Silence.
Nothing but the whisper of wind threading through leaves, and the soft rustle of grass beneath bare feet. A man walked slowly along the forest trail—his black cloak trailing behind, its edges damp from last night's rain.
His eyes were closed.
Not in sleep. Not in pain.But as if the world was something he had long stopped looking at.
Still, he never stumbled.
Each step was steady, purposeful—as if the earth itself guided his feet. He tilted his head slightly, and without seeing, he knew: a small bird perched on the third branch of the old tree to his left. Its heartbeat—fast, nervous—echoed clearly in his ears.
"Relax," he murmured softly. "I'm no hunter."
His name was Soren Noctis.
Blind since birth, yet more attuned to the world than those who claimed to see. He could hear intent in a person's voice, feel anxiety in the breath between words. He knew when a smile was genuine, and when it was sharpened by deceit—because silence always told him the truth.
And he was a teacher.At Astralis Academy, where nobles and gifted scions studied the arcane, strategy, and discipline.
A blind teacher.
Yet that day, he was far from his classroom.
That day, a faint groan from the woods led Soren to the beginning of everything—to a fate buried deep within the darkness of his closed eyes.
And to a single eye…
…that should never have opened.
But that was not where the story began.
Not truly.
It began, as most quiet storms do, in the mundane—between chalk-dusted halls and skeptical eyes.In the grand spires of Astralis Academy, bastion of the gifted and proud, where children of power learned to shape the world.
And where one blind man taught without ever needing to see.
Instructor Soren walked through the arched corridors with the same quiet steps he used in the forest—light, soundless, and somehow always avoiding the bustling students who barely noticed him pass.
Some did look. A few whispered.
"He can't even see. What could he possibly teach us?""They only keep him because of the headmaster's pity.""Blind and still arrogant. Classic."
He heard every word. He always did.
Yet when he entered his classroom—bare stone walls, circular layout, no windows—Soren stood tall.
And he smiled.
"Begin by closing your eyes."
Confused murmurs echoed from his students—first years, mostly. Some from noble houses, others from foreign nations. All reluctant.
Soren waited.
He never raised his voice.
Never needed to.
"To wield mana without being bound by sight, you must first unlearn your dependence on it," he said calmly. "Power comes from awareness. From listening."
Some complied. Others scoffed.
One boy—a baron's son—snorted openly. "This is absurd."
Soren turned to him, gaze empty but precise. "Then tell me, Seran Halvost… why did you not sleep last night?"
The boy flinched. "Wh—what?"
"Your voice is strained. Shallow. You're masking your exhaustion behind shallow breaths. Likely from pacing."
He paused.
"Restless from guilt, perhaps? Or fear?"
Silence fell like a curtain.
Soren didn't press.
He never humiliated. Only revealed.
And in that revelation… taught.
That was how he instructed: not through spectacle, but through perception. Through helping his students feel the world again.
He trained them to detect lies in tone, threats in silence, mana in the air. He guided them to sense rather than simply see.
And slowly—some began to understand.
One by one, his students learned to walk without watching their feet. To cast without seeing the target. To react to intent, not image.
They began to listen.
Yet even as their skills grew, so too did the murmurs in the shadows.
"He's too strange.""He hides something. No blind man should be that sharp.""Have you seen him turn his head before you speak?"
They watched him.
Whispered about him.
And Soren, always silent, listened more deeply than anyone knew.
Still, he did not falter.
He had purpose.
Not to prove himself to the world.
But because somewhere beyond these cold academy walls…Someone waited for him.
Not a student.Not a colleague.
But his little sister.
His only family left in this world.
Fragile and bound to her bed, her body too weak to even walk on her own, she relied on him for everything—meals, warmth, medicine, comfort.
And yet… she smiled for him.
Every single day.
That smile was what carried him through the whispers, the doubts, the stares.It was what made the cold halls bearable, the disrespect insignificant.
He was blind, yes.
But he had work. He had purpose.
He could earn enough to keep her safe, to keep her alive.
And for that… he was grateful.
Because no humiliation, no loneliness, no cruel murmur could compare to the joy of hearing her soft voice greet him at the door.Of feeling her tiny fingers squeeze his hand.Of knowing that—despite everything—he still had something to come home to.
He did not need the world to see him.
Not when she did.
And that, above all else, was enough.