"What a useless idiot," Elra muttered, her eyes narrowing as Leon weakly tried to grab his wooden sword from the floor.
Before he could even lift it, she kicked him square in the face, the force sending him sliding across the ground.
Thud!
Leon groaned, pain radiating through his jaw and head. As he whimpered, Elra brought her foot down on his hand, stomping it hard.
"Ackkk!" Leon cried out, clutching his hand, the sting shooting up his arm.
Elra's gaze bored into him, cold and merciless. "Why do you even practice?" she spat. "You'll never make it anyway."
She stomped his hand again, driving the point home, and Leon could feel the weight of both her foot and her words pressing down on him. The training hall seemed to close in around him, each throb of pain a brutal reminder of how far behind he truly was.
Pfttt!
One of Elra's friends let out a sharp laugh. Elra's glare snapped toward them, eyes narrow and dangerous. "Why are you laughing?" she hissed.
Her friend smirked, holding up a note. "Take a look at this—Basic Swordsmanship: The Path to Becoming a Great Swordsman!" They read it aloud, their voice cracking with amusement. Another friend held up a second sheet, pointing mockingly. "And this—Mana Improvement Lessons!" Laughter erupted again.
Elra's lips curled into a wicked smile. With one swift motion, she seized Leon by the hair, yanking him up so their faces were level.
Smack!
Her hand struck his cheek sharply. "Come on, wake up, you idiot!" she barked. "Studying this weird-ass theory crap isn't going to help your weak ass!"
Leon's head tilted under the force, his tiny frame trembling, and the noise of laughter and shouts from the friends filled the hall as Elra tightened her grip.
Elra finally released her grip on Leon's hair and lifted her foot from his hand. Swiftly, she snatched his wooden sword, gripping it like it was nothing more than a fragile twig. With a slow, deliberate force, she began to bend it, the wood creaking and splintering under her strength.
"I don't even know why they give a loser like you a chance," she sneered, her eyes gleaming with sharp amusement.
Crack!
The sword fractured violently, jagged shards scattering across the floor. Leon's fingers closed around nothing but splinters, the remnants of his pride.
Panic flared in him. He lunged toward his scattered paper sheets, held mockingly by Elra's friends. "Stop it! Give it back!" he shouted, desperation and anger twisting his voice.
But the friends only laughed, tearing the sheets further, letting the paper flutter and scatter like mocking confetti in front of him.
Elra stepped forward, towering over him with a cruel, triumphant grin. She scooped up the torn papers and the fractured sword, holding them above her head with a flick of her wrist before tossing them lightly toward Leon.
"To think losers ever get a chance," she said, her tone icy yet amused. "And yet… they delude themselves, thinking they still have hope. That is… absolutely hilarious."
Leon reached out instinctively, but the broken sword and shredded papers hovered just out of reach, a sharp reminder of his helplessness, and the overwhelming gap between himself and the Arcandrels around him.
"Why do you need to do that?!" Leon shouted as he struggled to get to his feet, trying to face Elra.
Her expression hardened, disbelief flashing across her features, before twisting into a malicious smile. In one swift motion, she grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked sharply, pulling his face toward her knee.
Whack!
Leon's head snapped back from the force, the impact rattling his skull. Before he could recover, Elra tightened her grip on his hair and struck him with another knee, driving it straight into his face.
"Why?" he gasped between blows.
"I'm just doing this for your own sake," Elra said coldly, her voice steady. "No matter how hard you try…"
This time, her knees targeted different parts of his body—ribs, stomach, shoulders—each strike landing with brutal precision. Leon grunted and twisted under the blows, struggling to breathe as pain radiated through him.
"You won't even make it," Elra added, her tone calm but cutting.
Finally, her knee connected sharply with his jaw. Pain exploded through his skull, and his vision blurred as consciousness began to slip away. Even as his body went numb, Leon could feel the relentless strikes continuing—Elra and her friends hitting him from all sides, their hands and feet driving the punishment home, leaving him battered, helpless, and barely holding on.
---
My siblings—my sister and her friends—tormented me endlessly. Their laughter, their mockery, it followed me everywhere.
But as painful as their cruelty was, it could not compare to the agony of my own lack of talent. Every failed swing, every spell I couldn't cast, every moment I fell short—it cut deeper than any insult.
Yet despite all of it, none of it mattered to me. I refused to let their words, their actions, or my own shortcomings control me.
"I just need to train harder."
In his room, Leon struggled through one-handed push-ups, a heavy weight strapped to his back. Every rise and fall tested his strength, every movement a battle against his own exhaustion. His muscles burned, sweat slicked his brow, and his arms trembled under the strain.
But he forced himself up again, letting out a heavy, ragged breath. He believed—no, he knew—that someday his relentless effort would earn him the trust of his family.
And maybe… just maybe, one day they would finally allow him to serve as a true member of the Arcandrel Clan.
"I truly believe that…"
---
"Leon Arcandrel, from this moment forward, you are banished from the Arcandrel Clan."
Leon's fingers curled into fists, his gaze drifting toward the enormous gates of the Arcandrel estate—his home, the place he had bled, struggled, and dreamed to belong. Now, that sight felt like a wound ripped open anew.
"In recognition of your… efforts, you shall be spared."
"Spared?" Leon muttered bitterly, teeth clenched. "What a joke."
A storm of anger, disbelief, and humiliation surged through him. Every ounce of pain, every failure, every mocking laugh flashed before his eyes—and now, even his hard work was meaningless.
I was twenty-two years old when I was banished from my home. It was then that I met the woman I would come to call my teacher—and it was also the moment I realized I had a talent of my own.
In fact, I possessed an affinity for darkness. Because of my lack of mana, my teacher told me I could pursue dark magic without walking a corrupt path. She explained that dark magic didn't rely on conventional mana; instead, it drew power from the souls of monsters, or more precisely, the spirits within them. It was a force already stored inside, finite and limited, yet potent beyond imagination if wielded correctly.
Three years later…
I confessed to my teacher. I thanked her, telling her that it was because of her guidance that I discovered my own talent—something beyond mastering swordsmanship and magic, something I never thought I had.
Of course, my confession was rejected. She told me I was too young to speak of love to an older woman like her.
But from what I saw, she was breathtaking—like a woman in her early twenties, yet radiating a presence far beyond her years. Her crystalline violet hair shimmered with an otherworldly glow, and her light-gold eyes seemed to hold entire galaxies within them. Every glance, every motion, reminded me why she had become my teacher—and why, despite her refusal, she had already left a permanent mark on me.
"Hmm…"
A voice echoed through the darkness, low and resonant, sending a shiver down Leon's spine.
He spun around, eyes wide. "Who's there!?!"
The massive black-blue flame before him began to shift and condense, coalescing into a shadowy figure. Its form was vaguely humanoid, but its presence radiated an overwhelming power. A blazing blue flame burned at its chest, flickering and writhing like liquid fire.
Slowly, it walked toward Leon, each step leaving trails of dark energy in the air, the heat and cold of its presence mixing in a way that made the chamber feel like the boundary between two worlds.
Leon's heart pounded, but he held his ground, gripping whatever courage he had left as the figure advanced.