TORI REGLARD
The alarm buzzed at 5:30 AM, slicing through the quiet of the room. Tori Reglard stirred, blinking away the haze of sleep. Across the room, his brother Sunless remained still. Tori's gaze drifted, searching for something to jolt himself awake, but he settled on splashing cold water on his face.
He slipped out the window with practiced stealth, landing softly in the family's private training field. His father, Eric Reglard, a soldier of the City of Aspin, had earned access to such luxuries. Tori, however, used it as if it were his own hard-won prize.
Stretching deliberately, he readied his body for the morning grind. Birds perched in the trees above, watching his movements like spectators at a play. He glanced at them, a fleeting thought crossing his mind—birds, despite their hardships, embodied true freedom.
He began his warm-up: 400 sword swings. The routine was grueling, but familiar. His wooden blade struck the log post with rhythmic precision, each thwack echoing through the field. The Reglard Flame Sword Style demanded speed and accuracy, and Tori delivered. At his current pace, it looked as though three versions of him were attacking the post in unison.
By the 356th strike, fatigue crept in. He pushed harder, channeling mana into his blade—a technique passed down from his mother, Alice Reglard. Her control over mana had always impressed him, even if her reserves were modest.
The world faded as he trained, the quiet morning wrapping around him like a cocoon. His focus was absolute.
Then, the System interrupted.
A message blinked into view, breaking his rhythm. The System governed everything—like a game, he'd once thought. Over time, he'd stopped questioning its origin. It was just another part of life.
Usually, System messages meant rewards or achievements. But this one was different:
[The Primordial Observer That Loves to Train is thrilled by your routine and has decided to tune into your Fable.]
Tori froze. A Primordial Observer? Watching him? He hadn't done anything noteworthy. Still, excitement bubbled up.
He checked the Observer's rank: Low-Tier. Disappointing, but still—someone was watching.
Fables defined existence. They were stories, destinies. Primordial Observers, beings from the Outer Realms, watched these stories unfold. Tori's Fable had no name yet, but apparently, even nameless ones could draw attention.
[Primordial Observer Who Loves to Train is smiling at you.]
He grinned awkwardly and resumed his training.
SUNLESS REGLARD
Sunless Reglard stirred earlier than he'd planned, the sound of Tori's relentless sword strikes dragging him from sleep. His brother's enthusiasm was unmatched, though they shared the same dream.
He sat up slowly, settling into a meditative pose. His focus turned inward, shaping and refining mana with deliberate care. Rumors said his mother had been gifted in this area. Judging by his progress, he'd inherited some of that talent.
Outside, Tori trained with fervor. Sunless watched him briefly—his brother's sand-colored hair fluttering in the wind, golden eyes alight with purpose. With a sigh, he returned to his own task.
His goal was control—not just of mana, but of his Authority: Stockpile.
Unlike most, he hadn't inherited his Authority. His was unique. He could copy others' Authorities and store them, up to ten at a time. It felt overpowered. He kept waiting for the catch.
And there was one.
During his awakening, the Primordial Observer of Malice had branded him with Cursed Fate. His Authority had seemed unfair, so he was cursed with misfortune. That same day, his Fable name was revealed:
"The Unluckiest Mortal."
Most Fables took time to manifest. His had appeared instantly, at age ten. It stung. But he trained anyway, determined to prove that raw talent could defy fate.
The thwacks of Tori's blade grew louder, eventually waking the entire house. Somehow, Sunless had dozed off mid-training.
"Slacker," echoed a voice in his mind.
Beatrice, his mana beast companion, stirred from her bed. The tiny creature stretched and gave him a teasing look.
"I wasn't slacking," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. "Just… resting."
Beatrice hopped onto the nightstand and pointed a paw at the clock.
7:22.
"Crap! I'm going to be late for the academy!"