What is power?
Is it the ability to command others with a single word? The strength to split mountains with a flick of the wrist? Or perhaps the terrifying might to hold the very sun within your fingertips?
For Light, power was none of those things.
To him, power was freedom, the ability to carve his own path without fear, without restraint. And let me tell you something, he seriously lacked power.
He was of average height, his frame neither imposing nor slight, blending easily into a crowd. His black hair was unkempt, streaked with dust from years spent navigating the narrow, chaotic alleys of the slums. His face, marked by hardship—lines etched into his skin from long days under a relentless sun and cold nights on uneven dirt from his time in poverty. His clothes, faded and patched in places, told his story of struggle and resourcefulness.
His eyes, dark and watchful, held a quiet resilience, a sharpness earned from years of survival in a place where trust was scarce and opportunities even scarcer. Though life had been harsh, he carried himself with a quiet dignity, a refusal to be broken, despite the weight of the world pressing down on him.
And yet—yesterday, he had nearly died.
Light wasn't delusional. He knew how close he had come.
Even now, he had a painfully clear reminder of his failure.
Dried blood clung to the crude bandage wrapped around his left forearm—the result of his desperate attempt to stop the bleeding with scraps of fabric from his extra clothes. He would never forget the sensation of warm, sticky blood trickling down his skin, the sight of the deep crimson puddle forming on the dirt road, or the horrible, sinking weakness that had nearly swallowed him whole.
He grimaced at the memory.
Just as he was about to sink deeper into self-pity, a firm voice shattered his thoughts.
"Hey, kid. Stop looking so damn defeated and focus up. Yesterday might not have been your last day, but if you don't pay attention, today will be."
Light snapped his head up.
At the front of their small mercenary group, a man rode a sturdy brown horse, leading the way with effortless authority.
Captain Sangiff.
He was tall and confident, a man hardened by countless battles and shaped by years of command. In his mid-30s, he carried the weight of leadership with a quiet, unwavering resolve. His physique was lean but powerful, built for endurance rather than brute strength, his every movement was calculated and efficient. Scars marked his skin, each a testament to fights he had survived, and lessons learned from blood and battles.
A reliable leader—one hardened by his time in the Land of Ruined.
Light straightened his posture, falling into step with the rest of the group.
Sangiff was right. Dwelling on his failures wouldn't change anything.
But even as he marched forward, he couldn't shake the bitter emotions churning inside him, weakness, fear, despair.
'If only I had power like you… then I could do whatever I wanted.'
His gaze drifted back to Sangiff, and without thinking, he let his mana flow into his eyes.
A familiar warmth enveloped his vision, a sensation he had come to recognize. Then, with a mental command, a translucent box appeared at the corner of his vision.
[ Name: Sangiff ]
[ Blessing: Sword Mastery]
[ Brilliance: Common]
[ Title: None]
He had seen this countless times before, but even now, he found himself staring at it.
Awakened.
That's what people like Captain Sangiff were called—humans chosen by the heavens, gifted with the ability to sense and wield mana. In this part of the world, awakenings were rare. The only awakened person Light had ever known was Sangiff…
Until six days ago.
Because six days ago, Light himself had awakened.
**
It happened during a routine trip to the outskirts of his hometown, searching for edible plants. He had taken a bad step and sprained his ankle—nothing life-threatening, but annoying, nonetheless.
And then, it happened.
A surge of energy rushed through him; unlike anything he had ever felt before. It was overwhelming, all-consuming. And when it faded… his injury was gone. Completely healed.
That was the moment he realized—he had awakened.
**
He had grown up listening to old storytellers sitting outside their worn-down houses, spinning tales of awakened warriors—men and women with superhuman endurance, incredible regeneration, and most importantly… their divine Blessing.
As a child, he had dreamed of this moment, bragging to his late parents about the powerful, awe-inspiring blessing he would receive one day. He would become a hero, save the world from the Fallen, and stand among the greatest warriors in history.
Unfortunately, he wasn't as naive anymore, life in the slums had made sure of that. But still, deep down, he had believed.
So, when the chance came, he seized it without hesitation. With no training, no understanding of his abilities, and absolutely no plan, he signed up for the mercenary group's next expedition outside the town.
And let's just say—he regretted that decision almost immediately.
Because his blessing?
His long-awaited, heaven-sent divine ability?
It was... useless.
Sure, it had an impressive name—Soul Chains. That alone had fueled his reckless optimism for a short while.
But in reality?
His ability let him see the status of people who possessed mana.
That was it.
No super strength. No powerful attacks. No grand abilities that could turn the tide of battle. Just information. And even worse? The mercenaries around him already knew everything his ability could tell them. Years of experience in these parts of the Land of Ruined had made them experts. They didn't need him.
And so, he remained silent, unwilling to expose his blessing's mediocrity to his comrades.
At least… until yesterday.
Because yesterday, he finally discovered the second function of his blessing.
And it nearly got him killed.