I often had this thought—
Am I destined for failure?
The question crept in during moments of silence, after battle, in between breaths, and always when I was alone. Like now. Bleeding out on cracked marble, my vision blurry, death looming overhead.
But I wasn't always like this.
There was a time when I looked at the world with fire in my eyes.
A time when I stood tall, a boy with a wooden sword in his hand and stars in his gaze, dreaming of glory like the rest of my siblings.
I was born Ash Viremont, the youngest son of the most feared sword clan in the world. The Viremonts were legends. Our name was etched into history with steel and blood. We were expected to walk the path of the sword before we could walk at all.
My brothers and sisters, all of them, awakened as Iron Initiates before the age of 13.
It was tradition.
No—destiny.
The ranking were:
Iron Initiate → Steel Warden → Blade Dancer→ Edge Master→ Warlord → Sword Saint→ Ashen Monarch
An average Viremont would be a Blade Dancer at 16 and cross borders before 20, their blades leaving trails of fire and fame behind.
And then there was me.
The black sheep. The failure. The disgrace.
I was twenty-five when I became an Iron Initiate.
You heard that right—twenty-five.
Even a clown could reach that level with enough sweat and tears.
And I gave more than that.
I gave blood.
I gave years of humiliation.
I gave everything I had to chase after the shadow of a name I was born with.
And still, I was cast out.
No dramatic duel. No execution under the moonlight.
My siblings didn't kill me.
They simply banished me.
Because even in disgrace, they saw my effort.
Maybe that was the only mercy they were capable of.
But it wasn't a lack of talent.
No… It wasn't that at all.
It was a curse.
I discovered that while wandering the world, half-dead and aimless.
I stumbled into a decrepit ruin, half-starved and delirious, and collapsed at the feet of a magician. An old man with nothing to lose and more power than he cared to show.
He took me in. Trained me. And within three years—I was offered a contract.
Not from a man. Not from a king.
But from a god.
Solvhar.
The God of Flames.
Every magician dreamed of forming a pact with him. It was like being chosen by fate itself. And Solvhar whispered something to me that shook the very foundation of my being.
[Contractor, it seems someone bore a grudge against you since childhood. You haven't been able to use your full potential due to a trivial curse. That might've been the reason I was so captivated by you.]
Trivial.
That's how he described it. The curse that had strangled my soul like a noose for two and a half decades. A curse cast by a Mystic Sovereign who is as powerful as an Ashen Monarch.
The Shade Reaver.
Invisible blood-red chains had been wrapped around my body since birth, suppressing my talent.
I never stood a chance. Not with that curse weighing me down.
And I never even knew.
Solvhar dispelled it in an instant.
Shadows licked the air as the chains unraveled, absorbed into the abyss like they were nothing more than dust.
[You can now become an unparalleled magic swordsman, Contractor. I'll be watching over you with excitement.]
It was like being reborn.
The moment I picked up my sword again, something clicked.
Like an old key turning in a forgotten lock.
Magic surged in my veins. The blade moved as if it had always belonged in my hand.
The disgrace of the Viremont Clan was no more.
I was Ash Viremont—contractor of the God of Flames.
A sword in one hand, magic in the other.
Within ten years, I would carve my name into the bones of the world.
I would return—not as a failure—but as a force that even the Viremonts would tremble to face.
That was the plan.
That was the dream.
And now?
Now I'm choking on my own blood.
Cough!
I spat crimson onto the stone floor, my entire body trembling. Blood streamed from my eyes, nose, and ears. I couldn't even move my fingers. My limbs felt like lead, my bones splintering with every twitch.
So this is how it ends?
I didn't even get to lift my sword.
Didn't even get to chant a spell.
Didn't get to fight.
The attack came without warning.
The capital of Aldara Kingdom, once so proud, reduced to ruins in the blink of an eye.
Three Ashen Monarchs—three—descended from the sky like wrathful gods.
I was in the palace, resting after days of nonstop training. I had just closed my eyes.
And then came fire. Screams. Destruction.
And I never stood a chance.
They were monsters, each strong enough to destroy a kingdom alone. Together? They were calamity incarnate.
They tore through Aldara like wolves through a field of sheep.
And me? I was the sheep too busy dreaming of being a wolf.
I couldn't even scream when the sword pierced me.
I just—woke up—already dying.
Now, here I lie, in a crater that used to be my room. Slumped against shattered marble, the stench of ash and blood thick in the air. My lungs rattle. My heartbeat slows.
No one's coming.
Not my teacher. Not my traitorous family. Not even Solvhar.
I tried calling out to him.
Nothing.
Maybe he gave up on me too.
I want to scream. To curse the heavens, the world, everything.
But all that escapes my lips is laughter.
A soft, broken, mad kind of laughter. The kind that echoes long after your dreams have burned.
"Why?" I whisper, voice raspy.
"Why give me hope… only to take it away?"
There's no answer.
Just the distant roar of crumbling towers and the soft crackle of fire.
So this is it, then?
All that pain. All that effort. All that joy when I discovered who I really was.
All of it, just so I could die like a side character—bleeding out before I even got to take the stage.
I want to say I feel peace.
But I don't.
I feel regret.
Not for being born a Viremont.
Not for being cursed.
But for not being able to show the world who I was.
For not being able to tell them—
You were wrong about me.
I am not a failure.
I am not a joke.
I am not…
I close my eyes.
And breathe my last.
Or at least—I think I do.
Because as the final breath leaves my lungs… something pulses in the back of my mind.
A heartbeat that isn't mine.
A whisper, as soft as smoke.
[You still have a role to play, Contractor.]
And in the silence of death…
The flames stir.