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Chapter 1 - Explosive magic balls and bio alarm clocks.

  A massive beam of light poured in through the circular glass panel in the ceiling, illuminating the podium in an almost otherworldly glow. At its center stood a pedestal, atop which rested a semi-transparent white orb.

  A girl with short red hair stepped forward, her entire body trembling.

  She hesitated for only a heartbeat before forcing her hand onto the orb, the motion sharp, almost desperate.

  Light erupted instantly out of the orb, pulsing and shifting through a cascade of colors, each transition more frantic than the last. Then, the glow surged—blinding.

  Her blue eyes rolled back into her head.

  A long second of silence.

  A crack.

  The orb disintegrated into fine, shimmering dust, dissolving into nothingness before it even reached the floor.

  The girl’s knees buckled. She collapsed, a short, ragged gasp escaping her.

  The hall falls silent in anticipation of the result. If a mana orb crumbled, it can mean one of two things, either things went exceptionally well, or the exact opposite.

  She blinks a few times, and soon a confident smile breaks upon her pale face.

  “I am a Healer, blessed by the God Mnor, Ruler of the Northern Lights.”

  As if to prove the point an aura of white surrounds her.

  The hall breaks into applause.

  “They say that there are only about a few dozen True Awakening a year in each province.” said someone behind me.

  “Yeah, that’s one lucky bitch. A True Awakened and Healer, that’s like winning a lottery two times in a row. I can already see a queue of ass-kissing priests forming right behind her, hoping to get her into their church.” answered someone else.

  “Calm down grumpy. Your Awakening will go just fine.” The first responded.

  “… I hope so… I’m not returning home… not to that backwater village. I don’t need Deity or Bound Awakening, any basic color will be more than enough.”

  A few moments later, the orb is replaced and the head priest calls out another name, and a voice behind me yelps, the foul-mouthed one. I turned my head to the side a bit, just enough to see the owner of the voice in my peripheral. The guy is quite lanky with long dark hair gathered into a bun. It takes him just a few moments to reach the podium. He loudly inhales and places his hand on the new orb.

  The orb lit up as had the one before and started to shift color until it settled on bright red.

  “Warrior class. Congratulations.” announced the priest with a smile.

  The guy's triumphant roar of success resounds across the hall, which is followed by a few rare claps, mostly coming from the person who sat next to him. Several moments later the new ‘Warrior’ is escorted away, while the priests congratulate him with smiles and nods.

  The orb is replaced again.

  On paper, the whole Awakening thing seems pretty straightforward, but if you look deeper into what is happening, you will find an overwhelming number of ways things can go very badly. One single mistake and the person either ends up dead or crippled.

  The orb sucks mana out from the person touching it and categorizes it by specific criteria. That mana is then forced back into the person in a series of powerful bursts. The point is to widen the mana pathways and force a reaction from their internal mana. Everyone was warned that it would not be a pleasant experience.

  The next name is called and a very tall guy with bulging muscles and a huge smile stands up and walks to the podium. He even waves his hand at a few of his friends with a confident smirk showing everyone that he isn’t worried even a bit.

  Same as everyone before him, he places his palm on the orb, and same as before the color starts changing. Strangely enough, the color-shifting lasts for much longer than with anyone who came before until the light disappears and the orb crumbles into fine dust. The tall guy stands in silence for several more seconds with his hand still stretched out to the area where the orb was.

  The priest in front of him closes his eyes and shakes his head softly.

  “NO!! IT CAN’T BE!!” the tall guy's voice exploded throughout the building.

  The priests, who are used to even worse reactions, motion for a few guards to escort the young man away.

  “THIS MUST BE A MISTAKE!!” he continued screaming.

  A burst of mana exploded around the podium and the young man fell to the ground motionless. Several moments later his limp body was carried away by the guards.

  Silence settled over the hall once again.

