The orphanage was always quiet in the mornings. The dull hum of the city barely reached its walls, and the sparse, gray corridors felt as cold as the world outside. Tristar Klarent, now sixteen, had grown used to this. For eleven years, this facility had been his home, ever since that day—the day he lost everything but gained a dream.
Tristar stood by the window of his small room, looking out at the distant horizon. The sun barely peeked through the clouds, casting a faint glow over the orphanage grounds. He exhaled slowly, his breath fogging up the glass, but his mind was far from here. It drifted back to the one memory he could never let go of.
The chaos of the alien attack, the fear, the screaming… it was all a blur now. But amidst that horror, there was one thing he remembered clearly: the smile. A figure standing tall in the wreckage, his blade flashing in the sunlight, cutting through the alien horde. The man's calm, reassuring smile told him only one thing:
"Everything will be fine."
There were no extra words, no grand gestures. It was just the quiet confidence in his presence that shone through the darkness, like a beacon of hope. That memory had kept Tristar going through every hardship. He had no great magical powers, no supernatural gifts like others in the orphanage. All he had was a small, average pool of magic—barely enough to summon a flicker of flame or move an object. But he wasn't deterred. The hero who saved him had wielded a sword, and that had become his focus.
Tristar trained relentlessly, every day, honing his skill with the blade. His sword had become an extension of his body, a tool that could compensate for what he lacked in raw power. If he couldn't be the strongest with magic, he would be the sharpest with a sword.
It's only a swing now, he often thought during his late-night training sessions. But it'll be more someday. It has to be.
Later that morning, as Tristar descended the stairs to the orphanage's common room, the air was different. There was a buzz of excitement, and it didn't take long for him to see why. A government official, dressed in a stiff suit, stood in front of the assembled orphans, holding a clipboard. His voice carried authority as he spoke.
"As you all know, the entrance exams for the Academy begin tomorrow," the official announced, his eyes scanning the room. "This is your chance to prove yourselves—to become the heroes this world needs. But make no mistake, only the strongest, the most capable, will make it through. The exams are tough for a reason."
Tristar listened, his heart pounding. He had been waiting for this. His fists clenched at his sides as he stood in the back of the room, listening intently. This was it—his first real step toward becoming a hero. But as much as he'd prepared, there was a nagging doubt in the back of his mind. What if he wasn't enough? What if he failed? His grip tightened on the hilt of his practice sword, the only thing that had ever felt like it could truly carry him to his dream.
I can only swing this sword now, he thought, watching the others with their magical auras. But I'll get faster. I'll get better.
That night, the orphanage was unusually lively. Groups of teens huddled together, discussing the exam. Some were nervous, others excited, but everyone felt the weight of what lay ahead. Tristar sat near the corner of the room with a few others—kids who, like him, had spent years training for this moment. One of them, a tall boy named Kentaro, swung an imaginary sword through the air.
"I've been waiting for this forever," Kentaro grinned, full of confidence. "I'm gonna ace the exam, no problem. We're finally gonna be outta here, right, Tristar?"
Tristar nodded, not sharing Kentaro's bravado but not wanting to dampen the mood either. "Yeah," he replied quietly, his fingers resting on the worn hilt of his training sword. "We've all worked hard for this."
A few of the younger orphans nearby were quieter, anxious about the prospect of the exam. Tristar noticed one girl, maybe a couple of years younger than him, staring at the ground with wide, uncertain eyes.
"You'll be fine," he said to her, his voice steady. "Just focus on what you're good at. Don't let anything else get to you."
The girl blinked and looked up at him, a small smile forming on her lips. In that moment, Tristar felt something strange—a flicker of what the hero must have felt when he reassured him all those years ago. The idea that just a few words or a simple gesture could give someone hope… it wasn't much, but it was something.
Long after the others had gone to bed, Tristar found himself alone in the gym, sword in hand. The familiar sound of his blade cutting through the air echoed off the walls. His muscles ached from the strain, but he kept going. Slash, parry, strike. Each movement was precise, practiced a thousand times over. His blade was the only thing that made sense to him.
His magical abilities were mediocre at best, and he knew that in a world of powerful sorcerers and divine descendants, that left him at a disadvantage. But his sword? That was where he could shine.
Each swing was deliberate, but still, it wasn't enough. He knew he was far from the power he needed. This swing isn't just a tool, he reminded himself, eyes narrowing. It's the beginning of something greater.
The moonlight streamed in through the high windows, casting pale light across the gym floor. Tristar stopped for a moment, panting, and looked up at the sky. He closed his eyes, gripping the hilt tightly.
"I have to make it," he thought, his chest rising and falling with his heavy breaths. "If I can't rely on magic, I'll rely on my blade. Someday, it'll be more than just a swing. Someday, it'll be a blade that can cut through anything."
His fists tightened around the sword hilt, determination flooding back into him. Tomorrow was the day. Tomorrow, he would take the first step toward becoming a hero toward becoming the kind of person who could smile at someone in their darkest moment and make them believe that everything would be okay.
The next morning, the academy loomed before him, grand and imposing. Tristar stood at the gates, surrounded by dozens of other hopefuls, but he barely noticed them. His heart was racing in his chest, and his entire world had shrunk down to this moment.
The air was filled with nervous energy, some students chatting excitedly, others pacing as they mentally prepared for the trials. But Tristar stood still, his fingers resting on the hilt of the blade hanging by his side. This was where heroes were made.
"I will pass," he whispered to himself, his fists clenched tightly around his sword. "And one day, I'll be strong enough to wield the Void Slash."
With one final breath, Tristar stepped forward, ready to face whatever came next.