I had always aspired to be strong. I don't know why exactly—it wasn't something anyone told me. It was just something I felt deep in my bones, like a calling etched into my very soul. From as early as I can remember, strength meant freedom. Strength meant I could carve my own path through the world. That no one could ever tell me no. To be strong, truly strong, meant I could never be caged.
That belief became the foundation of who I was. I picked up my first sword before I could even read. I was three years old, and it was far too big for me—I could barely lift it—but I clung to it like it was a part of me. By five, I was in formal training, sparring against adults, learning the stances, the strikes, the footwork. By nine, I had beaten my father in a fair duel, not because he let me win, but because I was faster. Smarter. Better. At ten, I faced down my first monster—an orc raider who underestimated the "child with a blade." I didn't make him regret it for long.
I've always known I was different. A freak of nature, maybe. But I never minded that. Being different meant I had a chance at something more.
I was born in Brighthollow, a peaceful little village nestled among golden wheat fields that swayed like waves in the breeze. The sky always seemed a little brighter there, the air a little sweeter. Every year we held the Harvest Festival—a celebration of survival, of community, and of the gods' favor. Brighthollow had known war, yes—bands of marauders, border skirmishes, the occasional monster incursion—but we had always endured. We were tough, proud, and unbroken.
At that time in my life, I truly believed I was strong.
Until he came.
When I turned eleven, everything changed.
King Darius Valdris III—ruler of Ironhold, sovereign of the realm, beloved by nobles and feared by all else—visited Brighthollow. No fanfare preceded his arrival. No warning. Just his black-armored retinue and the king himself, cloaked in velvet and shadow. To this day, I don't know why he came. There were rumors, of course. That he was scouting for recruits. That he was tracking a traitor. That he sought some ancient artifact hidden beneath our village. But none of it mattered. Whatever the reason, the result was the same.
My family was murdered that night.
Mother. Father. My little sister Lysa. Slaughtered like livestock while I hid beneath the floorboards, clutching my blade, too terrified to move. I still remember the way my mother screamed. I still remember the silence that followed. I still remember his face.
King Darius.
I don't know why he ordered it. Maybe he didn't. Maybe it was one of his knights, acting on his behalf. But does it matter? The blood was spilled in his name. The fire consumed my home under his banner.
And I vowed, then and there, that I would make him pay.
King or not, a man must be held accountable for his crimes. And I would be his reckoning. There would be no mercy for House Valdris.
But vengeance is not simple. A child cannot simply walk into a throne room and slay a king. No. If I wanted to get close enough to kill him, I needed a plan. That plan began with Arkanhold Academy.
Arkanhold was the gateway to the king's elite—an academy where nobles trained in the arts of war, magic, diplomacy, and command. Those who proved themselves there could be inducted into the Knights of Templar, the king's personal guard. If I could become one of them, I could get close. Close enough to strike.
But there was a problem.
I was a commoner. A nameless orphan from a burned village. I had no title. No coin. No noble sponsor. And Arkanhold did not open its gates to peasants without cause.
That left me two options. Either pass the entrance trials—rigorous exams of strength, wit, and arcane ability—or build a reputation strong enough to force their attention. Neither path was easy.
Adventuring seemed the better route. I was only fourteen, but I already had the power of an A-rank adventurer. My swordsmanship was second to none in my province. My mana affinity was rare—raw and untamed, yes, but undeniable. The real challenge wasn't my ability. It was convincing a seasoned party to accept a fourteen-year-old with no battlefield experience.
No matter how sharp my blade or steady my hand, most adventurers saw me as a liability. A child. A risk.
But I didn't need their approval.
I needed a chance.
And I was willing to bleed for it.