ixteen years.
Lloyd had grown into a young man with sharp features and piercing black eyes that seemed to reflect the world's bitterness. His black hair, always a little messy, framed a face that might have belonged to someone of noble birth if not for the perpetual exhaustion that darkened his gaze.
He stood in a dimly lit room, gripping a rag soaked in soapy water. The smell of mildew and filth filled his nostrils as he scrubbed the floor with precision born of repetition.
A voice rang out behind him, shrill and condescending.
"Lloyd! I told you to clean the latrines first!"
It was his mother—or rather, the woman who had made it clear from his earliest memories that she despised him. Alora
You said:Can you write in Llyod's POVChatGPT said:ChatGPTChapter Two: The Talentless Servant
Sixteen years. Sixteen long, grueling years.
I stood hunched over the cold stone floor of the kitchen, scrubbing away at a stubborn stain that refused to budge. The damp rag in my hand stank of mildew, and every motion sent sharp pangs through my already sore arms. A lump of bread and some water earlier in the day didn't exactly help fuel my strength.
Sixteen years, and I was still treated like this—like a servant in the home where I was supposed to be a son.
"Lloyd!"
The shrill voice of my mother cut through the silence, grating against my ears. I didn't bother to turn around.
"Did you hear me, you useless brat?" she snapped, stepping into the room. Her gaze landed on me with all the warmth of a blade pressed against my throat.
"Yes, Mother," I muttered, keeping my voice low and deferential. It wasn't worth the fight.
"I told you to clean the latrines first, didn't I?" she said, her lips curling into a sneer. "Or are you so incompetent you can't even follow simple orders?"
I clenched my jaw, holding back the retort that hovered on my tongue. The latrines. Of course. Because that was what I'd been reduced to in this household—a glorified servant tasked with the chores no one else wanted to do.
"No excuses!" she barked before I could say anything. "Get to it. And make sure you scrub the second-floor ones thoroughly this time. I'll not have Lord Harland or Damien stepping into filth because of your laziness."
Damien. That name alone made my blood simmer.
"Yes, Mother," I repeated, standing up and grabbing the cleaning supplies. My back ached, but I ignored it, as I always did.
The latrines were every bit as disgusting as I expected, the stench making my stomach churn. I worked quickly, hands moving on autopilot while my thoughts drifted.
Sixteen years in this household had taught me one thing: people only value what they can see. My father, Lord Harland, had made it clear from the beginning that I was an embarrassment. Born without a "talent," I was nothing more than a liability to him—a reminder of a mistake he wished he could erase.
My mother, Alora, had been no better. If anything, her disdain for me burned even brighter, fueled by the shame of giving birth to a talentless child.
Then there was Damien, my younger half-brother and their golden child. At fourteen, he was already heralded as a prodigy, blessed with the talent of a Magic Swordsman. That title alone was enough to make him the pride of the family and the apple of my parents' eyes.
While I scrubbed toilets, Damien trained with knights in the courtyard, his swordplay drawing praise from tutors and servants alike. While I patched old clothes and polished boots, Damien basked in the admiration of everyone around him.
And yet, none of them had the faintest idea what I was truly capable of.
By the time I finished cleaning, my hands were raw and trembling. I returned to my tiny room in the servant's quarters—a cramped space barely big enough for a cot and a chest of old clothes. The walls were bare stone, cold and unwelcoming.
Closing the door behind me, I let out a long breath.
"Finally," I muttered, rolling my shoulders.
Reaching out, I touched the air in front of me, and a faint blue screen flickered to life. It wasn't something anyone else could see—not my parents, not Damien, not the priests who'd deemed me talentless sixteen years ago.
This was my secret. My true gift.
Status Screen
Name: Lloyd
Talent: Unknown
Mana Reserves: ∞
Spells Learned: [Clone], [Cleanse], [Silent Step], [Light Sphere], [Ward]
I stared at the screen, feeling the same quiet satisfaction I always did when I saw those words. Infinite mana. A resource so vast and endless that no spell could ever drain it. A blessing so far beyond anything this world understood that it was a miracle the priests hadn't detected it.
I'd spent years experimenting in secret, crafting spells to make my life easier without drawing attention. Cleaning toilets? A simple [Cleanse] spell could do the job in seconds, leaving the surfaces spotless and fragrant. Carrying water or supplies? My [Clone] spell allowed me to create temporary duplicates of myself to handle the load.
And yet, I never used those spells where anyone could see. Not even once.
It wasn't time yet.
A knock on my door pulled me from my thoughts. I quickly dismissed the screen with a wave of my hand.
"Lloyd!" Damien's voice carried through the door, sharp and impatient.
I opened it to find him standing there, dressed in the polished armor of a trainee knight. His sword, a sleek blade engraved with runes, hung at his side.
"What is it?" I asked, keeping my tone neutral.
"Mother wants you in the dining hall," he said, smirking. "And she's not in the mood to wait."
"Of course," I said, stepping out of the room.
As I walked past him, Damien chuckled. "You know, it must be hard being so useless. No talent, no prospects... You're lucky Father even lets you stay under this roof."
I didn't respond. I'd heard it all before.
The dining hall was grand, its walls adorned with faded tapestries that hinted at the family's former glory. My parents sat at the head of the table, their expressions as cold and unyielding as ever.
"Lloyd," my father said, his tone clipped. "You're late."
"I came as soon as I was called," I replied, bowing my head.
"Don't argue," my mother snapped. "You're here to listen, not talk."
I stood silently as they launched into a litany of complaints—about the state of the manor, the cost of my upkeep, and the shame I brought upon the family simply by existing.
Damien, seated to my father's right, smirked the entire time, basking in their approval.
I nodded along, as I always did, letting their words wash over me without reaction.
They thought I was nothing.
Let them think that.
For now.