"Useless."
"Incompetent."
"A waste of space."
"Just like her mother."
These are the things people used to call me.
My father came from a prestigious family of scholars—spellcasters, sorcerers, and magic-wielders held in high regard. My mother, on the other hand, was different.
She was gifted in alchemy, not magic, because her mana core couldn't produce enough mana to cast spells. It was a rare condition, and one that came with its share of cruelty.
When my parents fell in love, my father's entire family stood against it. They fought for each other—back and forth, struggle after struggle—until eventually, his family relented. They married, and had four children. I was the youngest.
My brothers were prodigies. Born with talent that surpassed even seasoned mages. And then there was me—with the same rare condition my mother had.
From the start, I wasn't treated the same.
Even as a child, I could sense it—that coldness. The distance. I didn't understand why everyone avoided me. Not until I was older. And even though it hurt, I learned to live with it.
One by one, people started keeping their distance. Even my brothers. I don't blame them. Having a "useless" sister like me wasn't something to be proud of.
The only reason I survived those years… was my mother.
She was my light. My shelter in the darkest moments. No matter what anyone said, her lap was always there for me—to rest without worry, to cry freely, to feel safe. I thought, as long as she was with me, I could endure anything.
But fate had other plans.
When I was eleven, she died.
They didn't even let me attend her funeral. They locked me in my room.
I cried for days. Maybe weeks. The only one who came to comfort me was a maid—someone who had been close to my mother. She stayed with me, sat beside me when I couldn't sleep, held my hand when the pain got too much.
Then, one day, my father came.
The man who had always pretended I didn't exist… stood before me. He told the maid to wait outside, cast a barrier spell, and cried.
He wept like a broken man, called himself a failure—not just as a mage, but as a father. He wasn't wrong.
Then he asked me a question.
"What do you want to do from now on?"
I was still a child—confused, angry, desperate. I told him I wanted to learn magic.
And from that day on… I tried.
Day and night. I collapsed more times than I can count. But I never stopped.
It took me a month just to figure out my affinity—wind.
Three years of relentless effort.
And then, finally, I cast my first spell.
A wind blade.
The memories faded, like wind scattering ash.
Now wasn't the time for the past.
I opened my eyes.
The battlefield was chaos.
Aron was down. Erik staggered forward. Eri lay unmoving on the ground. Old man Val clung to one of the Karken's fangs, trying to slow it down.
And me?
I was still standing.
Everything I had endured—every scar, every sleepless night, every cruel word—they all led to this moment.
And yet… I haven't changed.
Still useless. Still standing back while Erik fights. While Eri bleeds.
I should be beside them.
I won't live like this anymore.
Not one second longer.
If I can't use my own mana, I'll take it from the world around me.
I'll gather it. Condense it. Make it mine.
Core Activation!