Steel clanged again. Another spark, another cheer — and, of course, it wasn't mine.
I tightened my grip on the wooden sword until my knuckles went white. Sweat trickled down my arms and dripped from my chin.
Around me, everyone's training swords were glowing with their damn Crests — runes of light, flame, wind. Every swing left a trail of power in the air like fireworks.
Mine just cut through nothing. No glow. No sound. Just air.
The instructor's voice barked across the yard. "Kale! You're still swinging wrong! Stop wasting your time."
I kept going anyway.
He sighed, muttered something about "the talentless," and walked off. The others followed him, laughing.
"Maybe next year, Kale," one of them said, smirking as he shouldered his shining blade.
Yeah, right. Maybe next year I'll grow a Crest out of my ass.
I kept swinging. My shoulders screamed, my calluses tore open again, but I refused to stop. The world said I had no talent — no Crest, no gift from the gods — but what the hell was I supposed to do? Lie down and die?
The blade finally slipped from my hands. I stared at the cracks in the wood. It looked as tired as I felt.
By the time the courtyard emptied, the sun had already dipped behind the towers. I was alone. The air was heavy, thick with dust and silence.
Each swing echoed through the yard — thud, grunt, thud — like a rhythm only I could hear. For a second, I thought maybe the world would pity me enough to awaken something inside.
Nothing.
I dropped to my knees, breath ragged. The dirt stung my palms where the skin had split. My blood mixed with the dust, turning it into ugly red mud.
"Pathetic," I muttered to myself. "Real pathetic."
The words didn't even sound angry anymore. Just tired.
The walk back to the dorms was the longest I'd ever taken. The other cadets passed me, laughing, showing off their new sword techniques, sparks dancing off their armor.
None of them looked at me. Hell, some walked right through my shadow like I wasn't even there.
I once caught my reflection in a window. For a split second, the image didn't move when I did. Like it had to think before copying me.
Weird, right? But after years of being invisible, I guess even mirrors forget me sometimes.
When I reached my room, a letter sat neatly on my desk. The official seal of Aetherion Academy glared at me like it already knew what I'd done wrong.
I tore it open with shaking hands.
"You are hereby released from the Knight Academy of Aetherion. Your inability to manifest a Crest disqualifies you from further training. The gods have chosen otherwise."
I laughed — a dry, broken sound. The kind you make when there's nothing left to break.
So that's it. After all that blood and sweat, I wasn't even worth keeping around. Just Kale Ardyn, the Crestless idiot.
I packed my things — not that I had much. A dull sword, a cracked scabbard, and a journal filled with half-baked training notes. I slung the sword over my shoulder and looked around the room one last time.
Tomorrow, I'd look for work. Maybe join an expedition as a porter. Carry other people's weapons. Someone has to do it, right? At least bags don't need talent.
The candlelight flickered as I sat on my bed. The room smelled of oil and metal — the scent of people chasing dreams that weren't mine anymore.
Outside, the city lights shimmered beneath the dark sky. Somewhere out there, the talented were celebrating their promotions, their Crests blazing like stars.
And here I was — a useless piece of shit with no glow, no gift, no god looking over me.
I leaned back and stared at the ceiling.
The world of Aetherion runs on Crests. Everyone is born connected to one — fire, water, earth, shadow, whatever. It decides everything: strength, status, even your damn destiny.
No Crest means no fate.
And maybe that's what I am — a mistake. Something the world forgot to finish.
But if I'm not part of fate, does that mean I'm free from it?
That thought hit me harder than I expected. Maybe freedom wasn't some shining dream. Maybe it was being so far outside the system that not even the gods knew what to do with you.
Still, freedom doesn't feed you. And it sure as hell doesn't make you strong.
I looked down at my hands. The cuts were still open, small streaks of red under the candlelight. Every drop was a reminder that I existed, no matter how much the world ignored me.
"Guess I'll just keep fighting," I said quietly. "If the gods won't give me power, I'll steal it myself."
The words felt heavy, almost dangerous. But I meant them.
Tomorrow, I'd sign up for any expedition that would take me. Monsters, ruins, cursed lands — didn't matter. Maybe I'd die. Maybe I'd find something worse.
Or maybe — just maybe — I'd find out why I was born without a Crest at all.
I blew out the candle and laid back. The darkness felt strangely calm, like it was listening.
"Fate, huh?" I whispered into the void. "You can go screw yourself."
And for the first time in years, I smiled.
Because deep down, somewhere behind all the frustration, I felt it — that quiet, stubborn fire that refused to die.
I didn't know it yet, but the world was right about one thing:
I wasn't supposed to exist here.
And that's exactly why I'll tear it apart.