"I… I am useless," Ragnar whispered, tears streaming down his face. It was the fifth exam he had failed this month, and the weight crushed him.
"How did I fail again? I thought I had it this time. I thought I was ready." His fist trembled, clenched so tight his knuckles turned white. Anger surged in him, but the truth hurt more—there was no one to blame but himself. Shame wrapped around him like chains.
"How am I supposed to tell her? That I failed again? F**k… why am I this weak?"
But to understand Ragnar's struggle, we must first understand his world.
Long before time itself, nine godly beings roamed the endless void. They shaped the stars and shattered them, weaving destruction and creation like threads in the cosmos. Among them, one stood apart—the Black Dragon of Destruction. His hunger to annihilate outpaced all creation, unbalancing existence itself.
The other seven could not stop him alone, so they called upon the White Dragon of Creation, the only being who could rival his might. For seven thousand years, the Black Dragon and White Dragon clashed, their battle shaking the very fabric of reality. In the end, both perished, their bodies torn apart by wounds too great.
Yet from their struggle, mana was born. Worlds sprouted across the void, one of them the planet Ragnar now called home. The gods, knowing the Black Dragon would one day rise again, chose reincarnation. That was the tale passed down through the ages… though not all of it was true.
Back in the present—
"Ragnar, you failed again?!" His younger sister's voice cut sharp, filled with anger and disappointment.
"I… I thought I was ready. I'm sorry." He kept his eyes low, drowning in shame.
She sighed, then softened. "Don't worry. There's still one academy left. It's not the best, but their exams aren't hard. You'll get in." She pulled him into a hug, her warmth easing the sting of failure.
Ragnar forced a smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Thanks. I'll go for a walk… clear my head."
He wandered the quiet streets, unaware that tonight would change his life forever.
"Hey, kid." A voice stopped him. An old man stood in the shadows, eyes narrowed. "What's with your mana levels? The energy flowing from you… it's immense." His expression flickered between curiosity and fear.
Ragnar blinked, confused. "Mana levels? What are you talking about?"
The old man's thoughts raced. He doesn't even know… His mana is overflowing, so strong that only a handful could sense it.
"Kid," the man said suddenly, excitement sparking in his tone, "how about I train you?"
Ragnar scoffed, already turning away. "Train me? What could an old man like you possibly teach me?"
The man only smiled. With a clap of his hands, he whispered, "Casanava."
The world twisted. Around them rose a colossal, nightmarish castle, its walls dripping with blood-red mana, towering high into the sky.
Ragnar froze, his breath caught in his throat. "What… the hell… did you just do?"
The man smirked. "This is just a taste. I can teach you how to wield power like this. If you're willing."
Ragnar stared at him, eyes wide. For the first time in so long, he felt hope. He extended his trembling hand, gripping the man's firmly.
"Please… teach me."
In that moment, Ragnar saw a light at the end of his dark tunnel. His story—his true story—was only just beginning