  Everyone gathered here has been hand-picked, which means that nearly every single person here holds either exceptional talent, skills, or both. But that still isn’t enough. A hard reminder that fate is a fickle thing, one moment you can be a promising youth with a bright future ahead, and the next you're a Colorless with nearly no future.

  The next name is called, and a tiny girl, half the size of the guy before, walks up to the podium. Her movements are slow and rigid. Yet no one hurries her. She took a few short breaths then placed her trembling hand on the orb. Just a few seconds later the orb shined with the purple color, the color of the Mage's Class.

  Slowly more names are called, out of which none end up with a True Awakening, but none fail either, which soothes everyone a fair bit. More names follow and I lose myself with time until suddenly I’m startled by the announcement of a very familiar name.

  "Harv Navarus!"

  The high priest announces my current name. My heart drops into my stomach as the church falls deadly silent for a few very long seconds, only to be broken by a sudden stream of whispers coming from both the students and priests alike. And in those whispers, one word is repeated again and again.

  Navarus. Clan Navarus. One of the seven great Hero clans.

  Many people dream of becoming a hero, studying under a hero, or at least meeting one, but I don't. I've seen with my own eyes what life awaits heroes, and I don’t want such a fate.

  …

  My early childhood was quite carefree and simple, and although I don’t remember much of that period, what is still left in my memory are only bright flashes of happiness and warmth. A simple house in which my parents, me, and my siblings lived. Just one of many in a village, surrounded by endless fields of wheat. Dozens of neighbors’ children with whom I played every day. Quite a few good memories.

  But all good things come to an end at some point.

  One day, out of nowhere a group with the Empire’s Army Insignia arrived in the village.

  It quickly became apparent to the adults who these people were. Mana-level examiners who perform mandatory mana-level testing of all children living in the Empire. They always come unannounced, and it makes sense, as all who are found to be suitable for service will be forcefully conscripted. Many horror stories are circulating about what happens if you try to hide or run away.

  All children of appropriate age were gathered and tested. It was found out that I possess an above-average mana pool, which in hindsight was kind of expected, taking into account who my parents really were.

  My father offered a very generous gift to the leader of the group to slightly adjust my test results. He later confessed that after his offer was rejected he considered making the whole group… disappear the moment they would leave the village. But didn’t in the end because it would’ve only delayed the inevitable and made the situation worse.

  “We are at war, the Empire needs every single person we can get.” was what the examiners kept repeating.

  There’s only one fate for an average citizen with a greater-than-average mana pool, enlistment into the military academy effective immediately. A fate that's full of hardship, pain, suffering, and death. Frontlines their home. The Army, their family, and god.

  But there's an exception, one available only to members of an official clan recognized by the Empire, an ‘Active Duty’ member. This essentially means that the clan pays ‘special fees’ for that person, along with shouldering responsibility for the training and education of the future officer and leader.

  The night the examiners left my parents sat me and my siblings and revealed who they and we really were, that mom was a member of a great hero clan and father was an ex-A-Rank adventurer. They explained that because they didn’t want to take part in the internal politics of the clan and hated life in the capital in general, they decided to leave the heart of the kingdom and live alone, somewhere far away… This was the truth, but not the whole truth as I later learned.

  My parents didn't have much choice, therefore the very next day the whole family had to leave our home for the clan headquarters, which was weeks away by even the fastest horse. But despite the distance, things moved very quickly.

  We arrived in the Capital. Parents had to meet several people. We were introduced to the clan, who didn’t seem particularly happy to see us.

  Me and my siblings were made to change our surnames, a required part of the ‘reintegration’.

  I was re-evaluated and then plunged into an endless cycle of lessons and exercises. Close combat. Weapon training. Mana theory. Spell casting. History. Tactics. And much much more, subjects that I never really cared about.

  In the beginning, things didn’t work out, but not to bring shame to my parents, and make them proud I did my best. Through tears, blood, and pain I continued to do exactly what I was told to, and it seems that the clan was somewhat pleased with the results. A few teachers even told me to walk proudly, that one day I may become a great asset to the clan.

