As the last embers of Lucius's fire faded in the wild, the Steelhart Estate blazed with celebration. Nobles from across the Kingdom, entourages in tow, had come to honor the new Steelhart prodigy. The feasting hall shimmered with color and mana-infused lights; tables groaned under sumptuous dishes, magical delicacies, and rare potions that pulsed with inner light.
Caelum, draped in a robe that shimmered like the dawn, sat stiffly at the head table, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his robe, foot tapping so fast it almost upset a goblet. He caught sight of a platter of candied tarts—the one he and Lucius used to sneak—and for a heartbeat, his stomach fluttered with the memory. He clenched his fist under the table, heart pounding so loud he was sure everyone could hear it. A neighbor's elbow nudged him back to reality: this isn't a game.
Each cheer felt like a needle in his chest. Every "All hail our Mana Sovereign!" made his throat tighten. He wanted to wrench off the robe, dash to the forest—and find Lucius.
Midway through Lady Argavain's ornate speech on "the glory of Sovereign bloodlines," Caelum's gaze drifted—to a carved ridge in the mahogany table where he and Lucius used to tuck stolen tarts and whisper jokes during fastidious dinners. His heart ached as he recalled Lucius's bright laugh, the way he'd elbow him under the table.
When the herald bellowed, "All hail our Mana Sovereign," Caelum wanted to scream, to tear away the light that crowned him and run to his brother. But his father's shadow loomed too close, and his tongue froze. He hadn't chosen silence—he'd been shackled by it.
Amid the clinking of goblets, Caelum's parents beamed with pride. Yet triumph warred with guilt in his chest. He had longed for this moment of recognition—this nod of approval that had always eluded him. And now that it was his, its sweetness curdled into ashes on his tongue.
That night, after the last carriage rattled away, Caelum slipped into the library, breathing so quietly he thought the books might hear. Candlelight pooled at his feet; the heavy grimoire lay open. He glanced at its dusty pages, heart thudding like a frightened bird.
He hadn't moved when it mattered. When Lucius reached for him, Caelum's silence had been the cruelest answer.
Caelum closed his eyes, voice wobbling as he pressed both hands to the book's spine:
"I—I promise, Luc… I'll fix this. I'll learn every spell I can find—just to bring you back. I swear on our blood, I won't let them win. I'll make them see you're not nothing."
His words trembled off into the hush, but in his chest, a spark of resolve caught flame.
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Far away from nobility's trappings…
From the comforts of family… Lucius found a different sort of richness—the unforgiving yet strangely liberating life of the wild. Over the days, he discovered that his Talent of Mana Exile was not just an anomaly; it was a profound state of being.
Lucius's first days in the wilderness were a shock to his system. His teeth chattered as soon as night fell, and every rustle in the underbrush made his heart leap. He'd never slept anywhere but feather-beds before, and now he fumbled with his cloak like it was a puzzle—tugging it tighter around his shoulders, battling the tremor in his hands as he tried to settle on a patch of moss. every pang of hunger reminding him how alone he was. The comforts of his past life at the Steelhart Estate seemed like a distant dream, now replaced by the harsh realities of survival.
Yet, as the days passed, the forest that once seemed so unforgiving began to reveal its secrets. Lucius's Talent of Mana Exile, which had initially felt like a curse, slowly showed itself to be a unique gift. The wild beasts, once a source of fear, now gave him a wide berth, their instincts warning them away from his mana-less aura. The plants that had resisted his touch now yielded their bounty with ease.
In this newfound peace, Lucius found the strength to face his trials. Though water was scarce and the wild beasts shunned him, he drew upon the survival skills he had honed in his youth. He gripped a thin wooden practice sword—its tip nicked from his earlier training with Caelum—and crouched behind a mess of roots and rope.
He'd only half-remembered that soldier's diagram of a snare and tied the branches at a wonky angle. Before standing up, he tapped the rope with a twig, flinching when it snapped—in case it was set off already. He waited for the opportunity to prove that even without mana, he could thrive.
Minutes turned to an eternity as Lucius waited, his heart pounding in the silence of the forest. The wolf, a creature of the wild, sensed the anomaly of a manaless void and hesitated. Its instincts screamed danger, yet curiosity drew it closer—a fatal flaw in the unforgiving wilderness.
Lucius, with each measured step, lured the wolf towards his trap. The dance was delicate, a game of life and death played out under the moon's watchful eye. The wolf, lacking the fox's guile, failed to perceive the snare laid out for it until it was too late.
The snare jerked tight and the wolf yelped. Lucius's breath caught—he dropped his sword and, without thinking, hurled a stone that barely cracked its flank. The creature crumpled with a soft thud. Lucius pressed both hands over his mouth, heart hammering as he backed away.
The forest, once a symbol of isolation, became his crucible, forging him in the absence of mana. It taught him to trust his instincts, to observe, and to master the mundane art of trapping.
