I was born into a noble family, a house known for its proud lineage of mages. From the moment I opened my eyes, the elders whispered about my future.
I possessed a vast capacity for mana—so large that the crystal used during my baptism ceremony nearly shattered under the pressure. My father laughed with pride, my mother wept with joy, and everyone celebrated. They said I was destined to lead the family into a new golden age.
At first, I believed them.
But when I turned six, the truth began to reveal itself.
Yes, I could learn magic. I could shape mana, chant incantations, and summon flames, frost, or sparks with ease… but the moment I tried to use anything beyond the most basic spells, my body would tremble. My vision blurred, my chest tightened, and I collapsed as if my very life was being wrung out of me.
Doctors, healers, and scholars were summoned. None could find the reason. My body simply couldn't endure the burden of my mana.
Still, I refused to give up. I practiced day after day, burning my fingers on tiny flames, coughing blood after forcing even the smallest wind spells. I trained until my bones ached, until my mother begged me to stop. But no matter how much I tried, there was no improvement.
And then… the whispers began.
"He must be cursed."
"All that mana, and he can't use it? What a waste."
"To think the heir of our family would turn out like this… pathetic."
Each word carved into me like a blade. My relatives stopped looking at me with pride. Instead, their eyes were filled with pity… or worse, contempt.
What's the use of having an ocean of mana if all I can do is create ripples?
At night, staring at the ceiling of my room, I asked myself the same question over and over:
Was I truly cursed?
My name is Halverion Arcanthus Draelith.
But most people simply call me Hal.
By the time I reached twelve years old, my life had already been decided.
That day, my parents—the same people who once celebrated my birth with joy—stood before me with cold, detached eyes. My father, the esteemed Lord of House Draelith, spoke without hesitation.
"From this day forth, you are no longer of our blood. Take what we give you, and survive if you can."
A small satchel was thrown at my feet. Inside it: dried bread and fifty gold coins. Enough to live for a short while, if I was careful. Enough to die slowly, if I wasn't.
I didn't beg. I didn't cry.
Perhaps because, deep down, I already knew this day would come.
For years, I had trained until my hands bled, until my lungs screamed for air. And yet, no matter how much mana I carried within me, the only spells I could wield were laughable. A spark of fire, a breeze of wind. Tricks children used in their first lessons.
That was the truth of Halverion Arcanthus Draelith.
A vessel overflowing with power… and no way to use it.
What's the use of having a vast capacity for mana if all I can do is summon flames no larger than a candle? Winds no stronger than a sigh?
To my family, I was nothing but a failure. A shame to the name Draelith. A waste.
So they cast me aside.
And there I was—twelve years old, stripped of my name, carrying only a bag of food and a pouch of gold. Standing at the gates of the grand estate I once called home, staring out into a world I had never known.
The wind felt colder that day.
But strangely… a part of me felt lighter too.
As I stepped away from the mansion I once called home, my legs felt heavier with each stride. But when I reached the city… reality hit me harder than I could ever imagine.
It was harsher. Far harsher than the books and stories had ever described.
The first thing I noticed was the stench—rot, sweat, and blood mixed together, clogging my nose until I nearly gagged. In the alleys, the corpses of the poor lay abandoned, their hollow eyes staring at nothing. No one cared enough to bury them.
The cries of children echoed from the slums, mixed with the sound of drunken laughter. Somewhere nearby, someone was being beaten—the dull thuds of fists against flesh accompanied by desperate screams. I heard the clink of stolen coins, the tearing of fabric, the growl of hunger from people reduced to little more than animals.
I couldn't take it all in. The weight of the city crushed me like a tidal wave.
So I ran.
My feet carried me beyond the city walls, through fields and dirt roads, until I stumbled into the quiet embrace of the forest. My chest burned, my breath ragged, but for the first time that day, silence greeted me.
And then—
"Are you lost?"
A voice came from ahead. I looked up to see a man standing on the path. His hair was unkempt, his clothes simple, but his smile… it was gentle. He extended a hand toward me as if we had known each other for years.
I hesitated, then shook my head. "No… I've been kicked out of my family."
