Winter passed slowly in Grey Hollow.
Snow melted from the rooftops, dripping steadily onto the muddy ground below. The frozen fields began to soften, and villagers returned to their daily routines.
Life moved on.
Simple.
Hard.
Unforgiving.
Five years had passed.
Five long years since the fall of the palace.
Five years of hiding.
Five years of survival.
Arin stood alone in the village square.
Small.
Thin.
Quiet.
His dark hair fell slightly over his eyes as he watched the other children playing nearby.
They laughed.
They shouted.
They ran freely across the open field.
But Arin did not join them.
Because he was different.
A group of boys gathered near the center of the square, throwing stones at a wooden target placed against a fence.
One after another, the stones struck the center with loud thuds.
Strong.
Accurate.
Confident.
"Watch this!" one boy shouted proudly.
He lifted his hand, and a faint blue glow appeared around his palm.
Mana.
Even at their young age, most children in the village had begun to show signs of magical ability.
Small sparks.
Simple tricks.
But enough to prove their strength.
The boy released the stone.
It flew forward with incredible speed.
CRACK.
The wooden target split cleanly in half.
The other children cheered.
Arin watched silently.
His expression remained calm.
But inside—
A quiet frustration burned.
"Hey."
A voice suddenly called out.
Sharp.
Mocking.
Arin turned slowly.
Three boys approached him, their faces filled with smug confidence.
The one in front — taller and broader than the others — crossed his arms.
"Well, look who it is," he said.
"The useless one."
The other boys laughed.
Arin said nothing.
He simply stood still.
Watching.
Listening.
Enduring.
The leader stepped closer.
Too close.
"You're five years old now," he continued.
"Still no mana."
His voice dripped with scorn.
One of the boys snickered.
"Maybe he's broken."
Another added:
"Or cursed."
The word hung in the air.
Heavy.
Cruel.
Arin's fists tightened slightly at his sides.
But he did not react.
He did not shout.
He did not cry.
Because he had heard it before.
Many times.
The leader picked up a small stone from the ground.
He tossed it lightly in his hand.
Testing its weight.
"Let's see if the useless boy can throw," he said.
Before Arin could respond—
The stone flew toward him.
Fast.
Sharp.
Unfair.
THUD.
It struck his shoulder.
Pain shot through his body.
The boys laughed.
Loud.
Mocking.
"Too slow," one of them said.
Another stone followed.
Then another.
Each one struck harder than the last.
Arin stumbled backward.
His balance wavered.
His chest tightened.
But still—
He refused to cry.
Not in front of them.
Suddenly—
A firm voice cut through the noise.
"That's enough."
The laughter stopped instantly.
The boys turned.
The knight stood at the edge of the square.
Tall.
Silent.
Watching.
His expression was cold.
Unforgiving.
The children stepped back immediately.
Fear replaced their confidence.
"Go home," he ordered.
They did not argue.
They did not resist.
One by one, they turned and ran.
Silence returned to the square.
The knight walked slowly toward Arin.
His heavy boots pressed into the mud with each step.
He stopped in front of the boy.
His gaze softened slightly.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
Arin shook his head.
"No."
But the knight could see the truth.
The bruises.
The pain.
The quiet anger hidden behind calm eyes.
He knelt down slowly.
Bringing himself to the boy's level.
"You must learn to defend yourself," he said gently.
Arin looked up at him.
A single question burned inside his mind.
"How?" he asked.
The word was simple.
But heavy.
The knight hesitated.
Just for a moment.
Because he knew the truth.
In this world—
Strength came from mana.
Power.
Magic.
Ability.
And Arin had none.
Still—
The knight placed a firm hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Strength is not only magic," he said.
"It is discipline."
"It is courage."
"It is persistence."
Arin listened carefully.
Every word mattered.
The knight stood slowly.
His voice became firm.
Certain.
"Tomorrow morning," he said.
"We begin training."
Arin's eyes widened slightly.
A spark of determination ignited inside him.
For the first time—
Hope appeared.
Far away—
Beyond the mountains—
Inside a dark stone fortress—
A hooded figure studied a map spread across a wooden table.
Several locations were marked with red ink.
Villages.
Roads.
Trade routes.
One mark rested over a small name.
Grey Hollow.
The figure tapped the map slowly.
His voice calm.
Cold.
Certain.
"The child is there."