A few hours earlier...
The courtyard of the Bloodrune estate was quiet except for the sound of swords clashing. Stone tiles cracked under the pressure of each strike. Ran's breathing was heavy. Sweat rolled down the side of his face as he squared off against Damian Bloodrune, his twelve-year-old half-brother.
Ran tightened his grip around his wooden sword. The training weapon felt heavier than usual. His arms trembled—not from fear, but from weakness.
"Bloodrune Sword Style. First Form—Shadow Rush."
He muttered the words under his breath. His body disappeared in a blink. To untrained eyes, it would've looked like he vanished. But Damian's eyes weren't untrained.
The boy stood still, watching.
Ran reappeared behind him mid-strike, blade aiming for the side of Damian's head.
It was too slow.
Way too slow.
Damian sidestepped with ease, turned, and smashed his sword against Ran's side in a clean counter. One hit. That was all it took. Ran's body slammed into the dirt with a rough thud.
Laughter followed. His half-siblings stood on the sidelines, arms crossed, faces twisted in disgust.
"Tch. He's still this weak?"
"He should just quit. It's not like anyone cares."
"He's worse than last time."
Ran didn't speak. He couldn't. The air had been knocked out of him.
He coughed and pushed himself up. His legs wobbled, barely holding.
At a distance, Butler Olnard watched in silence.
The tall, lean man with sharp cheekbones and a long white beard didn't move or speak. His butler's uniform was pristine as always, not a wrinkle in sight. His cold eyes locked onto Ran's crumpled body, and for a moment, the air around him seemed colder than before.
He stepped forward slowly.
"Young master Ran."
Olnard said in a formal tone.
"Lord Somes Bloodrune wishes to speak with you."
Ran looked up, still coughing.
"...Now?"
"The four-year evaluation is over. The Lord expects you in his office."
Ran winced as he stood.
"I'll go after I clean up."
Olnard gave a brief nod.
"Do not delay."
The butler turned and walked off, boots clicking on stone. He didn't bother offering a hand.
The air in the manor halls was suffocating. Every step Ran took echoed too loudly, like he didn't belong.
He stood in front of the tall, dark wooden doors of the patriarch's office, still wearing his training clothes. He knocked.
"Enter."
Ran pushed the door open.
Lord Somes Bloodrune sat behind a massive desk carved from obsidian wood. His black hair and beard were neat, his crimson red eyes sharper than any sword in the estate.
Behind him stood Olnard.
To the left, lined up like royalty, were the four legitimate children of the Bloodrune family. Ned, the eldest, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing the black-and-gold training uniform that marked him as heir.
Maria, second-eldest, with cold eyes that always seemed to look down on everything.
Orfam, third in line, arms crossed and smirking.
And Pomerian the youngest, wide-eyed, her hands clenched nervously in front of her.
Ran stepped forward and fell to one knee.
"Ran."
Somes said. His voice was low but heavy with authority.
"Your evaluation is concluded."
Olnard stepped forward slightly.
"Ever since you were sent into the demon woods at the age of twelve, your performance has only worsened. You have fallen far below the standards of the Bloodrune name."
Ned stepped closer.
"He has mana drain. It's incurable. He can't even hold a proper stance without shaking."
Ran looked down, fists tight. His jaw trembled, not from fear—but from humiliation.
Somes didn't speak immediately. His crimson eyes stared straight into Ran, but there was no emotion behind them. Not anger. Not disappointment. Just absence.
After a pause, he stood up.
"There is no use for a waterel in this house."
Ran blinked. "...What?"
"You heard me."
His tone didn't change.
"A crippled sword is thrown away. A puppet with cut strings is discarded. That is the law of strength."
"I—" Ran started, but his throat tightened.
"You were born a bastard." Accepted into this house only because of your blood. But even blood cannot redeem weakness."
Silence hung in the air like a storm waiting to break.
"But..." Pomerian's voice cut in, quiet, but desperate.
All eyes turned to her.
"He... he tried. He survived the demon woods when others didn't. That has to count for something—"
"Silence."
Somes said.
Pomerian flinched.
Somes turned back to Ran.
"I gave you a chance to prove yourself. You failed."
"I-"
Ran's head dropped lower. His chest felt hollow. He had told himself this day would come, but hearing the words still broke something inside.
"Throw him out."
Somes said, voice final.
Olnard stepped forward.
"Understood."
Ran's body didn't move. He sat on his knees, frozen. It wasn't fear. It was something colder.
Olnard waited a moment, then placed a hand on Ran's shoulder.
Ran looked up, not at Olnard, but past him, toward Somes.
"You never saw me as your son."
"You were never my son."
Somes replied.
Pomerian's mouth opened, but she said nothing. Her eyes watered, but no tears fell. The rest stood still, like this was routine.
Ran stood slowly.
Olnard followed, not grabbing or forcing—just walking behind him like a shadow. As Ran stepped out of the office, the doors closed behind him with a loud....
Thud!
The front gate slammed shut.
Ran stood outside, alone, a small sack slung over his shoulder. His body still ached from the hit Damian had given him earlier. His breath was short. His skin pale.
Olnard locked the gate behind him, staring with cold eyes.
Ran turned to look at him.
Olnard didn't blink.
"Do not return."
Ran stepped closer, just enough to speak without shouting.
"Did you ever care?"
"I serve the Bloodrune name."
Olnard replied.
Ran glared at him.
The butler turned and walked away.
Ran stood there, wind pulling at his thin clothes. For a long moment, he said nothing.
His body trembled—not from the cold, but from the weight in his chest.
He remembered the woods. The howls. The blood. The corpses of other children left behind. He remembered dragging himself through mud, barely alive, only to return to a house that looked at him like garbage.
He remembered Pomerian's voice. The warmth in her hand when she hid food for him. The way she always looked sad when he fell during training.
He shut his eyes.
"Forget it," He muttered.
He had no home. No family. No name worth keeping.
All he had was this broken body, and the mana that leaked out of it like a curse.
But he wasn't dead.
Not yet.
He looked at the road stretching beyond the manor.
He would survive.
No matter what it took.