His smile faltered, eyes softening as though he could feel the weight in my chest.
"Oh… that's harsh. Did you… do something to make them cast you out?"
A bitter laugh escaped my throat.
"Yes. I was born. That was my mistake. Ever since then."
He didn't laugh at my words. He didn't pity me either. He just let out a quiet sigh, scratching the back of his neck.
"Fate can be cruel," he murmured. Then he looked me in the eyes, steady and warm. "Do you have a place to stay for the night?"
I lowered my gaze. "…No."
"In that case," he said, "come with me. My house is in the woods. It's nothing grand, but at least you won't sleep under the open sky."
At that point, I had nothing. No family, no roof, no place to belong. So when he offered, I agreed.
"…Thank you."
But like I said before—reality is harsher, crueler than anyone can imagine.
As we ventured deeper into the woods, the trees grew taller, their shadows swallowing the fading light of day. The silence pressed against my ears, broken only by the crunch of leaves beneath our boots.
I swallowed nervously and asked, "Are… are we there yet? The night is coming."
The man didn't answer. Instead, he suddenly turned, and before I could react, his boot slammed into my ribs.
"—Gah!" I stumbled, crashing into the dirt, clutching my side as the air was forced from my lungs. My vision blurred with pain. "W-what are you doing?!"
His smile was gone. In its place was something twisted—mocking. His eyes glinted with amusement as he looked down on me like a wolf staring at its prey.
"Poor little prince," he sneered. "You really are useless, huh? No wonder your own family cast you out."
He reached to his side and with a practiced flick, revealed a knife. The blade gleamed under the thin veil of moonlight. He spun it casually in his hand, like he had done it a thousand times before. Then… he licked the edge, his grin stretching unnaturally wide.
"Can't even tell when someone's acting. How pathetic."
My heart pounded in my chest. My body froze. He smirked, eyes gleaming with sick delight.
"Now then… let's see where I should start first…"
Before I could move, his arm snapped forward.
Shhk!
The knife embedded itself into my left leg.
"AAAHHHH!" My scream tore through the woods, echoing into the night. White-hot pain surged through me as blood soaked my trousers. My hands trembled as I tried to pull away, but every movement only sent fresh agony shooting through my body.
"HELP!" I screamed, my voice hoarse, desperate. "SOMEBODY—HELP!!"
The man chuckled, stepping closer, savoring my fear.
"Cry louder. No one's coming for you. Not out here."
"AAAAHHHHH!"
The knife tore from my leg, only to be driven into the other. My body convulsed with agony, my voice cracking as I screamed. The man's laughter echoed in the trees, wild and merciless.
"Hahaha! You really can't do nothin', huh? No wonder yer family wants ya gone! Hell, boy, they probably want ya dead!"
My eyes widened.
"M-my… family?!"
The man froze for a second, then clicked his tongue and smirked.
"…Tch. Guess I talked too much. Oh well. Don't matter. You ain't livin' long enough to tell anyone."
He raised the knife high. "Time to die, little waste."
The blade came down—
BANG!
A thunderous crack split the air. The torturer froze. His knife slipped from his fingers, clattering into the dirt. For a moment, even the forest itself seemed to fall silent.
A voice drawled from the shadows. Calm. Cold. Sharp as steel.
"…Now that ain't no way to treat a child."
The torturer spun around, eyes wide.
From between the trees, a man stepped into the moonlight. A wide-brimmed hat shaded his eyes, but the glint of metal caught the light—a revolver, still smoking, aimed squarely at the thug's head.
His coat swayed with the breeze, boots crunching against leaves as he approached with slow, deliberate steps. His voice carried the lazy confidence of a man who had stared death in the face and walked away smiling.
"You got two choices, partner," the stranger said, his accent heavy, his tone steady. "Drop dead where you stand… or run, 'fore I put another hole clean through ya."
The thug's bravado vanished. He stammered, backing away, sweat dripping down his face. Then, with a growl, he bolted into the woods, disappearing into the darkness.
The man holstered his revolver with a smooth spin, then knelt beside me. His shadow covered me as I lay trembling, bleeding, barely conscious.
