My mother once told me about the night I was born.
She said the night sky was empty—no stars, no moon. Even the full moon that had risen earlier vanished behind thick, unmoving clouds.
Inside the royal chambers, servants rushed back and forth as my mother screamed through the pain of labor. Hours passed. Blood stained the sheets.
And finally, I was born.
I was simply pale, with brown skin and brown eyes.
Yet before my mother could even hold me, I was taken from her arms.
That was the custom of Manderana.
Every royal child was brought before the Priest of Selection before they were allowed to be acknowledged as a prince or princess. Birth alone meant nothing. Only suitability mattered.
My mother told me she was still shaking when they placed me beneath the white globe.
The artifact floated silently above my small body, humming softly as it examined my affinity and the talent I was born with. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the light darkened.
The priest's face stiffened.
"Dark magic," she said.
The globe turned black. After a brief pause, another result appeared.
Poison Immunity.
My mother used to hold me in her arms and whisper the same sentence again and again, as if trying to convince herself it wasn't real.
"That white globe destroyed my happiness in a single second."
Dark magic was not forbidden.
It was not evil.
Even the priests acknowledged that.
But it was unwanted.
In Manderana, royalty existed for one purpose alone—to produce the strongest possible ruler. Selection was not mercy. It was survival.
Dark magic specialized in curses and weakening effects. It had little direct offense. Little defense. It excelled in prolonged wars and battlefield control, useful for corps and support units—but never for a king.
And I was not the first child.
I already had eight older brothers, each born with powerful or rare affinities—fire, wind, thunder, even holy magic. Two sisters as well, both cherished and protected.
There was no need for a ninth prince.
Especially not one like me.
My father, the king, looked at me once.
Only once.
Then he turned to the nearest soldier and gave an order.
"Kill him."
My mother moved before anyone else could react.
She threw herself from the bed despite her weakened body, clutching me to her chest. Her voice broke as she shouted that dark magic was not evil, that she did not blindly follow faith, that a child should not be executed for something he never chose.
Her words did not reach my father.
Only her tears did.
After a long silence, the king spoke again.
"I will not kill him," he said. "But he will not remain here."
Exile was declared.
When I reached the age of four, I would be sent to the North.
Everyone knew what that meant.
The North was not simply land—it was a frontier. A shield. A prison for nobles and criminals alike. Monsters descended endlessly from the mountains, and demons crossed the borders for survival or trade.
Many were sent there.
Few thrived.
My mother cried harder at that verdict than she ever had before.
She begged again, saying that I had no means to survive such a place. That I was too young. Too fragile.
The king summoned the royal instructor from his quarters.
"Give the child the twin beast techniques—for both knight and mage paths," he ordered.
The instructor hesitated before presenting two techniques.
The first was Beast Breathing—a knight's method focused entirely on survival. It forced blood to surge violently through the heart, sharpening instincts and perception at the cost of the body's safety.
Many died attempting it.
The second was Beast Skin Absorption—a mage technique that pulled mana particles directly through the skin. Aggressive. Powerful. Unstable.
Failure meant backlash severe enough to cripple—or kill.
The instructor tried to speak, but my father silenced him with a glance.
"I do not need him to conquer," the king said. "I need him to survive. If he lives, that is enough. If he dies, that is his fate."
And with that, he left.
My mother told me this story many times before I turned two.
Perhaps she wanted me to understand early.
Or perhaps she needed to hear it herself.
While other children ran for fun, I ran to strengthen my body.
While they played with toys, I practiced swinging wooden swords and learning the language of magic. My maternal grandfather—a baron who had once been nothing more than a common soldier—took me to the nearby mountains and taught me a single lesson above all others.
Observe.
Animals. Birds. Monsters. Even people.
Everything survived for a reason.
As my brothers received elegant educations in the palace, I learned adaptability. Awareness. Patience. Some siblings ignored me. Some pitied me. One brother occasionally played with me, and my sisters secretly taught me simple cooking and slipped me candy.
It was enough.
When the day finally came, there was no celebration.
Only my mother—pale and trembling—watching as I was placed into a carriage bearing the green flag of Manderana, a black sword at its center—the symbol of the royal family that had cast me away.
The wheels turned.
And slowly, the road carried me north.