Morning light slipped quietly through the narrow window.
Aren opened his eyes without alarm, without urgency. His body moved before his thoughts did, the habit carved deep by years of discipline. He sat up slowly, rubbed his face, then turned his head toward the small wooden board fixed to the wall.
A calendar.
Rough. Handmade. Simple.
Several days were scratched out. Some with clean lines. Others with angry marks, as if the blade had hesitated before cutting through the wood.
The twentieth day was circled.
Aren stared at it for a long moment.
"…It's almost time."
He was fourteen now.
Old enough.
Old enough to take the entrance examination for the Academy of Nerathis.
Old enough to stand at the same starting line as nobles, prodigies, heirs, and blessed children.
And yet—
He clenched his hand slowly.
He still couldn't use mana.
Months had passed. No—years, if he counted properly. Since the day he had left his village at nine and a half, three and a half years had slipped by. Years of training. Years of study. Years of mercenary work. Years of wounds that healed and scars that did not.
And still, nothing.
No mana flowing through his veins. No response. No spark.
In this world, there were two paths to strength.
Mages drew mana directly from within themselves, shaping it into fire, wind, water, lightning, or phenomena that bent reality through knowledge and control. Their power was measured in circles, eight being the highest humanity had ever reached.
Swordsmen, on the other hand, did not cast. They refined.
They transformed mana into aura, storing it within the body, reinforcing flesh, bone, reflex, and perception. Aura manifested as stars—each star a threshold passed, a limit broken.
Eight stars.
That was the ceiling for humans.
Aren had none.
No circles. No stars.
His body was strong—abnormally so for his age—but strength alone had limits. He knew that better than anyone.
He exhaled slowly and stood up.
Time didn't care about excuses.
By the time the sun was fully up, Aren was already moving.
Weights were strapped to his ankles and wrists, worn leather wrapped tightly around iron. He stepped outside, adjusted the straps once more, and began to run.
Not fast.
Enduring.
The road stretched ahead of him, dirt and stone beneath his feet, breath steady, rhythm controlled. Three hours passed like this. No pauses. No shortcuts.
When he returned, sweat soaked his shirt and his muscles burned evenly—not sharply, not dangerously.
Then came the sword.
Ten thousand swings.
Not wild. Not rushed.
Each cut clean. Each thrust deliberate. Each motion corrected the moment it drifted even slightly off balance.
Two hours.
After that, food. Simple. Enough to sustain, not to indulge.
Only then did he go to the library.
The library had become a second home. Not because he liked it, but because answers were supposed to live there. Scrolls on mana theory. Old treatises. Fragmented notes written by scholars who had failed where others succeeded.
Aren read all of them.
And found nothing.
Still, he returned. Every day.
Because giving up would have been easier—and he had never allowed himself easy.
A few days later, with three weeks remaining, Aren made a decision.
He would go home.
The road back to the village was familiar. Quiet. Long.
He traveled mostly on foot, occasionally sharing a wagon when merchants allowed it, but never staying long. The rhythm of walking suited him. Let him think. Let him remember.
When the village finally came into view, nothing had changed.
That was what struck him the most.
The same houses. The same paths. The same smell of earth and woodsmoke.
And waiting at the edge—
His parents.
Nila saw him first.
"Aren!"
She didn't hesitate. She crossed the distance quickly, hands pressing against his chest as if to confirm he was real, then pulling him into a tight embrace.
"You're taller," she said immediately, voice trembling. "When did you get this tall?"
Rob arrived a step later, smiling broadly.
"You look solid," he said. "Did you finally stop skipping meals?"
"I never skipped," Aren replied. "You just cooked too much."
Nila laughed—and then stopped.
Her eyes moved.
Down his arms.
His legs.
The scars were old. Some faded. Some fresh enough to still hold color.
She opened her mouth.
Rob gently placed a hand on her shoulder and shook his head once.
Nila froze, then nodded.
She turned away quickly, wiping her eyes.
"…I'm just happy," she said. "That's all."
Aren frowned slightly but didn't press.
Inside, the house felt smaller than he remembered. Warmer.
They ate together. Simple food. Familiar taste.
Halfway through the meal, Rob spoke.
"So," he said casually, "how's your training? Mercenary life treating you well?"
"It's fine," Aren replied. "Nothing special."
"And the girl," Rob continued, glancing sideways. "The count's daughter. You wrote that you were working together, didn't you?"
Nila looked up immediately.
"Oh? A noble lady?" she asked. "You didn't cause her trouble, did you?"
Aren stiffened.
"Impossible," he said quickly. "Absolutely impossible. If anything, she's the immature one. Always bothering me—"
"Aren," Nila snapped.
He stopped.
"How can you speak like that about a lady?"
"But—"
"Aren."
"…No, ma'am."
He lowered his head obediently.
Inside, he grimaced.
Stella. Even when you're not here, you cause problems.
That afternoon passed quietly.
Aren accompanied Rob into the woods. They hunted together, moving through familiar paths, speaking little.
The peace was almost unsettling.
By nightfall, Aren sat alone, packing what little he carried.
When he finished, ten days remained.
Ten days to walk toward the Academy.
Ten days to face whatever awaited him.
He stood at the edge of the village at dawn.
Looked back once.
Then turned away.
Because this time, he would not be late.
Not for her.
Not for himself.