The boy who had once died with lingering regrets had finally adapted to his second chance in life.
Ragnar had spent years honing his swordsmanship, his body forged by relentless drills and the unwavering support of his family.
In this life, his dream of becoming the strongest didn't feel like a fantasy—it felt like an inevitability.
"Again!"
Razul ordered, his eyes locked onto his son's. He stood firm, gripping his wooden practice sword with calloused hands.
Ragnar panted, lungs burning. He stayed low, husbanding his remaining stamina for one final strike to topple his father.
Two years had vanished in a blur of sweat and steel, and Ragnar had finally hit fifteen—the age of adulthood in this world.
They hung there in a tense silence. Ragnar coiled his muscles, focusing every ounce of strength into his legs.
He didn't just want to move; he wanted to disappear.
In the heartbeat it took for a falling leaf to drift an inch toward the dirt, Ragnar vanished.
He didn't run; he exploded. In a blink, he was no longer in front of Razul—he was hovering above him, the wooden blade whistling as it descended toward his father's head.
Razul's lips curled into a proud smirk. "Not bad."
He admired the efficiency—the way the boy had sacrificed everything for one decisive moment. As Ragnar spun in mid-air, using his momentum like a living gale, the wooden sword came down with the force of a falling star.
Just as the blow was about to land, Razul's blade met his. The impact sent a shockwave through Ragnar's arms, completely destroying his practice sword, and throwing him backward until he tumbled into the dirt.
Razul laughed, but Ragnar scrambled up, his face flushed with fury.
"You cheated! You used mana in a spar!"
Ragnar pointed an accusing finger. He'd seen it—the faint shimmer of reinforcement that had allowed his father's wooden sword to withstand that final, desperate blow.
"Hahaha! You dare lecture your father?" Razul teased. "A true man knows how to accept defeat."
"You cheater! If I had an active mana core, I'd have sent you flying off this mountain!"
"Kufufufu, in your dreams, boy!"
"The only reason I lost is because your swordsmanship is slow and flashy!" Ragnar shot back.
Razul's smirk vanished. "Y-you! You impudent brat! How dare you call my swordsmanship slow?!"
As the two began their daily bickering, the front door creaked open. Asuna stepped out, watching the chaos with a calm, practiced gaze.
"Razul. Ragnar."
Her voice was soft, yet both men flinched as if struck by lightning.
"Y-yes, Mother?"
"Y-yes, dear?"
Asuna offered a bright, terrifyingly sweet smile and gestured for them to come inside. Ragnar and Razul shared a single, panicked glance, an immediate truce forming between them.
They scrambled toward the house, eager for a meal and even more eager to stay on her good side.
That night passed in a warm, quiet glow. But when Ragnar stepped outside the next morning for his routine, he found his parents waiting for him.
"Mother? Father? What's going on?"
Asuna sat cross-legged on the grass, and Razul followed suit.
"Come here, my boy," she said, her voice soothing but heavy with gravity. "It is time."
A jolt of adrenaline hit Ragnar.
This was the moment he had bled for. The final key to becoming the strongest. He approached them, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"It's time to activate your mana core," Asuna commanded. "Sit."
Ragnar didn't need to be told twice.
He sat, an eager, hungry smile breaking across his face. It was time for Ragnar Von Dragonia to unlock his dormant potential.
Thus, the process began.
He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of his parents' hands against his back.
"Follow the flow of our mana," Asuna whispered. "We will be your guide."
Their power entered him—a strange sensation, simultaneously freezing and scalding. Ragnar focused, latching onto their energy and guiding it through his own body.
Like roots searching for water in dry soil, the mana pushed through dormant pathways, forcing them open.
A speck of heat began to simmer in his chest.
"Circulate more," Razul urged, his voice tight with concentration. "Keep the pathways open, son."
Ragnar obeyed, pushing his own internal energy to follow the trail his parents blazed.
The pathways stabilized, creating a circuit that hummed through his entire being.
"Now," Asuna instructed, "pull it all into your core. Align the flow."
Ragnar pulled.
The simmer became a boil. The boil became an inferno. An excruciating, white-hot pain tore through his chest as the core fought to awaken.
"Keep going! Don't stop!" Razul's voice was a mix of command and raw worry.
The pain was a physical weight, like being burned from the inside out.
Ragnar knew the risks—if he lost focus now, the backlash wouldn't just ruin his chances. It would kill him.
"Fuck, it hurts. I'm going to black out... damn it!"
