As Gerhardt stood in the midst of the chaos, his breath ragged and his staff trembling in his hands, memories began to flood his mind like a rushing river.
Every swing of an Ogre's club, every roar of an Orc, every flicker of his faltering mana shield seemed to peel back the layers of his life, exposing the moments he had buried deep within his heart.
He remembered his youth, a time when dreams were larger than life, and the world felt boundless.
Back then, he was a scrawny boy with a spark of mana barely perceptible, even to himself.
The other apprentices at the academy mocked him mercilessly.
"Gerhardt the Hollow," they had called him, laughing at his inability to even light a candle with magic. While others soared through their lessons, he floundered, his mana reserves stubbornly refusing to grow.
