As dawn's first light crept through the mist-covered streets of Greenwood, Luc stirred. His limbs ached where the bed's springs had pressed into his shoulder blades, and when he stretched, his voice cracked halfway through a yawn—an unexpected rasp that reminded him he was growing in more ways than height. He blinked against the rising sun, hair in unruly tufts, and tugged at the hem of his tunic, which now gaped awkwardly at his waist as his shoulders broadened with each passing day.
The Hearthfire Inn had offered a brief comfort—straw-stuffed mattress, hearty stew, and the illusion of safety. Yet as he settled his meager debts with the innkeeper, Luc felt a familiar knot of guilt and longing twist in his gut. He missed the laughter of the castle halls, even the clang of his father's armor, and most of all, the mischievous grin of his brother.
----
Lucius still remembered the smell. Butter, sugar, heat—bright and golden like a sunbeam in winter. The Steelhart kitchen had been alive that day, full of clanging pots, barking orders, and the clipped accents of royal chefs brought in for the ball. Luc had only wandered in to watch at first—quiet, invisible, the way he usually was. Then Caelum found him.
"Luc," his brother whispered, tugging at his sleeve, eyes glowing with trouble. "They're making candied tarts."
Luc blinked. "So?"
"So," Cael leaned closer, "they're not just any tarts. They're the ones with the sugar crystal crust. You know the ones."
Lucius did. He also knew the rules. "We're not allowed in the kitchen during ball prep. Father said—"
"Lucius," Cael interrupted, voice low and deadly serious in the way only a six-year-old could manage. "You're taller than me. Quieter than me. And let's face it—no one ever suspects you. I just need you to… relocate a few."
Luc frowned. "Relocate?"
Cael grinned. "Borrow. Taste test. Whatever makes you feel better. I'll be outside the window. All you have to do is pass them through. I'll split them. Sixty-forty. Seventy-thirty, even. Your call."
He hesitated. He shouldn't have. But he was six. And it was Caelum. And they were his favorite.
So, Lucius broke a rule.
He waited for a lull—chefs hunched over glaze or arguing about fruit slices—and moved. One tart. Then two. His fingers trembled, but no one looked. Each one passed through the open window to Cael's waiting hands like a secret pact sealed in sugar.
By the fifth tart, Luc was sweating. Not from guilt. From fear of being caught. He didn't notice the murmurs. Didn't notice the way the chefs stiffened. He just reached for the sixth tart and turned to the window—only to find it empty. Cael was gone.
Lucius stood there, tart in hand, caught in the act. They didn't shout. Didn't scold. Just summoned the guards.
The Duke delivered judgment personally. Ten lashes for the five missing tarts. One for each missing tart on each hand. The branch was thin and polished, stripped from some tree Luc couldn't name. The kind of punishment nobles thought was civilized—refined pain for refined children.
Luc tried to stay quiet. He failed by the third strike. By the fifth, he didn't even flinch—his body too shocked to move, his face too blank to cry again.
The door slammed open, and the Duchess came in like a storm breaking over stone. She didn't yell. She didn't need to. Her gaze turned sharp as knives when she saw Luc, kneeling, fingers curled against the cold marble, eyes red but dry.
"You call this fatherhood?" she hissed at the Duke. "You speak of honor and blood, but you've forgotten what it means to raise a child."
She took Luc in her arms and led him away—past the guards, past the scorched pride still stinging in his chest. She sat beside him, whispering old lullabies in Draconic like she used to, brushing his hair with slow, gentle fingers until his shoulders stopped shaking.
Lucius didn't say a word. Didn't have to.
And when she finally left—
The bed creaked. A rustle. Then Caelum's head popped out from under the frame, crumbs already on his chin. "I waited," he whispered, holding up a cloth bundle. "Didn't eat yours. Promise kept."
Luc stared at him. Three tarts. Slightly squished. Slightly warm.
He took one, bit into it, and let the sugar crackle against his tongue.
It was still sweet. Just not as much as he remembered.