  The teachers explained that while my mana pool wasn’t particularly large, my talent with the sword wasn’t exceptional, and my spellcasting skills weren’t extraordinary, the fact that I possessed above-average aptitude in all three areas was rare. They told me that warriors who could seamlessly wield both weapons and magic were unpredictable, adaptable in battle and quite dangerous in real combat.

  But the root of all evil is what happened less than a year ago. And I alone am to blame for how I ended up here.

  A few people did something, something unforgivable to a person very close to me. In a fit of anger I retaliated… quite violently…

  It wasn't my fault that they were so fragile.

  The problem was who one of those assholes was, which I learned only after the event. He was a Hero candidate from another Hero Clan. The event was quickly swept under the rug, and only a few knew what happened, and sadly one of them was the Head of the Navarus Clan, my grandfather.

  That information was later circulated within the clan.

  Some people started whispering about me becoming the next Navarus clan ‘Hero’ candidate.

  ‘Hero’ isn't a Class, but rather a title that’s given to ‘accredited’ and highly skilled members of a clan or an outstanding army soldier after a series of closed-door tests and evaluations. The details of the process were never shared with me though, but a few key responsibilities were, mainly the defense of the Light border.

  It was later explained to me that there are many unofficial benefits to being a ‘Hero’, but the true power of the title was in the political implications and how the clan would utilize it.

  With each day the clan started talking about me becoming an official ‘Hero’ candidate more seriously and more openly. Though it's important to point out that it wasn't becoming a ‘Hero’, but rather a ‘Hero candidate’. There's a very significant difference.

  Numerous clan members and ‘friends’ whom I’d never heard about before started appearing out of nowhere, talking about my future achievements, promising their support if I ever required it.

  On an instinctual level, I felt that there was something wrong with the way people talked about it and looked at me. And while my parents did their best to protect me from some of the more indirect issues… but they weren’t always able to. Which was how I learned the reason why they left the clan in the first place.

  The truth revolted me.

  But unlike my parents, I couldn’t do anything about it.

  …

  My future has been decided, and no one has asked for my opinion. And never will.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  And so, at the age of fifteen, I must take the next step, after which my fate will be set in stone and sealed forever.

  I blink and push away those thoughts remembering where I am. The whispers haven’t stopped, but the priests on the podium are already scanning the crowd, searching.

  I can’t delay any longer.

  With a sharp inhale, I rise from the bench. My body moves forward, but it feels mechanical—like my legs are being commanded by someone else, detached from my own will.

  The moment my foot touches the podium, the room falls into absolute silence.

  A new orb sits on the pedestal.

  No more delaying it.

  I place my palm on the orb.

  A sharp gasp rips from my throat as foreign mana surges into me, clawing through my veins, pulling at my reserves. A torrent of power rushes back into the orb, feeding it hungrily. As instructed, I don’t resist. I let it flow.

  The orb pulses, shifting colors faster and faster, the light growing intense—too intense. The surface heats beneath my hand, searing into my skin. My flesh burns, the pain building, unbearable.

  Brighter. Blinding. Yet somehow, the edges of my vision darken.

  A sound. A crack.

  Explosion.

  Pain.

  Screams.

  Darkness.

  Silence.

  A force. A pull. From somewhere beyond.

  My eyes snap open.

  Consciousness returns, but I find myself adrift in an endless void—cold, vast, and empty.

  I try to turn my head, sluggishly, as if moving through thick oil. Darkness surrounds me, pressing in from all sides. I lift my hands, yet I see nothing. There is no sound, no sensation beyond the weight and pressure.

  Time loses meaning as I struggle to make sense of where I am.

  Why can’t I see? Hear? Feel?

  Then, at the very edge of my vision, something shifts.

  A faint glow.

  The darkness recoils from it, crawling away like a scared beast.