"Easy there, son," he said softly, tilting his hat up to reveal sharp, tired eyes. "You're safe now."
And for the first time that night… I believed it.
The man crouched beside me, his rough hands surprisingly steady as he wrapped bandages around my bleeding legs. The sting of the cloth pressed against the wounds, but compared to the pain before, it almost felt merciful.
I stared at him, my heart racing. Why is he helping me?
Reality had already taught me its lesson—it was cruel. It always hid daggers behind smiles. No one gave something without wanting something back.
So with trembling hands, I fumbled with my bag. My only possessions spilled out—a pouch of fifty gold coins, the last remnants of my family's pity. Tears blurred my vision as I pushed it toward him.
"P-please… take all of it," I choked out, my voice breaking. "Just don't kill me…"
The figure froze, his shadow looming over me. For a long, terrible second, he just stared—expression unreadable. My chest tightened, expecting him to grab the money, expecting the knife again—
Then he burst out laughing.
"Hah! Hahaha!" He slapped his knee, shaking his head as if I had just told the funniest joke he'd heard all week. His voice rumbled low, rich with amusement.
"Boy… why in the hell are you givin' me money for? I ain't some low-level thug lookin' to shank ya over coin."
I blinked, confused, wiping my tears with the back of my hand. "B-but… then… why—?"
His smirk widened, and his voice took on a dry, mocking edge.
"'Sides, if you're offerin' money… ya might as well make it worth my while. Fifty gold? That's a beggar's tip. You wanna buy me off? Try a hundred… two hundred."
My mouth opened, closed. "W-what do you mean…?"
The man leaned back, adjusting the brim of his hat. His revolver gleamed faintly in the moonlight. His next words sent a chill down my spine.
"I'm a mercenary, kid." His eyes locked with mine—sharp, unwavering. "I kill for a livin'."
The man tightened the last bandage around my leg, then crouched lower.
"Alright, kid. Up you go."
Before I could protest, he slung me onto his back like I weighed nothing. My arms hung loosely over his shoulders, my body too weak to resist.
As he started walking deeper into the woods, his voice rumbled low and calm.
"By the way… why the hell were you walkin' with some random stranger in the middle o' nowhere?" He tilted his head slightly, hat brim catching the moonlight. "Didn't yer parents ever tell ya—don't go talkin' with strangers?"
I let out a bitter laugh, hollow and cracked. "…My family. The ones you're talkin' about." My throat tightened. "They… they kicked me out. And the worst part? They want me dead."
The man slowed. For a moment, he didn't say a word. Then I felt his shoulder shift as he glanced back at me, eyes shadowed beneath his hat. He let out a long, heavy sigh.
"…What a damn pathetic excuse for parents," he muttered. "To do that to their own blood."
His words carried no pity—only disgust.
We walked in silence for a while, the sound of leaves crunching beneath his boots. Finally, his voice broke the quiet again.
"So tell me, boy. You got any plans? Anything you're plannin' to do now?"
My eyelids felt heavy. My body trembled from pain and exhaustion. Still, I managed to whisper:
"No… I just… need to survive."
The man's steps didn't falter, his back steady beneath me. For some reason, that steadiness made my chest loosen just a little.
"…Hmph. Survive, huh? That's a start," he said quietly.
And with those words, my eyes finally shut. Darkness took me, cradled by the steady rhythm of his footsteps.
The clearing was quiet, save for the crackle of the fire and the slow rhythm of my breathing. Exhaustion had dragged me under the moment my head touched the blanket, and soon I was lost to sleep.
The man sat across from me, cigarette smoldering between his fingers. His sharp gaze lingered on my small, bandaged form. For a long time, he said nothing. Just watched. Just thought.
Finally, he exhaled a stream of smoke into the cold night air and muttered, almost to himself:
"…Ain't the boy's fault. Some families… they're blind. Only see talent, only see power. Thinkin' strength just sprouts on its own."
He leaned back, tipping his hat slightly, eyes fixed on the flames.
"But talent don't bloom in the dark. Same as a plant. You don't water it? Don't give it sunlight? It'll wither. Ain't matter how strong the seed is."