The slain wolf presented a new challenge—food. Lucius had never faced such a raw and visceral task. His noble blood recoiled at the thought, yet his hunger was relentless. In a moment of sheer necessity, he dared a glance at the beast's side and recalled a soldier's off-hand tip: "If you must, drink deep." With shaking fingers, he pressed his lips to the wound—then recoiled at the coppery taste. He stumbled back, retching into the ferns. He spat it out into the underbrush, sick to his core
This act, so alien to the teachings of the SteelHart Family's Arcane Library, opened Lucius's eyes to a new realm of possibilities. If his body could absorb Mana in its purest form, what other secrets of survival awaited him in the depths of the abyss?
Lucius's groundbreaking discovery of consuming beast blood and meat, absorbing their Mana, became his lifeline. Each day, as he ventured closer to Greenwood, he felt the surge of strength within him grow. The forest, once a daunting expanse of unknown dangers, now served as his hunting ground. He harvested mana cores from the beasts he felled, a bounty he planned to trade for coin in the city.
That night, he pressed his back against a gnarled oak, hugging his cloak like a ragged doll. He thought of mother's laugh at the sight of his bad pun—the one they shared over stolen candied tarts, his favourites. A small, shy smile flickered on his lips before the forest's chill stole it away.
Greenwood, under the rule of the Greenwood Duchy, represented a stark contrast to SteelHart's domain. As a city of freedom and a member of the Peacekeepers faction, it stood in opposition to the Warhawk Faction to which the SteelHart Family belonged. For Lucius, it was a safe haven, away from the watchful eyes of his former family and the closest town he could reach—a four-day walk through the forest surrounding the Steelhart estate.
His journey to Greenwood was marked by the slaying of low-tier beasts, from which he extracted mana cores and consumed their blood raw, roasting the meat over a flame. Though the trek was perilous, his Talent of Mana Exile provided him with an unexpected shield, deterring most close-combat beasts. However, he remained vigilant, as mid to long-range attackers occasionally tested his defenses, only to flee when he drew near.
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Upon reaching Greenwood's outer gate, Lucius squinted at the wrought-iron sign hanging from the stone arch:
Entry Fee: 50 coppers
Still clinging to his noble identity, he approached the noble's entrance—five days' hard march since his disownment—and was halted by two city guards. Without the crests or carriages typical of nobility, he lifted the SteelHart emblem for them to see: two crossed swords behind a dragon's wing, silver and red, symbols of martial prowess and Warhawk allegiance.
"It is the Crest of the SteelHart Family. I am Lucius SteelHart, the son of—"
Before he could finish, the taller guard spat, "SteelHart, you say? So you're that manaless brat they've been gossiping about." The shorter guard snorted.
For a heartbeat, both guards stared at the crest—amazement flickering in their eyes. Then the taller guard's lip curled.
"Entry's a silver now," he said, producing a lone silver coin from his pouch and holding it up like a verdict. "Double for worthless nobodies like you."
Lucius's heart thudded. "But—Is… is it not fifty coppers? I—It says fifty on the gate behind you," he protested, voice tight, and jabbed at the sign behind them.
The guards exchanged triumphant grins. The shorter one leaned in, voice dripping contempt:
"Manaless, eh? Lower than any commoner—and even our slaves get more respect. Look at you—nobility to nobody in a heartbeat."
The taller guard kicked at a boot in the dirt.
"We commoners may bow to no one—but we sure as steel don't bow to manaless fallen lords. Pay the silver, brat, or scram."
Lucius's fingers trembled as he drew the coin. Each metallic clink felt like the final toll of his shattered status. He forced himself to hand it over.
"Welcome to Greenwood," the shorter guard barked as the gate groaned open. "Try not to lose that coin—wouldn't want our manaless brat climbing back up the ladder."
Lucius stepped through, the weight of that single silver pressing on him far more heavily than any purse of gold—a bitter confirmation that, in the eyes of the kingdom, he had gone from noble heir to worthless nobody.
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At the GoldCrest Bank—its stone façade looming opposite the Hearthfire Inn's warm glow—he registered a Magi-account under the name 'Luc,' depositing his life savings and keeping only nine silvers on hand.
The evening's cool air brushed against Lucius as he, now 'Luc,' made his way down the cobblestone streets of Greenwood. The GoldCrest Bank loomed large and imposing, its facade a testament to the wealth it held within.
With a silver coin—the last of his immediate funds—Luc secured a room at the Hearthfire Inn. It was a simple luxury, but for him, it was a fleeting taste of comfort he hadn't known since his world had turned upside down. The room was modest yet clean, with a bed that promised solace for his weary body.
As he settled into the soft linens, the reality of his situation settled in. This was the last night he would indulge before his true journey began. Tomorrow, he would face the mercenary guild would be his next destination—not a grand arena of epic confrontations, but a place where he would take measured steps to establish himself. There, his lack of mana would be noted, perhaps with curiosity, perhaps with disdain. It was no turning point in his tale, but another step on a long road.
He tightened his fingers around the hilt of his practice sword and remembered the soldiers' stories of Adventurers—free spirits who roamed the realms, choosing their own fate. He reminded himself that among Adventurers—those free-spirited wanderers he'd heard of—maybe even someone like him could find a place.
For now, he allowed himself this small luxury, a momentary escape before stepping into the unknown.
Luc's eyes closed, the promise of dawn waiting patiently for his awakening—a dawn that would see 'Luc' rise, ready to embrace whatever fate had in store for him.