  Beneath me, a solid path materializes, stretching forward toward the distant light.

  And somehow, I already know—I must walk this path.

  I don’t question how I know. It feels deeper than instinct, embedded not in my body but in my very soul.

  I take a step.

  Or try to.

  It feels like I’m submerged in tar, every movement resisted, every motion an act of defiance against the suffocating weight. But the resistance is not absolute. It slows me, not stops me. With effort, I take another step. Then another. The more I move, the easier it becomes, momentum pushing me forward. Yet I know—if I stop, I will lose it, and regaining it will be far harder than before.

  I keep moving.

  The journey is strange. At times, it feels as though I’ve crossed an ocean in moments. At others, I sense that mere inches will take me an eternity to traverse.

  Then, the silence shatters.

  Whispers.

  They slither in from all directions, countless voices speaking at once. Some promise things—power, knowledge, rest. Others offer gentle persuasion, urging me to slow down, to pause, to take a well-earned break.

  I do not listen.

  Something inside my chest pulls me forward. A deep, urgent certainty that something important waits for me at the source of the light.

  I press on.

  The whispers grow louder, more insistent. They shift from coaxing to commanding, from gentle persuasion to biting threats. Yet with every step, they grow more distant, fading into the void as I focus solely on the light.

  Step after step. Nothing else matters.

  Then—my own thoughts betray me.

  "How close am I?"

  "How did I end up here?"

  "Why am I doing this?"

  "What if this is a trap?"

  Doubt coils around my mind, foreign yet familiar, invasive yet subtle. But I recognize it for what it is—not mine. A presence. A force, malevolent and unseen, trying to turn me back.

  Rage flares in my chest.

  I rip through the deception, shattering the poison trying to sink its claws into my soul. My vision clears—

  —and I freeze.

  I’m facing the wrong direction.

  My right foot hovers off the path, partially submerged in the darkness. And something invisible is holding it.

  A cold, unseen grip.

  My breath catches as I violently jerk my foot back. The darkness recoils as if burned, slithering away like a predator caught in the open.

  For a long moment, I cannot move. My eyes remain locked on the place where something had grabbed me.

  I am not alone here.

  And whatever lurks in the void—it wants me off this path.

  There is only one answer.

  I turn back toward the light and resume walking.

  Step after step. Faster. Gaining momentum again. This time, I remain vigilant. The predator is still there, waiting. Watching.

  I do not know how long I walk. But the light grows brighter, larger, and with it, my strength returns.

  Then, at last, I reach it.

  And what I find—

  It is both unexpected and something I should have known was here all along.

  Cracks spiraling in chaotic patterns, forming intricate, intertwined circles. From those fractures, a crimson glow seeps out, bleeding into the void.

  At the very center of it all, a point where all the cracks connect, the origin of the light—

  A sword.

  Half-buried in the ground, forged from black metal and coated in thick, flaking rust. A heavy, pulsing red aura surrounds it, expanding and contracting like a slow, deliberate heartbeat.

  I stare at it, and the longer I do, the stranger it feels.

  Familiar.

  Unmistakably familiar.

  Like something I once knew—once held.

  Yet no matter how hard I try, I cannot remember where I’ve seen it before.

  A voice—clear and unmistakable—resounds behind me.

  I whirl around, searching, but there is nothing. Just silence. Just darkness. Even the road which led me here disappeared.

  It wasn't whispers this time. This voice was right next to me. A single step away.

  The predator?

  Wait. No.

  I can’t waste time. That’s what it wants.

  The pull within me flares again, yanking my focus back to the sword.

  Then the voice returns.

  This time, it slithers up my spine, oily and insidious, curling around my nape, pressing against my ear. My entire body erupts in goosebumps.

  I don’t understand the words. The language is alien, incomprehensible.

  But I know what it means.

  I know it is malevolent.

  It wants to harm me.

  I force myself to stand still, to not turn around, to not acknowledge the thing breathing against my skin.

