hear you say you want to get into a war academy with your skills, not even Cilsi medical school can take you in with how weak you are. I hear Cilsi is the only school where one does not need any physical traits to join."
"Maybe he can join Kafka Rift Academy, can take you in with how dainty you are," another laughed.
"He won't even stand a chance with the ladies in Kafka. Those ladies come second to the Galka War Academy. He is weaker than even our ladies who have no interest in the military," another laughed. They were not completely wrong, however. He had been born with a genius mind, however, which was the only saving grace for him. He was able to remember everything he was taught just once easily. His problem, however, came down to his weak bones, which had been caused by malnutrition.
"Do you think because you are smart, it can help you join a war academy?" the biggest snickered, slapping the wooden sword out of his hand, and then the beating began. He was not surprised, however, and did not cry nor call for help. He had gotten used to it.
They always trained together in the yard, but he was never given space. If he stood too close, he was shoved away. If he kept his distance, he was accused of arrogance. When he copied their forms, they laughed. When he failed, they struck him for wasting time meant for "real sons of the North."
Food was taken from him. Water spilled on purpose. His practice blade was snapped once and thrown into the mud. When he complained, he was told to be grateful he was allowed to stay at all.
They blamed him for things he did not do. Broken tools. Missing rations. A poor hunt. The punishment always found him, because he was the easiest to point at. At night, whispers followed him even into sleep. They said his blood was wrong. That his mother had weakened him. That the general's strength had skipped him on purpose.
What hurt most was that some of the boys were not stronger than him. They were simply more accepted. They stood in groups. He stood alone. Still, he rose before dawn. Still, he trained after bruises darkened. Still, he practiced footwork with broken ribs and learned to fall without sound. He learned when to stay silent, when to move, when to disappear.
They tried to break him into leaving, but instead, they taught him how cruelty moves, how fear smells, how violence begins before the first blow.
"I just want to train like everyone," he answered timidly, and that angered the boys even more. When he answered, it angered them, and every time he answered, it always called for a beating.
"You think just because you bear the name of the general and the name of our clan, you belong with us?" Loka, the biggest, asked, shoving him to the ground with so much force that he hit the ground with a thud.
"Teach him a lesson, I don't feel like touching filth today," he said with so much disgust before spitting on the ground. His minions smiled greedily and wickedly. That was all they needed before they landed on him with kicks and blows. Today was a bad day for him. He always managed to avoid them, and when he was lucky, they only pushed him around or called him names, but today it seems they wanted to teach him a lesson.
I need to get into a war academy. I need to get away.' It was all he could think about past the pain, as the blows landed on him like rain.
'I need to get away.'