The firelight danced in his tired eyes as he flicked ash into the dirt. His voice was steady, but low—like a truth he'd known for far too long.
"…People ain't no different. Kid just needed someone to help him grow."
The woods whispered with the wind, the fire crackled, and the boy—Hal—slept on, unaware of the mercenary's words.
The man watched him for a moment longer, then sighed and took another drag of his cigarette.
"…You ain't a dead seed, boy. Not yet."
The words drifted into the night, carried by the smoke, unheard by the one they were meant for.
The mercenary crushed his cigarette under his boot heel, then rose slowly, the firelight flickering against his coat. He walked a few steps into the dark woods, boots thudding against the earth.
His voice cut through the night, calm but sharp:
"...Just how long d'you plan on crawlin' in those trees? I can smell your pathetic stench from a mile away. Don't waste my damn time."
The bushes rustled. One by one, figures emerged. Men armed with axes, knives glinting in the moonlight, and two mages cloaked in green robes whose eyes glowed faintly with mana.
A familiar face stepped forward, grinning wide—the one who had tortured Hal.
"Well, there goes our cover." The man spread his arms theatrically. "The name's Viper. You can run along, stranger. Just leave the brat behind. He and I got… business."
The cowboy tilted his hat, shadows hiding his eyes. "Business, huh?"
"Nothing much," Viper said, smirking. "Just want the gold coins Daddy dearest left him. But…" His lips twisted into something uglier. "Boy's got a girly face for a brat. My boys could use some fun, right?"
He raised his voice, shouting, "Ain't that right, lads?!"
A chorus of howls and laughter erupted from the men, filling the clearing with filth.
"See?" Viper grinned, his teeth sharp in the firelight. "That's why I stabbed his legs first. Gotta keep him still—"
BANG.
A bullet ripped through Viper's skull, snapping his head back.
BANG. His left eye burst.
BANG. His right eye followed.
BANG. His nose shattered into red ruin.
BANG. BANG. Two bullets tore his lips apart.
Viper collapsed, twitching, blood soaking the dirt.
The mercenary blew smoke from his revolver's barrel and flicked his hat back into place. His voice was low, steady, and cold as steel:
"Reckon y'all can try… if you make it out alive, that is."
The fire crackled behind him. Shadows stretched. The gang froze, caught between rage and the sudden realization of just who they'd crossed.
The clearing fell silent. The only sound was the crackle of the fire and the faint hiss of smoke rising from Viper's ruined face. His body twitched once… then went still.
The thugs stared at their boss, mouths half open, eyes wide. No one moved. No one breathed.
Then—like animals realizing their alpha had fallen—they screamed and charged. Axes raised high, knives glinting, the mages chanting spells under their breath.
The mercenary tilted his head back and laughed. A low chuckle at first—then roaring, wild, untamed.
"HAHAHA! PARTY TIME!" his voice thundered through the forest.
"Ain't no music sweeter… than SCREAMS!"
The gang crashed toward him, but his revolver sang first.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Three men fell before their axes even touched the ground, holes carved clean through their foreheads.
A fireball flew from one of the robed mages—only to burst harmlessly against the mercenary's sweeping cloak as he rolled, his revolver barking in reply. BANG. The mage's chest exploded in a spray of crimson, his spell snuffed out with him.
The second mage froze, too late. BANG. His jaw was gone. He collapsed, choking on blood.
Axes slammed into dirt where the mercenary had stood a second earlier, sparks flying. He slipped between them like smoke, gun spinning in his hand. BANG. BANG. Two more heads snapped back, fountains of red spraying across the trees.
The forest became chaos—smoke, muzzle flashes, the symphony of gunfire mixed with shrieks of dying men. Every scream, every bullet echoed through the night like a twisted festival.
Through it all, the mercenary grinned like a devil in the firelight, coat flaring as he spun, reloaded, and fired again.
"Dance for me, boys!" he hollered, voice wild with glee.
"Let's hear that sweet, sweet music!"
The trees trembled with every shot. The soil drank deep of blood. And soon… only the mercenary's laughter remained.