Seven years had passed since the day the bells of the Great Cathedral of Graymore tolled a truth that served as a brand of shame for the most prestigious knightly house in the Kingdom of Norvane. Time, indifferent and cruel, had marched on within the walls of Castle Graymore. The snow had fallen and melted seven times, yet the label of "Manaless" remained etched upon the third son of the family, acting as an invisible tattoo that blackened their reputation in every noble circle.
Razzaq Graymore had now reached the age of seven. Physically, he was far from the idealized image of a Count's scion. Compared to other children his age who had begun the rigorous training of swinging wooden practice swords, Razzaq appeared slight, his skin possessed a perennial pallor, and his frame lacked any noticeable muscle mass. His pure silver-gray hair remained the only physical tether connecting him to the Graymore bloodline—a cruel reminder of a legacy he supposedly could not uphold.
However, beneath this deceptive exterior, the soul inhabiting that small body had achieved something unthinkable to anyone in the Kingdom of Norvane. For seven years, in the absolute silence of the night and through every guarded breath, Razzaq had completed the foundational stage of his soul-synchronization. He had matured the pathways of the Nadi and Chakra within his flesh.
While the knights of this world built their strength through the crude absorption of external Mana, Razzaq was forging steel from within. He had surpassed the foundational stages of Tapa Pendem; his bones now possessed an unnatural density, and every fiber of his muscles had been coated with a resilient, invisible spiritual energy. To the world, he was a hollow cup. In reality, he was a bottomless well capped with a heavy stone.
That morning, at the vast training grounds behind the castle, the sharp scent of dry dust and acrid sweat hung heavy in the air. The rhythmic thwack of wood hitting wood echoed against the stone walls, followed by spirited, aggressive shouts.
"Hah! Too slow, Razzaq! You move like a dying tortoise!"
A heavy wooden sword slammed into Razzaq's shoulder with a sickening crack. Plakk!
Razzaq stumbled back several paces, his small boots skidding on the dirt, but he did not fall. He immediately regained his center, staring at the figure before him with a flat, unreadable expression. The teenager standing there was fourteen-year-old Faris Graymore, Razzaq's second brother. Faris was the Count's new pride. At a young age, he had already ascended to the rank of Enhanced Knight (Rank 3). A faint, flickering blue mana aura enveloped Faris's body, granting him strength and speed that transcended common human limits.
Faris smirked arrogantly, twirling his wooden sword with practiced ease. To Faris, Razzaq was a stain. Every time he looked at his "defective" younger brother, he was reminded of how his noble peers in the capital mocked their family.
"Why are you still standing? A mana-less runt like you should be sitting in a corner knitting, not wasting space on a knight's training ground!"
Razzaq offered no verbal retort. Inside his mind, he was dispassionately analyzing Faris's movements. They were crude—relying far too heavily on mana outbursts to compensate for sloppy footwork and unrefined technique. If I were to release a single spiritual pulse into his solar plexus, he would be paralyzed for a month, Razzaq thought.
But he restrained himself. He utilized only a fraction of the Art of Imperviousness (Ajian Kebal)—a foundational Nusantara defensive technique—to harden his shoulder area the exact millisecond before the sword connected. That was the only reason his collarbone hadn't shattered, despite Faris's strike carrying enough force to crack a boulder.
"Young Master Faris! Enough! You could seriously injure Young Master Razzaq!"
A girl, breathless and frantic, ran onto the middle of the field. It was Clara. Seven years had not withered her loyalty; she had grown into a beautiful senior maid, but her talkative and fiercely protective nature toward Razzaq remained unchanged. She immediately stood in front of Razzaq, spreading her arms as if to form a human shield.
"Move, Clara! This is training between men!" Faris barked, his face flushing with irritation at the interruption. "Father said Razzaq should at least know how to hold a sword so he doesn't embarrass the family name any further!"
"This isn't training, this is persecution!" Clara retorted bravely, though her eyes welled with tears as she saw the dark bruise forming on Razzaq's arm.
Faris snorted in derision. He stepped forward and shoved Clara's shoulder with a hand infused with a spark of mana. The shove was forceful enough to send the maid sprawling onto the dusty ground.
"Clara!" Razzaq's voice was low, almost a whisper, but it carried a weight that froze the air. His silver-gray eyes suddenly darkened, the pupils seemingly expanding to swallow the iris.
For a heartbeat, the temperature on the training grounds seemed to drop several degrees. An icy, predatory spiritual pressure crept up the back of Faris's neck, making his hair stand on end without cause. Faris froze, staring at Razzaq who was now calmly helping Clara to her feet. Razzaq didn't look at him with the anger of a child, but with the cold, detached gaze of a primordial predator assessing a nuisance.
What is this feeling? Why is my heart racing so fast? Faris wondered, his hand gripping the wooden sword suddenly trembling. However, the sensation vanished as quickly as it had arrived when a soft, melodic voice interrupted them.