He gritted his teeth, his vision swimming in darkness for two grueling hours. Perspiration soaked his clothes.
Just as the agony reached a crescendo, Ragnar's body went rigid. He slumped forward, falling flat onto the grass.
"Oh no," Asuna gasped, her face turning pale. "Don't tell me..."
"It can't be..." Razul reached out, his hands trembling.
Before the first tear could fall, Ragnar let out a long, ragged sigh. He pushed himself back up, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Phew... that really sucked."
His parents froze, caught between grief and shock.
"Why do you look like you're at a funeral?" Ragnar joked weakly. "I'm not dead yet."
The tension snapped. Razul let out a bark of relieved laughter while Asuna wiped her eyes.
"You brat! How dare you make your mother worry like that!"
"Mother, Father... I can feel it," Ragnar said, a genuine, ecstatic smile lighting up his face. "The core is active. It's... cold. Just like you said."
Asuna, and Razul smiled. They felt glad that their son passed through the awakening trial.
"Now, please teach me magic!" Ragnar begged, wanting to continue the next step in order to learn how to cast magic spells.
His mother, left out a long sigh. "Fine, let us check what elemental affinity you possess." She replied, showing hints of curiosity.
But as the morning went on, the celebration soured.
After hours of testing, the truth became unavoidable.
Ragnar Von Dragonia had no affinity for the elements. No fire, no water, no wind, no earth. Nothing.
In a world where mana was the fuel and elements were the engine, Ragnar had a gas tank but no way to drive.
"My dream..." Ragnar whispered, the words tasting like ash. "How can I be the strongest if I can't use magic?"
"Don't lose heart, son," Razul said, trying to bridge the silence. "You can still use physical strengthening."
"Physical strengthening?" Ragnar's voice was bitter. "You mean the technique for 'defective' people?"
He knew what that meant—using mana simply to hit harder or grow tougher. It was the consolation prize for those who couldn't cast a single fireball. And those who weren't blessed with elemental affinities, such as himself.
"I'm sorry, Ragnar," Asuna whispered, her heart breaking for him. "If I were more knowledgeable, perhaps I could have guided you well, ensuring one elemental affinity atleast..."
Since in this world, people aren't given the rights to choose for their own.
The elements were like spirits, and the authority lies within them. The right to choose the person they deem worthy of using their element.
Acquiring an elemental affinity in this world doesn't come by a stroke of luck. The decision lies within the elements themselves. And to gain their permission, one must prove their worth.
"My boy," Razul intervened, patting Ragnar's head with a smirk that felt forced. "I thought you wanted to be the strongest swordsman. Who needs a fireball when you have a blade? Mana alone will be enough."
Ragnar looked at his father, then at his hands.
The despair was there, but beneath it, a spark of his old self flickered.
"The gods gave me this life as a trial," he realized. "Not a gift."
His eyes sharpened. The doubt cleared.
"Now then!" Asuna announced, sensing the shift. "To commemorate this, I'll cook a feast!"
As his parents headed inside, Ragnar stayed on the grass. Determined to grow stronger without relying to the elements that deemed him unworthy.
He closed his eyes and felt the mana—pure, raw, and colorless—circulating through his veins. He vowed to grow his mana, widening the capacity of his core as he absorbed the mana particles in the atmosphere.
He didn't see a dead end. He saw a mystery.
"If mana is the center of everything," he whispered to the wind, "then why do I need an element at all?"
His goal hadn't changed; it had just evolved.
He wouldn't be a magic swordsman who followed the rules. He would be the one who rewrote them.
Mana wasn't just the fuel—it was the weapon itself, and not the elements.
Ragnar's eyes weren't just desperate—they were a declaration.
He was going to prove the impossible, that a single sword and a surging mana core were all it took to stand at the summit of the world.
Three years vanished in the wake of that singular obsession.
At eighteen, Ragnar was no longer a student; he was a storm waiting to break.
In the silent expanse of the family domain, father and son stood as mirrors in steel.
Razul leveled his blade, his voice, a challenge that cut through the air.
"Your final lesson is simple, surpass me." A gaze filled with resolve.
"Show me the sum of your existence, or face the weight of my disappointment."
Ragnar didn't flinch.
There was no room for unease—only the cold, unwavering resolve to tear down the wall that was his father remained etched in his mind.
As the wind bit through the trees and the midday sun bore witness, the air grew heavy and intense with the pressure of their gazes.
Their eyes locked against one another. Like predators observing their prey.
The training was finally over. And the first trial in becoming the strongest had just begun.
Chapter End.