----
The warmth of that stolen sweetness faded before the door even closed. Luc blinked twice, shivering as the dew-cold morning air crept into his bones. He paused at the doorframe, inhaling the damp tang of dew-soaked cobbles and the faint sweetness of bakery smoke. Somewhere nearby, a chimney coughed, and the scent of burnt firewood mingled with the yeasty warmth of rising dough. Footsteps clicked over stone.
Luc pulled the inn's heavy oak door closed behind him, and the morning air rushed in.
Greenwood awakened. Cobbles slick with dew reflected lantern light as bakers coaxed loaves from their ovens. Luc stumbled once—his boots catching on a stray stone—then steadied himself, cheeks reddening. Not a child anymore, he thought grimly, brushing dust from his tunic. Not if he wanted to survive.
He walked with hesitant purpose toward the mercenary guild, listening to the commoners' chatter. Their voices wove a tapestry of complaint and envy:
"Fifty copper for travelers—unless you're hauling," a guard barked, waving a farmer's cart through.
"We're locals—look, our medallions," snapped the farmer's wife.
"Next time, show them sooner, move along," the guard grunted.
A merchant scoffed nearby. "Nobles flash writs, skip every toll. Even mercs pay less the higher their rank. But us? Fifty copper could feed a man a week."
"Then register," muttered a grizzled veteran, polishing his blade. "Better chance of saving coin than whining about it."
Behind Luc, voices turned meaner:
"Did you hear? Caelum Steelhart shattered the royal seals. They're calling him the Dragon Sovereign now."
"Kissed by mana itself. Shame about the twin, though."
"Yeah, his freak brother? Probably rotting in a ditch by now."
"Lucius the Mana Exile. Stain on the family. Bet he's crawling through gutters somewhere, still pretending he's nobility."
"Bet he's skulkin' around the outskirts like a kicked cur. Heard he tried yesterday—guard bled a silver outta him."
"Lucky it was Greenwood. Warhawks would've gutted him at the gate."
"How does one bitch birth both a saint and a stain in one go? If it were my wench, I'd have thrown her out the moment the second one cried."
Someone laughed. "You? Please. The only thing you've sired is debt and bad breath."
Luc kept his head down, jaw tight. They don't know it's me. Not really. Not yet. But the words still carved into him all the same.
He bit the inside of his cheek. Not rot—relearn, he reminded himself. You will survive this.
---
Luc tightened his grip on his sword hilt and crossed the cobbles toward the fortress-like guild.
The Mercenary Guild loomed ahead, a stone fortress nestled within the bustling heart of Greenwood. As Luc entered, the warmth of the early morning sun gave way to the dim, shadowed interior. The guild was a hive of activity, filled with mercenaries of all shapes and sizes. Conversations buzzed in every corner, many of them centred around the Steelhart family.
"The Mana Sovereign," one mercenary muttered, his voice laced with both awe and envy. "Caelum SteelHart's power will reshape the kingdom."
"Forget Caelum," another spat, his tone dripping with disdain. "What about his cursed twin, the one who was cast out? No mana, no power—just a wretch now."
Luc felt their eyes upon him, some filled with curiosity, others with confusion. A young kid walking into a mercenary guild seemed like an easy target to all.
His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword as he moved deeper into the guild, feeling the weight of his new identity pressing down upon him.
"Actin' brave don't mean you're not scared. That comes with time, lad.", a rough voice came from a corner.
A pair of eyes, indifferent—it was a dwarf, his short stature and muscular build marking him as one of the cursed race that the Draconic Order had enslaved long ago.
The dwarf approached, his gaze lingering on the sword at Luc's side. "You here to register, lad? Name's Rorik."
Luc nodded, surprised by the dwarf's lack of hostility. He had expected the same disdain he'd felt elsewhere, but instead there was something like understanding in the dwarf's eyes.
Inside the guild's stone halls, Luc couldn't help but notice the way some mercenaries looked at Rorik as they passed.
"Damn rockrats always skulking about…"
"Heard one of them tried to use a magic scroll once. Blew up his own damn foot. kehehe~"
Luc's brow furrowed. He glanced sideways at Rorik, who walked on with his head high, saying nothing.
