"You need to understand, Adrian. This world is divided into two categories: mages and non-mages."
Those words stayed with me, as clear as if they'd been spoken yesterday.
I was only eight when I first followed my master to the Northern lands. He had confronted my family—Lysvalen nobles steeped in tradition—about the way they treated me. Born without the mana that defined our lineage, I was dismissed, pitied, and ultimately cast aside. But Misha saw something in me, something even I didn't yet understand.
Unlike my family, he didn't patronize me. He treated me like an equal, even when I was barely a child. That first winter, he brought me to the training grounds, where the wind bit through my coat, gnawing at my skin. The weighted sword he handed me was almost as tall as I was, its iron grip freezing to the touch.
"Lift it," he said simply.
I tried. My arms trembled as I raised it, every muscle screaming under the strain. I lasted only a moment before the sword fell with a dull thud, and I collapsed to my knees, gasping for breath.
Misha stood a few paces away, arms crossed, watching me with that infuriating mix of sternness and faint amusement. "Ages ago," he began, his tone unrelenting, "a mysterious power emerged in this world—mana. With it, some were able to conjure wonders from their imagination. They became the mages that shaped the course of civilization."
I glared at the sword lying in the dirt. "What does that have to do with me?"
"Patience, boy," Misha said sharply. "Not everyone was blessed with mana. And as the mages rose to power, they outcompeted those who couldn't wield it. Resources, respect, survival—everything flowed toward those with magic. Non-mages were cast aside, struggling to scrape by. Many died out."
His voice grew grim, the sharp edge of truth cutting through his words. "But not all. Non-mages didn't simply fade away. They adapted. And in that adaptation, they found their own strength."
I frowned, wiping sweat from my brow. "Adapted how?"
"Through necessity." He crouched beside me, his eyes meeting mine, unflinching. "While mages relied on magic to level mountains or light the skies, non-mages evolved to match them. Stronger muscles, faster reflexes, eyes that could track the subtlest motion. For every mage who could summon a tempest, there was a warrior who could cleave mountains. In their quest for survival, their resilience blessed them with the power to compete."
I sat back, taking a sip of water. "That's a nice story, Master, but I don't see how it applies to me. My family's a line of mages. If your story's right, why didn't I inherit anything special? Why am I just... me?"
Misha leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "You're asking the wrong question. The real one is this: what have you done to unlock your potential? Just because you don't see it now doesn't mean it isn't there. Potential isn't handed to you, Adrian—it's forged."
He stood, motioning toward the sword still lying in the dirt. "The strength of a warrior doesn't come from gifts or bloodlines. It comes from hardship just like our ancestors. From digging into the deepest parts of yourself and pulling something out, even when it feels impossible. Discipline. Unrelenting, brutal discipline. That's how you carve your path."
I stared at him for a moment, then at the sword. It looked impossibly heavy. But his words sparked something in me—something small, fragile, but burning nonetheless.
I reached for the hilt.
"Weak! You're weak, failure of Lysvalen!" Tovak roared, his towering frame crackling with destructive energy. His every movement radiated power, the air itself seeming to ripple under the weight of his magic. He lunged forward, unnaturally quick for someone his size, each strike reverberating through the dungeon's stone walls.
Magic. The power that once filled me with envy. The hairs on my neck stood on end, the atmosphere charged with its raw potency.
I sidestepped a thunderous swing, the sheer force of it shattering the floor where I had been. My sword felt light in my hands—an extension of myself after years of relentless training.
"Quicker than I expected, little lord," Tovak growled, circling me like a predator. "But you can't win just by dodging. Sooner or later, I'll catch you."
His aura flared, warping the air around him. Each of his movements carried an oppressive inevitability, like a storm rolling in—unrelenting and unstoppable.
They adapted, I reminded myself. Misha's voice echoed in my mind: For every mage who could summon a tempest, there was a warrior who could cleave mountains.
Tovak's grin widened as he pressed his assault, his raw power forcing me to keep my distance. "Do you feel it yet?" he taunted. "That helplessness? That's the gap between us. Magic makes me invincible. And you? You have nothing!"
I deflected a heavy swing, the impact numbing my arm. "You talk too much," I said, my voice calm despite the strain. "Out of all the mages I've faced, you're barely worth a tenth in power."
His booming laughter filled the dungeon. "Fear has broken your mind! You misjudge me at your peril!"
I didn't respond. Instead, I tightened my grip on the hilt, recalling Misha's lesson: You need to understand, Adrian. This world is divided into two categories: mages and non-mages. You're a non-mage, Adrian. And that's not a weakness. It's a truth. Accept it. Stand proud. Fight like it.
Tovak surged forward again, his aura crackling violently. This time, instead of retreating, I stepped into his swing. Twisting my body, I drove the hilt of my sword into his ribs. The unexpected maneuver left him off-balance, his massive frame faltering.
"What the—" he snarled, his words cut off as I followed up with a precise series of strikes. I targeted the tendons in his legs and the weak points in his joints, each blow sapping his strength and slowing his movements.
"Magic is wasted on you," I said, keeping my movements deliberate. "No finesse. No discipline. You've relied on it for so long that you've forgotten how to fight. Forgotten what it means to struggle."
Tovak's eyes burned with fury as he lashed out, his dominant arm raised for a devastating blow. But I sidestepped, pivoting behind him, and let my blade flash in the dim torchlight. A clean, calculated strike severed the tendons in his arm.
He howled, collapsing to one knee as his aura flickered, dimming like a dying flame.
"You've lost," I said, leveling my sword at his throat. "Still think I'm just a weak lord?"
Blood trickled from his mouth as he smirked, defiance still burning in his eyes. "You think this is over, boy? Karash will come and level this dump."
Before I could respond, a distant explosion rocked the dungeon, shaking dust from the ceiling. The sound reverberated through the stone, heavy with dread.
Tovak's grin widened despite his pain. "Too late," he hissed.
I met his gaze, unflinching. "I'm being underestimated until the end." Then, with a swift motion, I plunged my sword into his throat. His body slumped forward, lifeless. "Can't say I dislike the feeling."
As I wiped the blade clean, I turned toward the exit. "Let's see how Garth and Serena are holding up."