Ronnie F. Narazario.
From the moment I was born, I was broken.
Despite being the eldest son of the esteemed Narazario Count family, I had nothing to show for it. Slow-footed, weak, unable to wield a sword, and equally incapable of excelling in academics—I was a walking disappointment. Every attempt to teach me something new ended with the same verdict: "No talent." My parents' repeated hope and subsequent despair became a cruel cycle.
The final nail in the coffin was my utter lack of aptitude for magic.
It wasn't a question of weak control or low reserves. No, it was something far worse: absolute zero.
A baby's magical potential can be measured at birth. Newborns emit a faint light, the intensity of which reveals their latent magical power. By the age of two, most children display small signs of magical ability.
But me? I showed nothing. Not at five years old, not at ten, no matter how many grueling hours I spent practicing. I didn't manifest even the faintest spark of magic.
The capital's most renowned mage, brought in to assess me, declared my situation hopeless.
My parents wondered if I might have a rare illness. But no—the flow of mana within me was confirmed to be normal, and there were no other abnormalities.
A disease, at least, would've been an excuse. Something to point to.
But no such consolation existed.
And now, on my sixteenth birthday, I face the reality of their silent disapproval. Not a single "Happy Birthday" has passed their lips. They are far too absorbed in my younger brother's lessons.
To their relief, my brother grew up to be everything I was not. Athletic, intelligent, magically gifted—a child prodigy, through and through. From the courtyard, I can hear the clash of his sword as he spars with his tutor, accompanied by the sounds of my parents' cheers.
"Good for him," I murmur under my breath.
It's better this way. Their expectations of me have long since been transferred onto him, sparing me from their crushing weight. My brother, with all his brilliance, can handle the pressure that would've broken me.
Still, I can't help but wish he'd been born first. If only I weren't the eldest son. If only he could've taken my place. It would've made this unbearable existence a little easier.
As I pass a servant in the hall, he doesn't even acknowledge me.
Once, I might've received a polite bow, but that was years ago—back when there was still a sliver of hope for me. Now, I'm invisible to them.
"...Haah."
I sigh, descending the stairs to my room. At least there, I won't have to hear the distant cheers from the courtyard.
Sunlight streams through the skylight above, a reminder that the day has only just begun. Another long, empty day to endure.
I sometimes wonder where I went wrong. Was there something I could've done to avoid becoming... this?
But the answer always comes back to the same harsh truth.
I was born wrong.
My family name gave me privilege, but luck granted me nothing else. I have decades of life ahead of me, but what's the point of existing like this—ignored, unwanted, barely more than a shadow?
I think about running away. Far from this stifling house, far from its expectations. My parents wouldn't look for me. They'd probably breathe a sigh of relief.
Yes, maybe it's time to—
Suddenly, my vision tilts violently.
The step I thought was beneath my foot wasn't there. The skylight above shifts to an unfamiliar angle as the world around me spins.
It takes a few seconds to realize: I'm falling.
I lack the reflexes to stop myself. Time stretches, slowing as I hurtle toward the floor, the inevitability of death dawning on me.
But then, a strange thought crosses my mind.
Maybe this is fine.
Resignation settles in just as a deafening crack echoes in my ears. My head strikes something hard, and everything goes dark.