Earlier that morning on the streets, Luc had seen it too—a mother yanking her child aside as a dwarf passed, muttering a prayer under her breath. A robed acolyte had spat in the dust, not even hiding his scorn.
The Order once enslaved their kind, he remembered bitterly. Forced them into mines, digging, slaving away for centuries. And now they were mocked for the scars they bore.
Resentment simmered in Luc's chest. He knew that gaze, that tone, that contempt. The world had looked at him the same way once word spread—Manaless. Exile. A mistake.
And now, as he moved through the guild, that contempt swirled again—though not for him, exactly.
"Come with me," the Rorik said, leading Luc down a corridor toward the reception desk.
At the desk sat a woman who wore her years like polished armor—brown hair cropped into a wavy bob streaked with cream, eyes sharp with mischief, and a silver hoop dangling from one ear. Her smile was both invitation and challenge, the kind that had outwitted more than a few overconfident swordsmen.
She looked up as Luc approached, her gaze sweeping him from scuffed boots to sword-hilt and lingering, just a moment too long, on the flush rising in his cheeks.
"Well, well," she said, voice low and smooth. "A fresh face like yours could brighten up this whole stone box. What brings a handsome lad like you to our dusty little den?"
Luc's heart gave a startled thud, but he met her eyes. "I'm here to register."
"Mmm, all business, are we?" she teased, leaning forward just enough to make him regret making eye contact. "I was hoping for a story or two—maybe a little blood, a little glory. Or are you saving the good parts for someone who knows how to listen?"
Luc fumbled at his belt pouch, fingers suddenly clumsy. "I… don't have many stories yet," he muttered, offering the coins.
She didn't take them. Her hand brushed his as she pushed a form toward him instead, her smile curling like smoke. "Oh, I don't believe that for a second. Boys like you always have the best ones tucked away. You just need someone who knows how to listen."
Her eyes glinted. "Keep the silver. Let sister cover it for you. Consider it one of the services this sister will be providing."
Luc's ears burned. "Th-thank you."
"Mmm. Polite and pretty. Dangerous combination."
Behind him, Rorik grunted. "Old hag's laying it on thick."
She didn't even glance his way. "Still hear better than you, rockrat." Then, to Luc again—this time gentler, quieter: "To open your status panel, just say Status Open. But be careful who you share it with, sweetheart…"
Her voice dipped to a sultry whisper.
"…Some of us ask very nicely."
The air shimmered before Luc could reply.
"Status Panel"
---
Name : Luc {Lucius Steelhart}
Race : Human
Innate Talent : Mana Exile
Innate Ability :
- Nullfield
Creates a field that nullifies all mana in close proximity, providing immunity to mana-based attacks. Allows user to directly absorb mana from magic beast flesh and blood.
Passive Abilities :
- Sword Mastery II
Active Abilities : None
---
The panel shimmered into view. The receptionist's eyes flicked over it, she caught a glimpse of his abilities, particularly the Nullfield and in an instant, her playful demeanor cooled. The warmth in her expression didn't disappear entirely, but it sharpened into something more careful. Her eyes lingered on two words.
Mana Exile.
"Sweetheart, You the Lucius kid from Dominus's house people have been gossiping about?"
She glanced up, voice dropping. "Careful with this, sweetheart. The wrong person sees that, and you're firewood for the Order."
Luc nodded, the gravity of her warning settling in. The flirtation had faded, replaced by a genuine care that surprised him. She cast a glance at the Rorik standing beside him, a stout figure with a grim expression.
"This here is Rorik, bet he's already introduced himself," she said, her tone softening as she addressed the dwarf. "Our new friend Luc here seems to have a knack for swordsmanship but not for magic. Perhaps you can guide him in... other forms of training, perhaps… the body transformation technique?"
Rorik nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Aye, I'll take him under my wing. We've all gotta start somewhere."
As they walked, Rorik's silence was heavy, but it gave Luc time to reflect. The flirtatious banter with the receptionist had allowed him to momentarily escape the disdainful glares and whispers.
But now… he was back to reality. And the reality was harsh.