I've always lived in the shadows—just a dim outline reflecting the light cast by Onishima, the so-called Slasth Mountideer.
Honestly, I lived like any other delinquent. I had my own crew. People feared me. That should've been enough.
Home was nothing but an empty box—a place with walls but no warmth.
My father was technically alive, but it felt like he wasn't. His only hobbies were yelling and insulting me.
My mother died when I was young. Her death twisted him… and my life along with it.
Since childhood, he beat me, screamed at me, threw bottles, chairs—whatever he could grab.
I never fought back. Not because I believed he'd change, but because he simply wasn't worth it anymore.
The only person I ever trusted was a boy from a nearby village—someone years older than me.
He taught me everything my father never did: How to live. How to earn money. What it meant to have a goal.
The first time I laughed without flinching at my father's voice was because of him. I still remember his warm hand grabbing mine as we ran through the rain.
Warmer than any blanket in that house.
But eventually, his family fell apart and he had to move away.
I never got to say goodbye.
By the time I turned twelve, I'd finally reported my father to Child Protection.
They hauled him away, and I got government support until adulthood.
For the first time… the house was quiet.
When I entered middle school, I had one goal:
Graduate. Get a job. Survive.
That was it. Because the world runs on three things—money, reputation, and connections.
That's what he taught me.
Lose those three, and you end up like my father— A worthless man who dies alone. Or like my mother— Gone before anyone even notices.
So I started with connections. I befriended a dwarf-orc kid whose father owned a company. That worked out well enough.
Next came money. Part-time jobs every day, under-the-table deals, and selling stuff on the school's black market. I earned more than enough.
Then came reputation.
My crew told me: "If you want status, challenge strong people. Beat them. Make them kneel."
So I tried it.
That was when I first realized the value of my fire magic.
I hated this magic because it came from my father's side. Every flame reminded me of him— His hatred, his fists, his drunken glare.
But magic was just a tool. A tool to make sure I wouldn't die alone and worthless.
So I forced myself to use it.
Turned out, I had talent.
Everyone around me showered me with praise—calling me a prodigy, a natural-born mage.
I didn't care about their words— But I cared about the respect behind them.
I fought match after match, burning through every challenger. My name spread. People feared me, admired me, avoided me.
Good.
I was supposed to be seen. Respected. Envied.
That's how my life should have been— As long as I kept winning, nothing would slip from my hands.
But then— My name vanished in an instant.
Because he appeared.
Onishima.
Just showing up was enough for him to swallow all the attention I had built up.
No matter where I went, people talked about him. Compared me to him. Whispered like he was some kind of legend.
In the cafeteria, all I heard was his name. Kids who once bowed to me now praised him like saints who'd seen a miracle.
Everywhere I went— Rumors of that bastard followed.
He lived the life I'd wanted all along.
Money. Reputation. Connections.
Everything I'd fought for— Gone, just because he existed.
Why should someone with no magic get to walk where I wanted to stand?
Who did he think he was?
He should've disappeared. He should've stayed beneath my feet. Someone like him— A nobody—
Had no right stealing what was supposed to be mine.
So I challenged him.
The result? Nothing worth bragging about.
The "prodigy"—me— Terrified. Shaking. Falling apart…
Because of someone with no mana at all.
I didn't want to believe it.
My hand shook so badly I couldn't even form fire properly.
His laughter echoed in my skull even though he wasn't laughing. It took only a single blink—
And the light I'd worked so hard to kindle… Was swallowed whole by his shadow.
His speed made my legs tremble. His reactions were so fast I couldn't stop firing spells even when I knew they wouldn't hit.
And in that moment, I realized—
I wasn't "chosen." I wasn't unique. I wasn't special.
I was just someone who convinced himself he was.
So I went back to training. Even if inside I was drowning in humiliation.
Did I expect something? Did I hope for another fight?
The thought disgusted me— Because my training had always been for reputation, not strength.
But why did I suddenly want to beat him?
Why did I want to grow stronger?
Why did the word win burn itself into my skull?
Win. Win. Win. Win. WIN.
Why? Why did I care?
I had never wanted strength. I had only wanted survival.
A place to sleep without fear. A meal without worry. A peaceful home. Someone to trust.
That was enough.
Strength was never part of the plan.
But now— Because of him— I couldn't stop wanting more.
The truth is obvious:
I wasn't angry at him.
I was angry at myself— At the version of me that once had hope.
Maybe what I truly hated wasn't Onishima…
But the truth that I'd never had the courage to face the world like he did.