The light of dawn filtered weakly through the tall windows of Valeon Academy, painting soft gold across the stone walls. For most students, the new day was just another step toward greatness. But for Ansel, it was another step through the darkness he was still trying to climb out of.
His body ached. Bruises from the previous day throbbed under his uniform, and the emotional weight clung to his chest like a curse that couldn't be lifted. Yet… something had changed.
He remembered the moment Vulcan Ashwood pulled him up.
"You're still human, aren't you?"
Those words echoed in his mind.
Ansel moved slowly through the hallway, careful to avoid the usual gathering spots where students congregated before class. But to his surprise, someone was waiting just outside the Class F dormitories—leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, golden uniform shining brightly against the dull gray stone.
Vulcan Ashwood.
He stood tall, his lean frame athletic beneath his crisp uniform, trimmed with golden thread that marked his place in Class A. His hair, a striking deep red, was tied loosely at the back, and his sharp blue eyes gleamed with quiet amusement.
"You're late," Vulcan said.
Ansel blinked. "Huh?"
"I've been standing here for ten minutes. Thought maybe you were hiding from the world again."
"I wasn't hiding," Ansel muttered, looking down. "Just… didn't think I'd see you again."
Vulcan tilted his head. "You thought I'd save you, then disappear?"
"Isn't that how it usually goes?" Ansel asked bitterly. "No one wants to stay near the cursed boy."
"Well," Vulcan said with a shrug, "lucky for you, I'm not 'no one.' Come on. I'm walking you to class."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
Ansel paused, surprised by the warmth in Vulcan's tone. Without another word, they walked together, drawing the stares of every student they passed.
Whispers rippled like wind through tall grass.
"Isn't that Vulcan Ashwood?"
"Why is he with that trash kid?"
"Doesn't he know the manaless boy is cursed?"
Vulcan ignored them all, striding forward like royalty. Ansel tried to shrink into himself, but Vulcan stopped abruptly and turned to him.
"You hear them?"
"...Yeah."
"Then stand straighter."
"What?"
"They're going to talk either way," Vulcan said, placing a firm hand on Ansel's shoulder. "So give them something to look at. If you walk like a ghost, they'll treat you like one."
Ansel hesitated—then lifted his head.
For once, he didn't look at the floor.
They reached the Class F room. Students inside were already whispering as Ansel entered with Vulcan behind him. Reena, sitting quietly in the back, looked up and blinked in shock. Her eyes flicked from Ansel to Vulcan, then back again.
Vulcan didn't linger. He gave Ansel a small pat on the back and said, "I'll see you after class. Try not to get yourself beaten up again."
Ansel gave a half-smile. "I'll try."
---
Later that afternoon, Ansel found Vulcan waiting near the Academy courtyard. They sat on the edge of a fountain surrounded by blossoming white flowers—a rare peaceful spot in the academy.
"So," Vulcan began, tossing a pebble into the water, "you ever throw a punch before?"
Ansel shook his head. "I've… never really fought back."
"Time to learn."
"What?"
"I'm going to train you."
Ansel's eyes widened. "But I don't have mana. I can't use spells. I can't—"
"Doesn't matter. I'll teach you how to move, how to block, how to read your opponent. Fighting isn't all about magic. Even a manaless kid can knock someone down if he knows how to swing."
Ansel looked down at his hands. They felt so small. So weak.
"I'm not strong."
"You will be," Vulcan said. "You have something even more important—reason."
"What do you mean?"
"People like us—those who are different, hated, pushed aside—we don't fight because it's fun. We fight because we have to. Because if we don't, no one else will stand for us."
Ansel stared at him.
"And don't think I'm doing this out of pity," Vulcan added. "I like you. You've got fire. You're still standing after everything they've done. That takes more strength than you know."
Ansel felt something stir inside. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was something else—something long buried.
"Thank you," he said softly.
Vulcan grinned. "Don't thank me yet. I'm a horrible teacher."
---
That evening, they found an abandoned training yard behind one of the old towers. The ground was worn but firm, the perfect place to start.
"Alright," Vulcan said, pulling off his coat. "Let's begin with the basics."
He showed Ansel how to position his feet, how to tighten his fists, how to breathe. Then came the stances—centered, balanced, ready to move. It was awkward at first, and Ansel stumbled more than once.
But Vulcan never laughed.
"Again," he'd say. "Slower this time. Don't rush. Focus."
Ansel listened. He moved. He learned.
And for the first time in his life, he felt like he was doing something right.
The sun dipped low behind the academy towers, painting the sky in streaks of violet and gold. Ansel's arms ached, sweat clung to his brow, but he stood taller.
"You've got potential," Vulcan said. "Not bad for day one."
Ansel chuckled. "You mean I didn't completely embarrass myself?"
"You did. But I've seen worse."
They both laughed.
As the wind rustled the grass around them, Ansel looked up at the sky.
Maybe he was still manaless. Maybe the academy still hated him. But he wasn't alone anymore.
He had a teacher.
A friend.
And maybe—just maybe—that was enough to change everything.