  And then—I feel my lips moving.

  Whispering.

  Chanting.

  Words in a tongue I have never spoken, never learned, yet they pour from me effortlessly.

  The voice behind me recoils, then roars in fury, growing louder, shrieking with anger, twisting into something even more desperate and vile. It demands. It commands. It writhes against my senses, trying to break my focus.

  But the chant—my chant—grows stronger.

  The words flow through me like a river of fire, not just sounds but truths I have always known yet never spoken.

  They fill me. Strengthen me.

  A hurricane of emotion swells in my chest, raw and powerful, resonating deep within my being. It’s as if something lost has been found, as if something broken has been made whole.

  I know who I am.

  I know what I must do.

  I am the pull, and the pull is me.

  Confidence floods my veins. Certainty surges through my bones.

  This is my sword.

  It exists for me.

  My fingers stretch toward the blade.

  The voice behind me howls in sheer desperation—pleading, screeching, writhing against the edges of my mind.

  But it holds no power over me.

  The moment my hand touches the sword, a surge of power explodes through my body.

  Rust crumbles away, flaking into nothingness.

  Engravings appear on the blade, pulsing with crimson light, burning like embers, illuminating the truth carved into its surface.

  The chant.

  The same one that has been spilling from my lips.

  And suddenly, I understand them.

  "Our flesh from theirs."

  "Our burden from theirs."

  "Our death from theirs."

  "I am—"

  No.

  "We are *****."

  My eyes snap open.

  Light.

  Blinding, searing light.

  And pain.

  A wave of burning heat erupts from my chest and right hand, tearing through my body like wildfire. The world tilts, voices swirl around me, hands press me down, restraining me. I barely hear them over the high-pitched ringing in my ears, their urgent commands lost to the chaos inside my own head.

  My body jerks violently. A deep, wracking cough forces something wet and heavy from my throat, splattering onto the stone floor. I don’t even look. The pain—the overwhelming pain—consumes everything else.

  I force my gaze downward. My chest. My arm.

  The fabric is gone. Completely burned away.

  Beneath it, my flesh is raw and charred, red and black where skin should be.

  A bright yellow glow engulfs me—healing magic, high-level. The pain dulls, recedes, as my flesh begins to repair itself. The blackened, dead skin peels away, replaced by layers of fresh red, then soft pink.

  Seconds stretch into eternity before the ringing in my ears begins to fade. Slowly, the voices around me become clear—overlapping, frantic, speaking all at once.

  Then—silence.

  The head priest steps into view.

  His piercing emerald eyes bore into mine, his hands gripping my shoulders as his mana floods through me, searching.

  I barely have time to process it before his stern voice slices through the quiet.

  "What did you see?!"

  My breath catches.

  The awakening.

  I open my mouth—to tell him about the darkness, the voices, the sword—

  But the words die in my throat.

  A crushing pressure clamps around my heart.

  And then—

  Meeran.

  A flood of images.

  My uncle.

  Meeran Navarus.

  The hero of our clan.

  His cocky smile. His piercing blue eyes. The endless hours we spent together.

  Then, abruptly, the memories twist—

  His body. Charred.

  Limbs gone.

  Eye sockets empty.

  A gaping hole in his chest.

  Laid out on a table like a broken offering.

  It happened months ago, but the nightmares have never left me.

  Even now, the stench of burnt flesh clings to my senses, suffocating me, dragging me back into the horror of that day.

  My mouth closes.

  Cold terror spreads through my limbs.

  Terror of what I’ve seen.

  Terror of what it means.

  Terror of what I will become.

  I don’t want this.

  I want to go home.

  I want my family.

  I want to be safe.

  But instead—

  My mouth moves.

  And I utter the words that will change my fate forever.

  "Nothing."

  The head priest stiffens.

  His brows knit together in deep confusion.

  "Nothing?" he repeats, as if the concept itself is foreign to him.

