Nyata was an almost ordinary seventeen-year-old boy. Ordinary in appearance, ordinary in speech, and painfully ordinary in the way everyone overlooked him. He wasn't particularly strong or clever. In truth, he wasn't particularly good at anything at all. For as long as he could remember, failure had been his only companion. Everything he tried, carpentry, hunting, study, even simple chores, ended in disaster. His classmates outperformed him, his teachers scolded him, and the villagers whispered behind his back. Some pitied him, others laughed.
"Hopeless Nyata," they called him. "The boy who can't do anything right."
He learned to live with the laughter, though it stung every time. What else could he do? He wasn't blessed with talent, nor born to a powerful family. His father had been a soldier once, but even he gave up trying to teach Nyata after countless failed lessons. His mother's words had turned from encouragement to weary silence. And Nyata simply stopped expecting anything from himself.
But there was one thing that set him apart, one spark that refused to die. When it came to fighting, something inside him woke. His body reacted before his mind could think. His reflexes sharpened, his instincts took over, and his movements, though untrained, had a strange, natural rhythm. He didn't know where it came from or why it existed, but it was the only thing that ever felt right. The only thing he wasn't terrible at. That gift, however, only made his failures elsewhere more painful. What good was instinct if he couldn't control it? What good was strength if it couldn't change anything?
It was on a stormy evening that Nyata's life changed. He had fled into the forest after another humiliating day at the academy, his heart heavy with anger and shame. Rain poured through the branches, soaking him to the bone. Lightning cracked across the sky, and thunder rolled like a wild beast. He was about to turn back when he saw him, a tall man standing perfectly still beneath a half-broken tree, eyes closed, unfazed by the storm.
The stranger radiated something Nyata had never felt before. Power. Not loud or violent, but calm and endless, like the stillness of the ocean before a wave. When the man opened his eyes, Nyata froze.
"You've got the eyes of a fighter," the man said, his voice deep and steady. "But no discipline. No purpose."
Nyata had no reply.
"If you want to find your strength," the man continued, "come find me at dawn. The weak run from their failures. The strong face them."
Then he walked into the rain and vanished between the trees. That night, Nyata didn't sleep. And when the first light of dawn touched the horizon, he went. That was the day he met his master, the man who saw something in him that no one else ever had.
The forest clearing was quiet except for the sound of his breathing.
"Huuu… Haaa… Huuu… Haaa…" Nyata stood barefoot in the dirt, his clothes torn and soaked in sweat. His muscles burned with exhaustion. Across from him, his master stood motionless, arms folded, expression calm. The sunlight filtering through the trees shimmered against the man's silver hair.
"Again," the master said.
Nyata tightened his stance and charged. His first punch cut through the air, fast and desperate. His master deflected it with ease. Nyata followed with a low kick, then a spinning elbow, both avoided effortlessly. The older man's movements were minimal, efficient, each step precise.
"You're rushing," the master said quietly. "Your breath is uneven. Feel it. Let your mana flow with it."
"I'm trying!" Nyata shouted.
He forced another breath, deep and sharp, and lunged again. This time he aimed a high kick toward the master's head. A single hand rose and caught it midair. In the next instant, Nyata's body was thrown through the air, slamming into a nearby tree. Bark cracked and scattered as he fell to one knee, coughing.
"You still can't use mana," the master said. His tone carried a faint trace of disappointment. "You've trained your body and learned the breathing technique. Yet your spirit remains silent. You're holding something back."
Nyata groaned and pushed himself up. "I'm not holding back," he said through clenched teeth. "It's just… not working."
"Excuses," the master replied. "Every failure begins with one."
That word again. Failure. It stung every time he heard it, especially from him. But instead of breaking, something inside Nyata burned hotter.
He dashed forward again, striking with everything he had. Fists, elbows, knees. A storm of movement. His master blocked each one without breaking rhythm, then struck back with an open palm to Nyata's chest. A burst of invisible force exploded outward. Nyata was thrown backward, hitting the ground hard. His chest felt like it had been struck by lightning. For a brief instant, he felt it, a strange pulse, warm and alive, spreading through his body before fading into nothing.
"That," the master said, lowering his hand, "is mana. Remember the feeling."
Nyata didn't move. He just stared at the ground, chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.
"We're done for today," the master said. "Eat. Rest. Tomorrow, you try again."
Nyata wiped the blood from his lip and stood, his legs trembling but his eyes steady. "I'm gonna eat," he muttered. The master didn't reply.
As Nyata limped back toward the small wooden house at the edge of the clearing, the sun began to set behind him, spilling orange light through the trees. The forest was quiet, but inside his chest, that fading warmth still lingered, a whisper of something greater. He didn't know when or how, but he swore he'd awaken it. He refused to stay the boy everyone called a failure.
Then, without warning, CRASH!!
The door didn't just break. It disintegrated. Wooden shards flew like knives as the master's body was thrown through the entrance, crashing into the far wall hard enough to shake the foundation of the house. Dust and smoke filled the air, and for a moment, the only sound was the faint crackling of splintered wood.
"Still standing, old man?"
A tall figure stepped through the ruined doorway. He wore a thick fur-lined jacket over a bare chest streaked with old scars. His hair was long, wild, and matted, shadowing eyes that burned with fierce amusement. Every slow step he took made the air itself tremble.
The master groaned and pushed himself up from the floor, blood dripping from his temple. His eyes narrowed.
"You…"
"Surprised to see me?" the man said, rolling his neck with a pop. "You shouldn't be."
The master rose fully, his breathing calm but his gaze sharp. Faint blue wisps began to coil around his arms, rippling like mist.
"You shouldn't have come here."
The man's grin widened. "Oh, but I've been waiting for this."
And just like that, the battle erupted. A blur of motion split the air. Punches cracked walls. Mana collided with raw, brutal force. The intruder's heat warped space, and the master's precision carved arcs of blue light through the clearing. Nyata stood frozen, overwhelmed. Every strike was louder than thunder, every impact shook the ground beneath him. Shockwaves tore trees apart. Dust turned to smoke. Flames flickered where fists collided. In the chaos, Nyata realized his master was giving everything, and still, it might not be enough.
Finally, the intruder's final blow landed. A single strike that silenced the storm. The master lay motionless in the dirt, his mana dissipating like mist under sunlight.
"So much effort," the stranger murmured. "For so little strength."
Nyata's heart pounded as he watched the figure turn toward him, smirk returning.
"Ah," the man said softly. "The student. Come out. Let's see what kind of failure he left behind."