Months slipped by, marked not by grand events but by simple, precious moments. With Mother's pregnancy advancing, the household's focus turned entirely to her well-being. Lisbeth, ever-dedicated, spent most of her time attending to Mother's needs, which left me with something I hadn't had in a long time—free time.
And how did I spend it?
Locked in Father's research lab, night after night, burying myself in books, scrolls, and experiments. If I couldn't wield spirit magic like others, then knowledge would be my weapon.
Because, yes—on my seventh birthday, I didn't awaken to spirit magic.
The most defining moment of a child's life in this world—the day their spirit emerged and bonded with them—passed me by in silence. No glowing aura, no whispering winds, no flicker of magic. Nothing.
The nobles and merchants who had come to my birthday feast—oh, how their eyes changed. Some masked their disappointment behind forced smiles, but most didn't even bother. I saw it clearly—the disdain, the whispers.
"So, he's just like his father."
"A failure."
"Not even worth a second glance."
Did it bother me? Not really. I already knew what I was—an abandoned child, picked up from the cold streets. Their words were just the truth given voice.
But… it did feel different hearing it from others.
The Woman in White
As I stood alone, a figure emerged from the crowd.
A woman—graceful, serene, and cloaked in flowing white robes that seemed to shimmer under the candlelight. Her long, silver hair cascaded down her back like a river of moonlight, and the faint click of her heels against the marble floor slowed as she approached me.
She knelt slightly, bringing herself to my eye level, and her voice, soft and clear, carried a warmth I couldn't quite understand.
"Hey, Indra," she said gently.
I glanced toward my parents.
Mother's eyes met mine—not with disappointment, not with pity, but with a silent promise. A promise that said, 'It doesn't matter if you have no spirit, Indra. You are, and always will be, our son.'
Her gaze burned brighter than any spirit flame—because she, a woman who had fallen in love with a man who couldn't see or use spirits, knew that power wasn't what defined worth.
Father stood beside her, his hand resting on her shoulder—Bartho Ashwon, a man who had been cast out from his noble lineage for the same 'flaw' I now carried. And yet, here he stood—proud, strong, and loved.
The woman smiled, her eyes filled with a wisdom that felt ancient and kind.
"I am the High Priestess of the Church of El Dora," she introduced herself. "So, you cannot use spirit magic... Does that trouble you?"
I didn't answer immediately. Instead, I clenched my fists slightly and said, "No."
The faintest curve touched her lips. "Good. Because it shouldn't."
She placed a gentle hand on my head. "Do you know... your father was just like you when he was a child—abandoned, alone, and without a home or family. He was left outside the church doors on a freezing winter night, with nothing but his will to survive. He had no spirit, no power. And yet—look at him now. A man with everything: a home, a wife, and a son."
Her words settled deep within me, resonating somewhere beyond pride or defiance.
"He is where he is not because he had power... but because he never stopped moving forward. So, Indra…" She tilted her head, her voice soft but firm, "Work hard. Not for them. For yourself. Become someone worthy in your own eyes. And trust me—your light will be different, but it will be no less brilliant."
I looked at her, unsure of what to say. So I simply nodded. "…Yes."
She smiled wider, as if pleased with my simple answer.
As the night deepened and the guests began to depart, I stayed by Mother's side, feeling the warmth of her hand holding mine. Father, however, stepped away, his path crossing with the High Priestess's once more. Together, they walked through the open balcony, the cool night breeze brushing against their faces.
Bartho broke the silence first, his voice low and hesitant.
"What do you think... Priestess?"
The Priestess, her gaze turned skyward, replied softly, "When you first came to the church all those years ago, you told me you dreamed of having a family."
Bartho's eyes darkened slightly. "Yes. But… Priestess, I need to know…" His voice tensed. "The Elder Priestess—when she spoke to me that day—she said, 'Your child is alive and well.' But Indra... he isn't my blood, is he?"
The Priestess's eyes, sharp and knowing, flicked toward him. "No."
A heavy silence fell between them. The wind seemed to carry their unspoken thoughts away into the night.
Bartho's voice was tight. "Then... what did the Elder Priestess mean? Indra—could he be a replacement for the child I lost? Or... something else entirely?"
The Priestess's gaze softened. "The truth… is still hidden. Indra's path is shrouded, and the Elder Priestess's words remain a mystery."
She paused, her expression growing more serious. "But... there is something I must ask you about."
Bartho's eyes narrowed. "You mean... the orb?"
The Priestess's lips pressed into a thin line. "Yes. That mysterious orb that never leaves his side."
Bartho ran a hand through his hair, his voice troubled. "I've seen him with it since the day we found him. It floats near him, day and night, never changing, never reacting to anything—not even magic. He's tested it, prodded it, even tried to destroy it with a magic bomb he stole from my workshop." A faint smirk crossed his face at the memory. "Not a scratch."
The Priestess's eyes flashed with curiosity. "I felt its presence the moment I entered the hall. It is... ancient. Older than anything I have ever encountered. Yet, it is neither hostile nor protective. It observes."
Bartho's fists clenched slightly on the balcony rail. "I've searched every text in my library. No record of anything like it. But…" He hesitated, then continued, "Elina said something to Indra tonight. She told him, 'Never let that orb separate from you.' She said it without knowing why, almost instinctively."
The Priestess's gaze darkened slightly, the moonlight catching the sharpness in her expression. "Then... heed her instinct. That orb may be the key to everything—his past, his future… and yours."
Bartho's voice dropped, almost to a whisper. "Do you think... it has something to do with what the Elder Priestess said? 'Your child is alive and well.' Could it be… connected to the child we lost?"
The Priestess's reply was careful and measured. "Perhaps. Or perhaps it is something far beyond even that loss." She turned her eyes back to the sky. "Whatever it may be... do not separate him from it."
Bartho nodded firmly. "We won't. He is our son—blood or not. And we will protect him, no matter what!
The tension in the air eased, and the Priestess's lips softened into a small smile. "You are a lucky man, Bartho Ashwon. You have a family worth protecting and a son worth believing in."
Bartho, his voice steady, replied simply, "I know."
The two clinked their glasses of red wine, the soft chime ringing into the night.
So... that was how I turned seven.
No spirit. No grand destiny revealed. Just a child with his books, his stubborn heart, and an orb that refused to leave my side.
But that didn't mean I would stop.
If I couldn't have power, then I would have knowledge. If I couldn't see spirits, then I would see through everything else. And if the world tried to decide my worth—
—I would prove it wrong.
Because in the end...
This is my story.
And the road ahead was clear—
Aiford Academy.
Founded by the legendary first spirit user, King Diamonda Chrono, and his unnamed companion, it stood as a beacon where talent, wit, and will forged the future.
I would stand there too.
Not as the son of Bartho Ashwon.
Not as the boy without a spirit.
But as Indra.
And that orb—always beside me—
—would be there to witness it all.