Today, I witnessed something amazing. A child whose eyes shone with a raw, unfiltered fury that cut straight through the quiet mountain air, enough to stir genuine interest in me for the first time in years. It wasn't just anger—it was something deeper, a burning that promised either greatness or ruin. I found myself wondering, almost against my will, what kind of talent this boy might grow into if given the right guidance, the right push.
"Please teach me the way of the spear!" The child begged, dropping to his knees on the cold stone path outside my secluded cabin. His small hands clutched at the hem of my robe, knuckles white, voice cracking with a desperation I had never encountered before—not even from my previous disciple, who had carried his own heavy burdens. The plea echoed off the surrounding pines, raw and unashamed, carrying the weight of someone who had already lost too much too soon.
A long moment of silence stretched between us. The wind rustled the leaves overhead, carrying the faint scent of pine resin and distant rain. I stood there, unmoving, feeling an unfamiliar pull in my chest. I was desperate to teach this child, just as desperately as he longed to learn. The symmetry of it unsettled me. After so many years of turning away hopefuls who lacked the spark, here was one whose fire matched my own quiet hunger to pass on what little I still possessed.
Finally, I spoke, my voice low and steady despite the strange tightness in my throat.
"Come. Follow me."
This was the day I would teach him the spear. Though I had never truly mastered it myself—not in the way true wielders did—I had guided so many disciples through weapon forms, through pain, through growth, that the spear felt almost like an extension of my own arm. I knew its rhythm, its balance, its unforgiving demands. That would have to be enough.
He learned fast—faster than anyone had a right to. Each swing started clumsy, the wooden practice spear too heavy in his small hands, the stance wobbling like a sapling in a storm. Yet there was something innate in the way he adjusted after every miss, every stumble. For a boy who had never held any kind of weapon before, he was unmistakably a talent. The mountain clearing rang with the sharp crack of wood against wood, the huff of his breath, the soft thud of feet shifting on packed earth.
By the end of the first month, he had already reached the absolute ceiling of the beginner style of spearmanship. His form was clean, efficient, almost elegant in its simplicity. But skill without experience is a fragile thing—beautiful on the surface, brittle underneath. I could see the gaps where real combat would expose him, the hesitation born of never having faced true danger.
The next day, as the morning mist still clung to the trees, he approached me with a question that felt heavier than his usual curiosity. It might have been tied to his past, some shadow he carried, but if knowing the answer would help him grow stronger, I wouldn't pry or refuse.
"Master, I've seen a special weapon I've never seen before. It was a spear made of fire. What is it?" His voice was quiet, eyes wide with wonder and something sharper—hunger.
"Ah, that might be an armament... or perhaps a relic," I answered truthfully, watching how the words landed. His interest flared instantly, bright as the flame he described.
"Master, I know what a relic is, but what is an armament?" He questioned once again, leaning forward slightly, as if the knowledge itself might pull him closer.
"It's a special weapon only a handful can ever possess. It is born from their natural mana and the crystallization of their deepest desires, then honed through the act of forging that crystal into something unbreakable." I could see the wheels turning behind his eyes—he was already wondering if such power could belong to him.
"Master... I would like to know if I have it."
"Even though I am your master, I do not have an armament myself, sadly. But I do know how you can discover whether you possess the potential—and how to awaken and wield it if you do."
I explained carefully. "All armament users carry a special kind of aura around them. It is simply a modified version of a magical element's aura, shaped by their will. In your case... it seems to be ice." I had sensed it faintly from the start—the chill that lingered in the air whenever he pushed himself too hard, the way frost sometimes rimed the spear shaft after long practice.
"I see. So, Master... how do I forge an armament?"
"It is simple in theory, impossibly difficult in practice: realize the desire that burns at the core of you. It could come easily in a flash of insight, or it could take years of torment. It depends entirely on yourself—on what you truly want, what you cannot live without achieving."
He was talented, undeniably so, but a shadow lingered within him. His goals—whatever they were—were blocking the path to awakening his armament. A pity. A profound pity. Such potential, chained by something he refused to face.
He trained relentlessly for another full month, pushing his body until his hands bled and his muscles screamed. Then he came to me, asking—almost pleading—for personal instruction. He had met a wall, and brute force alone would not break it.
My teachings were straightforward: learn through mistakes, through pain, through failure. We dueled every day in the clearing, dawn to dusk sometimes. He was no match for me, not even close—my experience turned his attacks aside with minimal effort—but watching him improve, session after session, was a quiet joy. Each bruise, each correction, each grudging nod of approval built him higher.
Another month passed. His progress accelerated, faster than even my most gifted former disciple. Something shifted in him—an enlightenment, perhaps. He began to read my movements, anticipating strikes a heartbeat before they came. He couldn't yet follow them, couldn't counter with speed or power, but the understanding was there, sharp and growing.
