Inside his dimly lit room, a young boy—no more than four years old—stood quietly by the window. Jet-black hair framed his pale face, and his bright crimson eyes shimmered faintly under the moonlight.
A heavy shadow loomed over him, not from the night outside, but from a memory that clung to his soul like a curse.
He remembered the voice. His father's voice. Harsh. Final. Distant.
"Disappointment."
The word echoed relentlessly in his mind, carving deep into his heart. It wounded him more than any blade ever could.
He clenched his tiny fists until his knuckles turned white, trembling not from fear—but from shame and helpless rage.
His face remained unreadable. Silent. Hollow. The room around him, too, was swallowed by silence. A cold, suffocating stillness. The atmosphere felt heavy, as if mourning with him.
He blamed the world. He blamed the gods and goddesses. He blamed his own cursed birth—born without a trace of mana in a bloodline renowned for magical might.
"Why? Why me? he wondered. Why would the world create someone like me?"
Self-loathing, confusion, and anger wrapped around his small frame like chains. And yet… he stood still. Silent. Enduring.
---
About nine months later, in the very same grand chamber where the Natan had been born, the house of Blazeforge welcomed another child.
Crimson silk curtains fluttered gently from the open windows. Candles flickered softly along the stone walls.
The mother lay on the velvet-lined bed, her long jet black hair damp with sweat, yet her beauty still radiant—glowing even more so in the warmth of motherhood. Her rose-kissed lips trembled as she cradled the newborn tightly against her chest.
The baby girl in her arms had inherited the family's signature black hair, thick and lustrous like the midnight sky. Her eyes—already open—burned with a vivid red hue, brighter and deeper than any the family had seen before.
Even the air around her seemed to shimmer faintly, as if reacting to the overwhelming mana pulsing within her tiny body.
The father stood at the edge of the bed, motionless. His usually stern and commanding expression was cracked with disbelief.
The same elderly mage who had once examined Natan before stood at the foot of the bed, flanked by awestruck maids. His bluish ceremonial robe shimmered with faint runes as he leaned forward, his jaw agape.
"My Lord… My Lady… I—by the gods, I cannot believe this," the mage gasped, his voice trembling. "Her mana… this—this is beyond prodigy. This child… is history!"
The father, the mother, and the attending staff leaned in. They saw it too. Not just mana—but power. Potential. Greatness.
"This girl is a miracle!" the mage exclaimed.
"Her mana is already on par with a First Star mage—and she's mere minutes old! No one in recorded magical history has possessed this level of innate energy at birth. This child… she could change the very balance of the world! I don't even need an artifact to detect this! I'm sure you can feel it too my lord."
The maids gasped quietly, their eyes wide with reverence. The air buzzed with awe and tension.
The father—ever the towering and formidable presence—let a rare smile break across his face. Pride shimmered in his crimson eyes. Though his frame remained still and intimidating, one could feel the storm of joy and satisfaction rising in his chest.
"Now that...that is a Blazeforge," he muttered with reverence, his voice low and resolute.
The mother held the baby tighter, her heart swelling. Pride. Happiness. Relief. Tears welled in her eyes—not from exhaustion, but from joy.
She had birthed a legacy. A prodigy. A beacon of hope. And deep in her heart, she silently thanked the stars that this child—her daughter—was nothing like the one before.
"My princess… my everything… welcome to the world, my greatest Blazeforge," she whispered tenderly, kissing the child's forehead as tears rolled down her cheeks.
As the celebration unfolded within the chamber—laughter, gasps of awe, whispered praise—a shadow lingered at the edge of the room.
Just behind the line of mages and maids stood a small boy. No taller than the average four-year-old. Jet-black hair hung messily over his forehead, and his crimson red eyes glowed faintly in the candlelight. He had witnessed it all. Everything.
And yet, no one noticed him.
His eyes were filled with a storm of emotions too complex for a child to understand—too heavy for a heart so young to carry. They shimmered bright red on the outside, yet behind the glow, they looked hollow... empty... and devoid.
He had come to see the birth of his sister. At first, he was reluctant, unsure. Uncomfortable. But somewhere deep in his chest, buried beneath the bitterness and pain, flickered a small spark of hope. A selfish thought.
He wondered… what if his sister was like him? What if she, too, had no mana? What if—for once—he wouldn't be alone? Maybe she would understand the loneliness. Maybe, just maybe, someone would finally stand beside him in this cruel and unforgiving world.
But that hope was shattered—no, it was obliterated—like glass beneath a hammer.
Not only was his sister not like him… she was everything he wasn't. A prodigy. A miracle. Born with power so immense that the very air bent around her. The moment he saw her, and the way everyone looked at her—with awe, with reverence—he knew he had lost something he never even had.
