I woke to the soft, familiar pull of my mother's voice.
"Hey, Sogha, can you deliver this plant to Mr. Ghale?"
"Okay, Mom," I mumbled. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, the morning light filtering through our small window. I didn't know then that it was the last time I'd ever hear her voice.
The village streets were quiet—just the usual dusty lanes and the distant clucking of chickens. I kept my pace steady, the wooden basket swinging lightly in my hand. Life in our village was simple, but it was ours.
At Mr. Ghale's house, I knocked lightly on the heavy oak door. "Mr. Ghale? I brought the plant... Mom said you needed it."
The door creaked open. Mr. Ghale looked down at me and offered a rare, thin smile. "Oh, Sogha. You didn't have to rush. Just leave it on the porch. Thanks, kid."
I set it down and turned back toward home. The air was calm, almost too still. But an hour later, everything changed. A column of smoke curled into the sky—not the lazy gray of a chimney, but a sharp, oily black that stained the blue.
My heart hammered against my ribs. My pace broke into a sprint.
Home. Please, not home.
But it was gone. The flames had mostly died, leaving behind a skeleton of charred wood and twisted beams. I froze, my knees trembling so hard I nearly collapsed. "What... no... I was only gone for an hour..."
I staggered into the ruins, coughing as the acrid smoke scorched my throat. The floor was a carpet of black dust. Then, a flash of silver caught the light. I knelt, my fingers shaking as I brushed away the soot.
It was my mother's necklace.
I clutched it, the metal cold and biting against my palm. Memories of her laughter and her warm hands felt like they were being incinerated all over again. I wanted to scream, but my throat was tight with a silent, suffocating grief.
Then I saw it. The air above the ruins wavered—a faint, shimmering distortion, like the heat haze of a dying spell. My mother wasn't weak. She had been a Master Rank Mage. Even in retirement, she was a force of nature. This wasn't an accident. This was a hit.
"It was a person..." I whispered, my nails digging into the dirt. This was precise. Controlled. Intentional. Who could have overpowered her? Who would dare?
The world tilted. The heat, the smoke, and the realization that I was utterly alone crashed over me like a wave. Darkness swallowed me whole.
I woke to the scent of dried herbs and the dull ache of a migraine. The ceiling was unfamiliar—dark wooden beams and a faded curtain fluttering in the breeze.
"You're awake."
Mr. Ghale sat by the bed. His usual stern face was heavy with something that looked like pity. It made my stomach turn.
"Are you alright, Sogha?"
The question was a joke. I sat up, my fingers trembling as I grabbed the front of his tunic. "She's gone," I whispered, my voice cracking. "Someone did it. She was Master Rank... who could do that? Why?"
Mr. Ghale didn't answer. He just let me shake until the tears ran dry.
The silence of the room was worse than the noise of the fire. I sat there for an hour, the silver necklace digging into my palm, my chest heaving with sobs I couldn't stop. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the black ash. Every time I breathed, I tasted the smoke.
Eventually, the grief turned into a white-hot, suffocating rage—not at the world, but at myself.
I stumbled out of the house and into the cool night air. I didn't know where I was going until I found myself standing in front of a gnarled oak tree at the edge of the yard.
"Too weak," I hissed, slamming my fist into the rough bark.
The impact jarred my shoulder, but I didn't care. I swung again. And again.
"Too slow! I was too slow!"
I screamed, a raw, jagged sound that tore through the quiet village. I kept punching until the skin on my knuckles split, until hot, sticky blood smeared across the wood. But the physical pain wasn't enough to drown out the guilt. If I had been faster... if I had been stronger... she might still be here.
Driven by a sudden wave of self-loathing, I turned my hands on myself. I struck my own chest, my own head, desperate to punish the boy who wasn't strong enough to save his mother.
"Worthless," I choked out, my vision blurring. My legs finally gave way, and I collapsed into the dirt, the world fading to black one more time.
When I opened my eyes, the sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon. Mr. Ghale was standing over me. He didn't offer a hand to help me up. He just looked down at my bloodied knuckles and my bruised face with an expression of deep, quiet sorrow.
"Don't do that again," he said softly, his voice heavy. "You'll only end up killing yourself before you ever get the chance to live."
He turned and walked back toward his house without another word. I stayed there in the dirt for a long time, staring at my mangled hands. The rage was still there, but it had sharpened into a cold, hard edge.
He's right, I thought. Punching trees won't bring her back. But he can show me what will.
The realization clicked into place like a key in a lock. I knew what I had to do. I dragged myself inside, cleaned the dirt from my wounds, and fell into a heavy, determined sleep.
Tomorrow, I would ask him to turn me into a weapon.
The next morning, I stood in his yard, barefoot in the dirt. My fists were clenched so tight my knuckles were white.
"Teach me," I said.
Mr. Ghale, a man who had once been a Palentine-ranked warrior, watched me with deep worry. "You don't have mana, Sogha. You can't use spells."
"Then teach me how to fight without them," I countered. "I never want to be that helpless again."
He sighed, stepped forward, and tapped my forehead. "That's your problem. You think too much. You try to solve everything up here. In a real fight, thinking gets you killed." He pressed my hand against his chest. "Trust your body more than your mind."
The Trial
"If you can dodge the rocks I throw and land a single punch, you pass," Mr. Ghale barked. "If you get hit once, we start over. Go."
I dashed forward. CRACK. A pebble caught me right between the eyes. I tumbled back, my vision spinning.
"Again," he said, cold and unyielding.
I tried to calculate the trajectory, weaving and ducking—but then ten stones flew at once. They stung like hornets. Why am I so weak? I fell, blood trickling from my scraped knees. I pushed myself up. I have to do this.
I ran again. Suddenly, a storm of pebbles—hundreds of them—rained down. I dodged, twisted, and lunged, but the pain was everywhere. One final stone struck my shoulder like a bolt of lightning, and I blacked out again.
When I woke, Mr. Ghale was leaning against a tree. "You dodged over a hundred in that last round, kid. You have potential. Rest for today. Tomorrow, the real nightmare begins."
That night, I couldn't sleep. The image of the fire and the silver necklace kept me upright. If I couldn't use magic, I would make my body a weapon.
100 push-ups. 100 sit-ups. My muscles screamed. My chest burned. I did them until every fiber of my being gave out and I collapsed into a dreamless stupor.
The next morning, Mr. Ghale tossed me a wooden sword. "Hit me, and you pass."
I lunged. Every swing met empty air. He moved like a shadow, his eyes mocking me. "Too slow! You're still thinking!"
Frustration boiled over. I let out a raw, desperate scream and charged. I went all out, pouring every ounce of my grief and rage into my strikes. He just closed his eyes and drifted past my blade as if I weren't even there.
"Nice instinct," he teased, reappearing behind me. "But you have one minute left, or you lose."
Adrenaline surged, drowning out the ache in my limbs. I dashed forward for a massive overhead swing. Mr. Ghale shifted his weight, his eyes reading the arc of my blade, preparing to parry.
At the last microsecond, I let go.
The wooden sword spun through the air—a blur of timber. Mr. Ghale's eyes widened. Thwack! The hilt caught him square in the chest.
He stumbled back, gasping. Silence fell over the yard.
"You... you passed, boy," he laughed, a booming sound that echoed through the trees. "You actually did it."
I wiped the sweat from my brow, a small smirk forming. I had won. But then, the air changed. Mr. Ghale's laugh turned jagged. It wasn't the laugh of a teacher anymore; it was the roar of a predator.
"Rest well, Sogha," he cackled, a chill running down my spine. "Because tomorrow... we find out if you can survive the real training."