  My head nods—hesitant, unsteady.

  I force more strength into my next movement, shaking my head firmly.

  “No Deity or Bound object?” the head priest presses on, “Not even a color?”

  "Nothing." I repeated and started choking.

  The silence that follows is suffocating.

  One of the priests behind him finally speaks, emboldened by the pause.

  "We told you, sir. The mana orb absorbed too much energy. The spell matrix collapsed—it's what caused the explosion."

  The head priest’s expression darkens.

  And then—

  He explodes.

  "That's not possible!"

  His voice cracks like a whip, silencing the murmurs in the hall. His eyes—wild with rage—snap back to me.

  His fingers dig into my shoulders, his grip iron-tight.

  "A member of the Navarus clan can't be a Colorless! LIES! WHAT DID YOU SEE?!"

  The room erupts into chaos.

  Priests rush forward, prying him away from me as his fury grows.

  The whispers return, no longer confined to the priests but spreading throughout the hall.

  My eyes met the head priest and what I found in them was a mix of anger and disgust, which I would much later learn is a normal reaction to a Colorless, someone without a Class archetype.

  And even later I would learn the reason why the head priest cared so much about me not having a Class in the first place.

  But at that point, none of that would be important or matter anymore.

  …

  A sudden, piercing crow explodes right next to my ear.

  My entire body jerks awake, and before I even register what’s happening, I tumble out of the warm bed and crash onto the cold, dusty floor. A cough escapes me as a small cloud of dust rises around my face. My arms lash out wildly, trying to grasp at the accursed creature responsible for my rude awakening, but all I manage to catch is air. The damn rooster scurries away on its spindly little legs, its mission accomplished.

  I let out a low, guttural growl of frustration.

  My eyes slowly blink open, adjusting to the morning light that streams through the crude square hole in the wall—a poor excuse for a window. The golden beams spill into the room, cutting through the dust in the air and landing directly on my face, forcing me to squint.

  Above me, the same old stone ceiling greets me, a sight I’ve grown accustomed to over the past five years. Five years. Has it really been that long since the Awakening? Since the church? Since—everything?

  Sometimes, it feels like all the memories before that day belong to someone else. Some distant, long-dead stranger. A boy I once knew but haven’t seen in years.

  There are mornings when I regret my decision—my lie. But on others, I’m just grateful to be here, away from the clan, away from the war, away from the frontlines.

  A sigh escapes me as I look around. A private room, a luxury for most army recruits—an even greater one for a Colorless.

  Funny, isn’t it? The moment my Awakening was declared a failure, the Navarus clan erased my name from their records. Harv Navarus never existed.

  "Clan Navarus has no Colorless members."

  I whisper the words of my grandfather, my voice hollow.

  So much time and effort had gone into ensuring I’d never end up in the army, only for a single lie to send me right into its grasp.

  Harv Navarus—once a name many spoke about—was scrubbed from history.

  Harv Livar, on the other hand, returned to existence, with no one really caring where he was since his mana level test. It mattered not, property of the army was returned, and it was instantly used as it saw fit.

  All because of a slightly larger than average mana pool.

  At the very least, I avoided the frontlines.

  My family, however, was not so lucky. They still remain in the capital, unable to leave, but not because of me, but my sisters. Their mana pools were tested early. Too early. And it was found that they have large mana pools, both of them, even more so that I did at their age.

  And so their fate was sealed. They can never leave the clan. Because if they do, the Empire Army will claim them just as it claimed me.

  And even if, by some impossible miracle, we all escaped together, there is nowhere left to return to.

  Our home is gone.

  Far behind the Light border.

  Now, demons dwell there.

  My gaze continues moving over the sparse room, from one piece of worn-out furniture to another until it settles on my straw bed.

  I don’t care much that I lost the luxury of fine furniture, silk clothes, or a wide selection of exquisite food.