There would be no place for him near her. Not in their eyes and especially not in their hearts.
He knew his parents would shield her, nurture her, pour all their love and pride into her like a precious gem. And him? He was a relic. A reminder of their lineage imperfection.
Natan stood there, frozen, his expression unreadable. Every ounce of control in his tiny body was used to remain still… to not break. To not cry. He had learned to suppress the pain. He had grown used to pretending.
But inside, he felt it all.
'The world is so unfair…' he thought to himself
His gaze shifted slowly to his parents. Their eyes glistened with joy—joy he had never once seen directed at him.
'Why…?' he continued . "Why is it that I couldn't be like that? Why am I the only one like this? Why is this world so cruel to me?"
His chest tightened. His fists trembled.
'Look at them… they've never smiled at me like that… not once…'
The pain was too much. A storm no five-year-old should ever have to endure. His heart couldn't carry the weight any longer. And so, with slow, heavy steps, Natan turned to leave. Each movement felt like he was sinking deeper into an abyss.
But just as he reached the threshold of the chamber… he heard it.
"That's it. Get out of here. You don't belong here you Failure. Don't ruin the mood."
The words were barely a whisper, muttered under Gareth's breath—never meant to be heard.
But Natan heard them.
He always did. His hearing was sharper than most, a strange gift in a boy thought to have no magic.
A cruel irony.
The words struck like a dagger.
Failure.
A word meant to be hidden. But no dagger buried deep ever goes unnoticed.
The world around him turned darker.
His small body paused mid-step. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding together silently. His bright red eyes dimmed—dulled further into lifelessness. The spark in them, whatever was left, was extinguished.
He could only imagine what the others were thinking—how they might laugh behind his back, mock him openly, and feel nothing but disdain whenever he was near.
CREAK — THUD
The door opened… then closed.
Natan stood outside in the corridor. Alone. Still.
His face, once childlike, now looked unreadable—emotionless. His pale skin stretched tight over his cheeks. His eyes, usually so expressive, now void and dull.
Was it sorrow? Rage? Disappointment? Emptiness? Even he couldn't tell anymore.
His tiny fist clenched at his side, tighter and tighter… until thin trails of blood trickled from between his fingers. Crimson drops against pale skin. His nails digging into his own flesh.
He didn't flinch.
He didn't cry.
He simply stood there… in silence… before he began to walk.
One step at a time.
Away from them.
Away from the only warmth he had ever longed for.
---
A month had passed since his sister's birth.
Inside his bedroom, a young boy with jet-black hair and gleaming red eyes sat alone at a small wooden table.
Pale moonlight seeped in through the curtained window, casting long shadows on the stone floor. His room was quiet—too quiet—as if holding its breath.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
A knock echoed through the silence.
Natan flinched. His eyes shifted toward the door, his body tense.
"What is it?" he asked, his voice calm but guarded.
A soft voice answered from the other side.
"Young Master… a letter has arrived for you."
'A letter?' Natan thought, frowning slightly.
CREAK.
He stood and opened the door. A maid stood before him—perhaps in her early thirties—dressed in a simple yet well-kept uniform. Her brown hair was neatly tied back into a low bun. She bowed her head respectfully, then held out a folded envelope.
"A letter? From who?" Natan asked, narrowing his eyes.
"From your father, the Lord… young master," the maid replied softly.
Natan froze for a moment, his hand hesitating before taking the letter.
"I see…" he muttered, his tone unreadable.
The maid bowed again. "Then I shall take my leave, young master."
Natan gave a quiet nod in response.
CREAK—THUD.
The door closed.
Silence returned.
Natan stood still, the envelope clenched in his small hand. Slowly, he unfolded it and began to read.
Natan,
You are to be sent to Sylverwyn Academy. You will live and study there. Do not bring shame to the family name.
That was all.
No greeting.
No explanation.
No warmth.
Just orders. A sentence, like a command carved in stone.
Natan stared at the words for a long moment. Then, without thinking, he crumpled the letter in his fist, folding it again and again until the parchment grew soft from the pressure.
"So that's it," he thought bitterly. "Can't even be bothered to say it to my face, huh?"
His chest tightened. Shadows crept across his face, cast not by the flickering candle beside him—but from within.
"You really want me gone that badly… far away from the estate… far away from her."
He sat back down at the table, the letter still clenched in his trembling hand. He didn't cry. He couldn't. Not anymore.
But deep down, he understood what this was.
An exile dressed as opportunity.
A quiet farewell that no one would notice.
-- Chapter 5 end