The training grounds of the Valtierra Estate echoed with the sharp clang of steel and the crackling hum of magic. Sons and daughters of the renowned Valtierra bloodline sparred in dazzling displays of skill, their movements fluid and deadly—every swing of the blade and every burst of magic a testament to their noble lineage.

But far off to the side, in the dirt where broken weapons were discarded, a boy knelt, panting.

His hands trembled as he gripped a wooden sword—splintered and uneven from overuse. Sweat and grime coated his frail frame, and his thin arms quivered under the strain of simply holding the weapon upright. His breaths came in short, ragged bursts, but his eyes never wavered from the training dummy before him.

He lunged, swinging with all his might—only for the blade to slip from his hands and clatter to the ground.

Laughter erupted from the onlookers.

"Did you see that?" one of the servants whispered. "Even a stable boy swings better than him."

"Why is he even out here?" another sneered. "It's embarrassing. A Valtierra who can't even hold a sword? What a joke."

"Percival the Mongrel," someone spat. "He doesn't belong in this family."

Percival didn't respond. He simply bent down, picked up the sword, and tried again.

He was used to the insults.

The 27th child of the Valtierra family, born to a low-ranking concubine, Percival had never been expected to achieve greatness. From the moment of his birth, he had been overshadowed by his siblings—prodigies who mastered swords, magic, and aura arts before they were even ten years old.

Meanwhile, Percival struggled to keep up with even the simplest lessons. His aura refused to awaken. His magic fizzled out before it could form. His strikes with weapons were weak, his footing unstable.

He failed at everything.

It wasn't long before his tutors gave up on him. His sparring partners refused to practice with him. Even the servants treated him with disdain, as though his very presence dirtied the halls of the estate.

But the worst scorn came from his own family.

His father, Alistair Valtierra, looked at him with thinly veiled disappointment. "You are not my son," he had said once, the words cold and sharp. "Not until you prove yourself worthy of the Valtierra name."

His elder brothers, including the heir Eryndor, mocked him openly. They would shove him aside during family gatherings, leaving him to eat alone.

Only his younger sister, Selene, ever treated him with kindness.

"Don't listen to them, Percy," she would say, her small hands clutching his as she smiled. "You're my big brother. And I believe in you."

He had clung to those words like a lifeline, even as the years passed and his failures piled higher.

By the time Percival turned eighteen, the whispers had become roars.

"He's a disgrace."

"A parasite living under the family's roof."

"He should just leave and spare us the embarrassment."

Percival wanted to leave—wanted to disappear so he wouldn't have to see the pity in Selene's eyes or hear the jeers of his siblings. But he stayed. He stayed because, despite everything, he still dreamed of proving them wrong.

And that dream cost him his life.

....

The Gathering of the Ten Renowned Families was meant to be a celebration—a showcase of strength and unity. Noble heirs displayed their skills in tournaments, alliances were brokered, and rivalries flared.

Percival was not meant to stand out.

But chaos struck when assassins invaded the gathering, their shadows sweeping through the halls like death itself.

Screams filled the air. Magic clashed with steel.

Percival didn't know what drove him forward—whether it was fear, desperation, or the foolish hope that he could make a difference. But he ran toward the chaos.

And he died for it.

A blade pierced his chest, driving through flesh and bone. Pain flared, sharp and blinding, but what hurt more were the voices that reached his ears.

"Just leave him!" someone shouted.

"Forget the mongrel—protect the others!"

As he fell to his knees, blood soaking his clothes, Percival's gaze locked onto Selene's terrified face in the crowd. She called his name, but no one came to help.

No one cared.

As the world faded to black, only one thought echoed in his mind:

Was this all, I was ever meant to be?

....

But then… he awoke.

Percival jolted upright in bed, gasping for air.

The room was painfully familiar—the faded curtains, the cracked ceiling, the tiny cot that he had outgrown years ago. He looked down at his hands, smaller than they had been just moments before.

No scars. No blood.

And when he stepped out of bed, he felt it.

It was faint, but it was there—a pulse of energy in his chest, like a spark waiting to ignite. Magic. Aura. Power.

For the first time in his life, Percival Valtierra felt alive.