The Landergrey training corps did not teach mercy.
It taught hierarchy.
Owen learned that early before sword drills, before formations, before pain became routine. There was an order to things here. Knights stood above squires. Nobles above commoners. The gifted above the rest.
And at the very bottom, unseen and unspoken, were those without mana.
Owen moved through the day like a shadow. He followed commands. He kept his head down. He spoke only when addressed. Even then, his answers were short, stripped of anything unnecessary.
It didn't help.
During paired drills, his partner struck too hard again.
Owen stumbled back, boots scraping against dirt.
"Watch it," the squire muttered, irritation sharp in his voice. "You're in the way."
Owen adjusted his stance and said nothing.
The blow came again, heavier this time. Not part of the drill.
Instructor Halbrecht didn't turn around.
Pain flared along Owen's forearm as wood met wood. He absorbed it, redirected what little force he could, and stepped aside. His movements were controlled, efficient. Never flashy. Never enough to draw praise.
Enough to survive.
By midday, sweat clung to his skin, and his ribs burned with every breath. The yard buzzed with voices of laughter, shouts, admiration directed toward one name alone.
Cedric.
Owen didn't need to look to know when Cedric was near. The atmosphere changed. People straightened. Conversations sharpened. Attention gravitated toward him naturally, like iron filings to a magnet.
"Again," Cedric said lazily, spinning his practice sword once in his hand.
The squire across from him swallowed and nodded.
The bout lasted less than ten seconds.
Cedric disarmed him cleanly, sent him to the ground, and stepped back before the man even realized he'd lost. Applause broke out. Nervous. Reverent.
Owen watched from the edge of the yard, expression unreadable.
Cedric's eyes flicked toward him.
A smile crept across his face.
"Oi," Cedric called. "Manaless."
The word cut sharper than any blade.
Owen turned.
Cedric approached slowly, deliberately, as if savoring every step. The squires around them fell silent, instinctively backing away.
"You still here?" Cedric asked. "I figured you'd quit by now."
Owen didn't respond.
Cedric tilted his head, studying him. "You know, I've been thinking." He leaned in slightly. "You wanna know how to escape this miserable life of yours?"
Owen's jaw tightened.
Cedric's smile widened. "It's easy. Just go and die off somewhere in a ditch like your parents, you fucking Defect."
The world went quiet.
Not silent, quiet. Like something had been pulled tight inside Owen's chest.
A few squires looked away. One inhaled sharply. No one spoke.
Owen stood there, unmoving.
Cedric straightened, satisfied. "See? Even now, you don't fight back. That's why you'll never be anything."
He turned and walked away.
Training resumed as if nothing had happened.
Owen finished the day on autopilot. His body moved, obeyed, endured. His mind stayed elsewhere, replaying words he didn't want to hear but couldn't escape.
That night, the barracks slept.
Owen didn't.
He slipped out quietly, wooden sword in hand, and made his way back to the yard. The moon hung low, pale and distant. The ground was cool beneath his boots.
He began to practice.
Slow swings. Basic forms. Movements drilled into his body through repetition, not talent. His breathing was steady. His strikes were clean.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Then, he stopped.
The sword hovered mid-air.
Not because he was tired.Not because he was hurt.
He just… stopped.
Why am I doing this?
The thought came uninvited.
He lowered the blade slightly, chest rising and falling.
What do I have to lose?
Images flashed through his mind, faces turning away, laughter, Cedric's smile. His grip tightened.
Why does everyone treat me like this?
He swallowed.
Does being strong mean you can trample all over the weak?
The wooden sword slipped from his fingers and hit the ground with a dull thud.
What did I do to deserve this?
His hands trembled.
Why?
Why?
Why?
Rain began to fall.
Soft at first. Then heavier.
Owen didn't move. He stared up at the dark sky as water soaked into his hair, ran down his face, blurred his vision.
"I hate my life," he muttered.
The words were barely audible. They still felt too loud.
Something in his chest ached, deep, raw, unbearable. The rain washed over him, mixing with tears he didn't bother to stop. He didn't wipe his face. Didn't hide.
For the first time, he let himself feel it.
The loneliness.The unfairness.The anger.
His fingers curled into fists.
No one was coming to save him.
That truth settled heavy but clear.
As the rain poured down, Owen inhaled slowly, then exhaled.
"I'll get strong," he whispered.
Not for them.For himself.
"I'll climb my way to the top… and I'll find my happiness."
The rain answered him in silence.
And somewhere deep within him, something listened.