In the quiet morning of the village, a lone boy sprinted along the dirt path, hair sticking to his forehead, lungs burning, sweat flying off him like rain.
Ray skidded to a stop near Kael and gasped:
"Ninety… nine…"
He bent forward, hands on his knees, nearly coughing up his soul.
Kael, sitting on a rock with a cup of tea, didn't even blink.
"Good. One more."
Ray stared at him with the eyes of a dead fish.
But he ran anyway.
Time didn't glide for Ray.
It punched him in the face, repeatedly.
Kael made sure of that.
Seven years blurred into a cycle of aching muscles, dawn drills, and Kael's voice barking:
"Again, and do it better next."
Kael was very loving to Ray when he was home, though home he was only to sleep, as most of the time he was with Kael's friends for training.
Ray trained with a weapon in one hand and bruises all over.
With swords he was very good, spears weirdly decent, and bows… Kael still pretended the "arrow-into-the-sky evacuation incident" never happened.
Other weapons? You asked.
If it had a handle, Ray could usually avoid knocking himself unconscious. Usually, that is.
And when it came to Aura and mana training—
Kael was relentless.
Running until his legs felt like noodles.
Lifting stones until his arms trembled.
Meditation until he couldn't feel his toes.
By fourteen, Ray could split small logs with a kick and sprint like a demon was behind him — or like Kiba actually was behind him.
Aura came naturally.
Slowly.
Patiently.
Telekinesis, though… that was odd.
Swords twitched.
Sometimes a weapon flew back to his hand so fast he nearly broke his nose.
Kael called it "progress."
Ray called it "attempted murder."
Magic training, for better or worse — in Ray's words — was painful, humiliating, and discouraging.
While noble kids conjured shimmering spears of lightning…
Ray produced:
A tiny flame.
A candle-sized baby flame.
Sometimes it even apologized before sputtering out.
He tried other elements.
Nothing.
Magic wasn't ignoring him — it was straight-up bullying him.
The only upside?
The flame was handy for roasting meat, which Kiba enjoyed way too much.
And even worse were Kael's friends who came to visit every month or so.
They trained Ray.
Mocked Kael.
Taught him tricks.
Tested him until he collapsed.
Then patted his head and said things like:
"Kid learns fast… faster than most noble brats."
Ray lived off that compliment for a week.
Until—
There were other whispers too.
"Talented, sure… but noble kids do this at age five."
"Well, of course. Noble resources."
That one comment felt like thunder in the minds of Ray and Kael.
If he was born in a noble house… what would he be now?
A prodigy?
A future hero?
A child who didn't have to claw for every inch?
Kael's mind always spiraled into these thoughts when seeing Ray train.
Ray completed his final lap of the morning and collapsed next to Kiba in the dirt, chest heaving. Kael stood, arms crossed, watching him.
The morning sun slid over the training yard, warm and bright—too bright for how tired Ray felt. Sweat rolled down his temple as he swung the practice sword one last time, feet digging into the dirt. His arms trembled. His lungs burned. Seven years… seven years of drills before dawn, bruised knuckles, strained muscles, and those fleeting, tiny victories he held onto like treasures.
He lowered the sword, panting.
Kael watched from the fence, arms crossed loosely, face unreadable. No instructions. No corrections. Not even his usual grunt of approval. Just silence… and that strange look Ray couldn't name.
Ray swallowed.
"Did I screw up again?"
"No." Kael's voice wasn't sharp today. It was softer. Tired. "You're done. Go wash. Eat."
Ray blinked at him. "That's it? You never end early."
Kael didn't respond right away. His eyes drifted toward the forest behind the house—the old one with trees so thick the sunlight never truly reached the ground. Something shifted in his expression, something heavy enough to drag the air down with it.
"After lunch," Kael said finally, "meet me at the forest edge. There's something we need to talk about."
Ray frowned. "About training?"
Kael hesitated… just a second. But Ray caught it.
"Yes," he said. "And no. Your training… is finished."
Ray felt the ground tilt.
"Finished? But I can barely make a flame bigger than my thumb. And my telekinesis still flickers—"
"You've learned everything I can teach you." Kael's jaw tightened. He looked like someone forcing himself to speak through stone. "Anything beyond this… you'll have to find on your own."
Ray just stared at him, chest tightening with a mixture of pride, confusion, and a creeping edge of fear.
"Dad… what's going on?"
Kael didn't answer.
Footsteps padded behind Ray. Kiba nudged his leg with his muzzle, tail wagging, tongue lolling happily—blissfully unaware of the storm hanging over them. Ray scratched his ears automatically, needing the grounding.
Kael's gaze flicked to Kiba for the briefest moment—
And Ray saw something he had never seen in the man's eyes.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Regret.
Deep, old, and suffocating.
"After lunch," Kael repeated, voice low. "Forest edge. Don't be late."
He turned and walked toward the house, leaving Ray frozen in the quiet morning.
Ray stared after him, that cold knot curling tight in his stomach.
Kiba nudged him again, tail thumping the dirt, oblivious to everything except Ray's unease.
Ray exhaled slowly.
"Yeah… we'll figure it out," he muttered, rubbing the wolf's head. "Whatever it is."
But the breeze shifted, carrying a whisper from the tree line soft, cold, and full of warning.
And for the first time in years, Ray wasn't sure if he believed his own words.