Legend has it that even before the beginning of time, the Creator already existed. Time itself was merely one of Its many creations. With infinite wisdom, the Creator gave birth to countless laws that govern the world, each crafted to complement the other, maintaining harmony. Yet, even in this masterpiece of creation, the Creator felt something was missing—imperfection. To give meaning to light, It also made darkness, calling the balance "The Circle of Eternity." And so, even to this day, no matter how fiercely humanity battles the shadows, darkness persists.
"Any questions?" asked the woman at the front of the class, closing the heavy leather-bound book in her hands. Her voice echoed softly across the candle-lit room, but silence greeted her for a moment. Then, a hand rose hesitantly.
Kale—a dark-haired boy with nondescript features, often overlooked—spoke up. "If the Creator is as fair and just as you say," he began, his voice steady but tense, "then why did It create humans unequal? Why are some born talented while others are called trash? Why are some lucky and others left to claw through despair? Where's the order in that?" Frustration crept into his tone; it was clear this question had haunted him for a long time. Even the least skilled of his peers had formed a link to the world, tapping into the basic Arcane arts—while he remained untouched.
The teacher, serene and composed, looked at Kale with the kind of neutrality that stung more than outright scorn. "I understand your pain, Kale," she said gently. "But some things are simply meant to be. Not everyone is destined for greatness—not everyone is meant to rise. Just as darkness balances light, those at the bottom sustain those at the top. Power isn't for everyone. In the wrong hands, it leads to ruin."
Those words clung to the air like smoke. Kale lowered his hand slowly, but the emptiness inside him only deepened. The world hadn't just forgotten him—it had rejected him entirely.
"So what are you saying?" he asked quietly. "That people like me are better off with nothing?" His eyes locked onto hers, searching for an ounce of compassion. But she only turned away.
"Class dismissed," she said, and walked out.
One by one, students filed out of the room, chatting and laughing, heading toward home, toward something normal and warm. After a few minutes, only three figures remained.
"Oh Kale," said one of them—a boy with sharp brown eyes and a cruel smirk. "Still struggling to accept your fate? Maybe you're cursed." He stepped forward with a swagger that betrayed pleasure in the pain he was about to inflict.
Kale didn't respond. He had long learned that silence was the best shield against taunts. He had no magic, no allies, no protection—only resilience. To survive, he had to be strong in ways the world didn't see.
"I mean, think about it," the boy continued with venom. "Your parents abandoned you. The world did too. You're just occupying space. Maybe you'd be better off dead."
Kale's eyes flickered, but he said nothing.
A third voice rang out—clear and furious. "Do you get pleasure from trampling others?" It was a girl seated near the back, her hair cascading in long blue waves. Her eyes were crystal-clear, reflecting depth and pain. "Does it soothe your weakness? Knowing you're still above someone, even if you're trash yourself? If anyone deserves to die, it's you."
Her words cut deep, and the boy only laughed softly, clapping. "Ah, so the fallen noble speaks. Defending the lost cause, huh? Maybe he reminds you of yourself—weak, abandoned, nothing."
She flinched, her pride wounded. Her fingers clenched around her desk as anger boiled beneath her calm exterior. But before she could respond, Kale stood up and turned toward her.
"The last thing I want from someone like you is pity," he said. "You're all the same. It's only a matter of time before you show your true colors."
He walked out of the room slowly, his steps echoing with bitterness. The girl watched him go, her expression unreadable.
In this magical world, power defined everything. Some were born marked by fate, blessed with talent, nurtured by privilege. Others were left to suffer beneath the weight of reality. Kale, now sixteen, had come to a painful conclusion: the world was not broken—it was built to crush people like him.
No matter how many nights he stared at the stars, he could not feel the world's energy. No link, no ability, not even the faintest spark. The Arcane arts remained beyond his reach.
Children his age dreamt of joining monarchs or becoming legendary disciples. For Kale, such dreams were distant stars—visible, maybe, but unreachable. All he ever hoped for was to be able to cast a spell, any spell. But even that seemed like too much.
He had left the orphanage at fourteen, eager to become "independent"—a term that sounded noble, but really meant "forgotten." Orphans could stay and work within the institution, or try their luck in the real world. He had chosen to leave, believing that one day he'd awaken his powers, join the Arcana Organization, and earn enough to survive. But he was wrong.
The sun had dipped beneath the horizon by the time he reached his small, weathered cabin at the edge of town. The structure leaned slightly, creaking with age. A place of solitude, yet not peace.
Every evening felt heavier. His free schooling was coming to an end. Without magic, he had no future in the Arcana world. Without skills, he had no income. The path ahead was narrowing into darkness.
He sat at the wooden table in the corner of the cabin, staring at his hands—ordinary hands that had never sparked with energy. The ink on his school papers mocked him. Every lesson on channeling magic felt like a cruel joke. He had studied harder than anyone, memorized formulas, recited chants, meditated endlessly. Nothing worked.
Still, he tried.
That night, he stepped outside into the chilly air, leaves crunching beneath his feet. He raised his hands toward the moon and whispered the simplest invocation—one that even children could use.
"Luxa."
A simple arcane arts to summon light.
Silence. Not even a flicker.
Kale clenched his fists. Was he truly cursed? Was he created only to suffer?
And yet, in the heart of this despair, something stirred—not magic, but resolve. He would not surrender to fate. If the world was truly against him, then he would carve his own path—without its blessing.
Whatever the cost.
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