  But the bed…

  Gods, I miss a proper bed. A soft mattress. A fluffy pillow.

  A sigh escapes me.

  Frankly, I was surprised that no one even questioned my lie. But, in hindsight, there were two reasons for that.

  First—no one in their right mind would pretend to be Colorless. Not when the alternative was infinitely better. If anything, the opposite happens quite often—people without a Class desperately claiming they have one.

  Second—after my awakening, nothing changed.

  My skills, my mana level—both remained exactly the same.

  Most people experience some sort of change after their Awakening. A surge of physical strength, agility, an expanded mana pool, increased regeneration—something. Many even gain unique skills tied to their Class.

  I got nothing.

  For a time, I even started doubting. Maybe I really am Colorless. Maybe the vision, the voices, the sword—it was all just a fever dream caused by the explosion of the awakening orb.

  But then…

  There’s this feeling.

  I close my eyes and reach for it.

  A connection. A weight in my chest that never disappears, as if something is there, lurking just beneath the surface.

  A sword.

  A sword that exists within me.

  I don’t know what it is, or what it means. And the sensation has dulled over the years, but it never truly faded. It’s always there, lingering in the background—like the faint pressure that you just learn to live with.

  I know that it sometimes takes quite some time for people to truly understand their class, their abilities and limitations. And I believed my situation to be similar. I’ve spent years trying to make it react—years of training, experimentations, pushing my limits—yet nothing.

  Not even a flicker of power.

  I close my eyes, exhaling slowly. There has to be a reason. Some requirement. Some trigger I haven’t discovered yet. But whatever it is, I’ve yet to find it.

  The damned rooster screeching resounds again, shattering any hope of a few more peaceful minutes.

  My eyes snap open. My patience snaps with them.

  I push myself up and scan the room for something sharp—or at the very least, something heavy.

  Nothing.

  Damn it. I left all my tools at the smithy yesterday.

  Fine.

  Barefoot, I step out into the corridor, passing by the doors of the other 'recruits'.

  Outside, the morning sun is already hanging high in the sky, bathing the village in its golden glow.

  Another morning.

  Another day.

  I glance toward the fields, where the farmers have long since begun their work. Their homes are as simple as their clothes—sturdy, practical, reliable. Just the way I like it.

  Not far from the building I am in stands the smithy. Oddly quiet. Usually, it’s alive with the constant ringing of hammers, the crackling of flames. On the opposite side of the road is my mentor’s house.

  And next to that—

  The coop.

  My eyes lock onto the tiny, feathery menace standing near it.

  The bastard stares right back at me, beady eyes filled with smug satisfaction.

  Oh, you know what you did.

  My fingers curl into fists.

  I glance around. No witnesses. Good.

  Slowly, I step forward.

  One step after another.

  Careful.

  Controlled.

  Measured—

  "MA!! HARV WOKE UP AND IS RUNNING TO THE COOP!!!"

  I freeze.

  A child’s shrill voice rings out across the village like a battle horn.

  And then—

  "IT’S THE THIRD TIME THIS MONTH! BOYS, HELP!!"

  I don’t hesitate—I sprint.

  If I can get to the rooster before they reach me—

  But it’s too late.

  Two massive shadows leap at me from the side.

  An instant later, I’m pinned to the ground, the sheer weight of my fellow recruits crushing the air from my lungs.

  A chorus of laughter erupts around me.

  Goddamn smiths and their goddamn strength.

  As I lie there, defeated, the rooster stands victorious, just half a dozen meters away, its tiny chest puffed out in smug triumph.

  I glare at it with pure, unfiltered hatred.

  ACCURSED CREATURE!

  DEATH AWAITS YOU!!

  IF NOT TODAY, THEN TOMORROW I WILL SEND YOU TO THE MAKER!

  YOUR FATE IS ALREADY SEALED!

  THAT IS A PROMISE!!!

  Promising vengeance against a rooster.

  How low my standards have fallen…

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