"Faris, that is enough. You've overstepped today."
A beautiful teenage girl with long gray hair tied in a neat ponytail stepped into the yard. This was Alya Graymore, the eldest child of the house. Alya possessed a rare, balanced talent for both magic and swordsmanship, but she was most known for her gentle temperament. She approached them, sighing deeply as she took in the chaotic scene.
"Sister Alya..." Faris lowered his sword, his face softening slightly but still holding onto his resentment.
Alya did not scold Faris further; she knew it would be futile under their father's harsh tutelage. She turned to Razzaq, kneeling to match his height, and gently wiped the dust from his cheek. "Razzaq, are you alright? Forgive Faris, he's been... difficult to manage lately."
Alya produced a small piece of sweet cake wrapped in a silk handkerchief and offered it to Razzaq. "Eat this. Stay strong, okay? Don't listen to what the others say. To me, you are still a wonderful little brother."
Razzaq accepted the cake, looking into his sister's sincere eyes. Only you and Mother still possess a conscience in this house, Alya, he thought. Razzaq gave a faint, rare smile—one that made Alya both surprised and heartened.
That evening, the atmosphere in the main dining hall of Castle Graymore was suffocatingly formal and cold. At the head of the long table sat Count Ragil, radiating a formidable authority. Beside him, Countess Nayla sat with poise, though her eyes frequently cast sorrowful glances toward Razzaq, who sat at the very end of the table.
Faris and Alya sat opposite each other, while near Nayla sat a small chair occupied by Theron Graymore. Theron was the youngest son, only three years old, yet he had already begun to manifest mana miracles. Theron could produce small orbs of light at his fingertips—a feat that always brought a rare, proud smile to Ragil's face.
"Faris, I have observed your progress in your forms. It has improved," Ragil said, never casting a glance toward Razzaq. "Continue your training. The Kingdom of Norvane needs talented young knights like you."
"Thank you, Father!" Faris answered with newfound confidence, casting a smug look toward his younger brother.
Ragil then turned to Theron, gently stroking the toddler's hair. "And our little Theron... your mana talent is truly extraordinary. You will become a grand mage who surpasses even your mother."
Nayla gave a strained smile, attempting to lighten the heavy atmosphere by addressing Razzaq. "How was your day, my dear Razzaq? Have you finished the history book you were reading?"
Razzaq nodded slowly. "Yes, Mother. I have learned much about the founding of Norvane."
At the sound of Razzaq's voice, Ragil merely gave a low grunt, as if hearing a trivial, annoying noise. To him, Razzaq was a failed investment. For keten years, Ragil had attempted to ignore Razzaq's existence to preserve his own mental health from the sting of shame. At that dinner table, Razzaq was treated like a ghost; he was present, but he was not acknowledged.
Razzaq felt no jealousy toward Theron. On the contrary, he felt a flicker of pity. He knew Theron was merely a tool for his father's ambitions. He watched as the little child was forced to ingest various mana-fortifying elixirs from a young age—a process that was agonizing for a toddler's developing body.
Poor little brother. You are given light, but you have lost your freedom. Whereas I... I am given darkness so that I may conquer the entire world unseen, Razzaq thought, calmly chewing his bland food.
That night, in the oppressive silence of his room, Razzaq stood before the open window. The cold night wind howled, carrying the damp, ancient scent of the distant forest. The Hollow Forest—a forbidden wood said to be inhabited by monstrous beasts and saturated with unstable mana.
Clara entered the room to tidy his bed, her face still bearing a trace of sadness. "Young Master, you should sleep. Your body needs rest after that harsh session today."
Razzaq turned, staring at his loyal maid. "Clara, thank you for earlier. But never stand in front of Faris to protect me again. It is dangerous for you."
Clara smiled softly, her eyes showing the same fierce determination as seven years ago. "It is my duty, Young Master. I will always be there for you."
Razzaq offered a small nod. After Clara exited and the castle fell into a true, deep slumber, he quickly changed his clothes into a thin, midnight-black tunic. He reached into his chest, feeling the warm, rhythmic pulse of the World Diamond Essence. The relic was calling to him, whispering that his physical foundation was finally sturdy enough for the next phase.
He didn't need the door. With a movement as light as a shadow—a foundational Wind-Step Art (Saipi Angin) he had adapted from his residual energy—he leaped from the second-floor window. His body touched the ground without making a sound, like a fallen feather.
His eyes locked onto the dense darkness of the forest. A cynical, knowing smile now graced the face of the seven-year-old boy.
"Seven years I have hidden behind this mask of failure," he whispered to the night. "It is time for the true ritual to begin. Let us see how the creatures of this forest fare when they meet a Shaman of Nusantara."
His tiny footsteps moved with supernatural grace across the castle perimeter, vanishing into the embrace of the night, leaving the status of "Graymore Trash" behind as he headed toward a destiny that would soon shake the very pillars of the Kingdom of Norvane.