Yet another month slipped by. He reached the intermediate level of spearmanship—an astonishing feat in so short a time. His strikes carried weight now, intent, precision. The spear no longer felt foreign in his grip; it moved as though it had always belonged there.
He started venturing out more frequently, seeking opponents to test himself against. We lived deep in the mountains, so most were beasts—ferocious wolves, hulking bears, serpents with venom that could freeze blood. But experience was experience, raw and unforgiving. Each return brought new scars, new lessons etched into his skin and his eyes.
Gradually, he stopped seeking duels with me. Instead, he spent longer periods away, sometimes vanishing into the wilds for days at a stretch. It was strange. What was even stranger was the slow fading of color from his eyes—once bright with fury, now dulling to something colder, more distant. I wondered what had happened, what inner storm was eroding him, but I didn't press. Some paths a disciple must walk alone.
There were even times he wouldn't return for an entire month. The cabin felt emptier, the silence thicker. Such a drastic change in the span of eight months—was it unusual, or simply the natural course for someone burning so fiercely? I no longer knew.
And after a full year together, he left a simple letter on the table. He wanted to experience the world, he wrote, while seeking the target of his revenge. No farewells, no promises to return—just quiet determination.
I read it twice, then folded it carefully. I was proud of him, truly, as his teacher. He had grown beyond the desperate child who had knelt before me. Now, I supposed, it was time to turn my attention to the useless "seeds" still waiting downstairs, the ones who had never ignited.
***
"Wow, so I'm finally here!" I said, a genuine smile breaking across my face despite everything.
I stared up at the humongous building before me, its towering spires piercing the clouds, stone walls gleaming under the afternoon sun. This was Evarion Academy, the most prestigious institution for those who dreamed of becoming true combatants—warriors forged in magic, steel, and will.
"He looks so coool!!" The gossip reached my ears from a cluster of nearby girls, their voices high with excitement.
My gaze followed theirs. A man with unnatural white hair—perhaps dyed, perhaps not—strode across the courtyard in a black uniform. Black. That color was reserved exclusively for students chosen by Professor Klein, the notoriously picky instructor who accepted only those who met his impossible standards.
And he truly was handsome. Cold facial expression carved from ice, perfect posture that spoke of discipline, an aloof aura that radiated untouchability. Everything about him screamed cool in a way that drew eyes without effort.
Hm? As I looked closer, I noticed something odd—he wore no insignia on his chest. No faction emblem, no mark of belonging. A commoner? That was surprising. Professor Klein's group was elite; commoners rarely survived the selection.
***
I'm here once again...
The place where his trauma would finally end—or perhaps begin anew. He had long wished for rest, for an end to the endless fight, but as the final flickering light of humanity, he had endured hell after hell. No escape had been granted.
His breath came in cold, shallow puffs, visible even in the warm air. His hands trembled faintly beneath the folds of his sleeves—a lingering echo of trauma. The memories of his past life had only recently resurfaced, crashing over him like a frozen wave, leaving the effects raw and immediate.
He stepped forward anyway, forcing his shaking hands deep into his pockets while keeping his face impassive. The mask he had once worn as pretense had long since fused with his true self—cold, distant, unbreakable on the surface.
Fear clawed at him. He wanted desperately to turn back, to flee this place and its memories. But something—some stubborn core he refused to name—kept his feet moving. No one else could know what it was. Perhaps not even he fully understood.
The flood of awe-filled gazes from his peers washed over him. Strangely, he welcomed it—not out of pride, but because it brought a fragile sense of peace. A nice, deceptive welcome to the hell that waited inside these walls.
He walked forward, steps measured, deliberate. Maybe this courage, this refusal to break, was exactly why he could still move at all—why he could face hell itself without crumbling.
"It's good that you were able to come, 'Winter'." The voice carried over the crowd, accompanied by heavy, deliberate steps that drew every eye.
Professor Klein cut a striking yet austere figure as he strode through the vaulted corridors of the academy. He was tall and lean, commanding presence without raising his voice. His hair was jet black, falling in straight, slightly uneven strands just past his ears and brushing the collar of his uniform. It held a faint sheen like polished obsidian, though he rarely bothered to tame it fully, allowing a few rebellious locks to drift across his forehead when he leaned forward in thought.
"Professor Klein, please do not call me by that codename in this place," Asher said quietly, the words firm despite the tremor he hid.
"Oh, right. Welcome to the academy, Asher" Klein repeated himself with that same easy going tone that everyone knew better — he was one of the strictest professors in the entire institution, his leniency a rare and carefully measured thing.