People say talent is a blessing.
I disagree.
Talent is a curse—because once others realize you have it, they expect miracles.
I was born in Blackridge Village, a place so insignificant that even wandering bandits skipped it out of pity. My parents were low-rank warriors who died before teaching me anything profound. At twelve, I carried water. At fourteen, I sharpened blades. At sixteen, I was officially labeled:
"Low-Class Warrior. No future."
The problem?
I could see things others couldn't.
When a swordsman swung his blade, I didn't see strength—I saw patterns.
When elders demonstrated techniques, I didn't feel awe—I felt annoyance at their inefficiency.
And when I copied a technique after seeing it once—
They called it blasphemy.
I called it common sense.