A radiant night sky peers down upon an endless wasteland where a bloody battle meets its conclusion, A girl with silver hair and cyan-blue highlights stands upon a mound of beast and human corpses and with tear filled eyes she looks toward the uncaring night sky and mutters beneath her breath “why…”
A lone voice pierces through her mind saying in annoyance “Wake up- Althia” the girl holds her head in awful sorrow as drops to her knees. The voice gets louder “Wake up!!” The dark blinds rise up and awaken the girl, Althia, to the sight of a red haired girl with striking topaz blue eyes wearing lavish almost royal attire. Althia mutters still half asleep “Ranthy? Shouldn’t you be at school right now…?” Ranthia groaned, rubbing her temples. “For the last time, it’s Ranthia. And you should be awake by now. How would you like it if I called you ‘Althy’?”
“I wouldn’t mind,” Althia replied with a sleepy grin. “But that’s beside the point. You should be getting ready for your first day at that prestigious school.”
Ranthia deadpanned. “Tomorrow is the first day of school, you idiot. And you’re one to talk—we’re going to the same academy.”
Before Althia could respond, the ground shuddered. A tremor rattled through the house, knocking over books and ink bottles from her maple wood desk.
Althia shot up, rushing to the window. Outside, in the open yard, two figures clashed—one commanding the elements, the other a blur of raw speed.
“They’re at it again…” she murmured, watching in awe.
Behind her, Ranthia let out an irritated sigh. “How many times do I have to tell those idiots not to fight near the house?”
She rushed downstairs, grabbing an axe as tall as a coat rack on her way out.
Althia remained at the window, watching as Darri unleashed a torrent of shimmering ice, his rare physique allowing him to wield any element at will. Michael met the attack head-on, his movements honed to perfection, dodging effortlessly. One wielded mana, the other prana—opposing forces, yet equals in battle.
“They’re getting stronger,” Althia thought, admiration laced with something heavier. “Darri is almost at the level of a two-star silver rank. Michael is keeping up with just martial arts alone. They’re monsters in their own right… while I…”
Her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve.
Everyone is born with either mana or prana. Mana fuels magic. Prana fuels martial arts. Each has limitless potential depending on the user’s aptitude.
Darri was born with a rare gift—his body accepted all magic, no matter the element. Michael possessed unmatched physical talent and a photographic memory. And Ranthia… Ranthia was something else entirely, a miracle who could wield both mana and prana, making her one of the most sought-after individuals in the world.
And then there was her.
Althia, the anomaly.
Born with neither mana nor prana. A useless existence in a world ruled by strength and sorcery.
Outside, Ranthia stormed toward the boys, axe in hand.
Althia snapped out of her thoughts, panic flashing in her eyes. “Michael! Darri! Run! She’s mad!”
The boys barely hesitated before scrambling away, yelping as Ranthia gave chase. Althia let out a half-hearted laugh, watching them with a fond smile.
But as she turned from the window, her vision fractured.
A piercing pain shot through her skull, and in an instant, she wasn’t in her room anymore.
Flames.
The sky burned, the earth split apart as shadows of enormous creatures soared above—dragons. Their wings carved through the heavens, their roars shaking the world to its core.
Althia gasped, staggering back. The vision ended as violently as it came, leaving her breathless, tears streaming down her face like a rampant current.
“Not again…Mom…Dad…Why’d you leave me again…”
Darri, a 17 year old boy who wears a red blindfold around his eyes and a black hoodie shrouding him in shadow sits quietly against a willow wood tree, opens and closes his hand repeatedly and says with a worried voice “I’m getting weaker…”
Michael, a 17 year old boy who wears black wristbands and a dark blue jacket wearing a gray undershirt and black pants with short dark bluish black hair, looks down at him whilst sitting upon a branch of the same tree and sorrowfully ponders “How long ago was it? When we first met…”
A distant memory surfaced in Michael’s mind, unbidden and razor-sharp.
He was five. Small, covered in bruises.
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The alley smelled of smoke and cheap liquor, thick enough to choke on. A scent he knew all too well.
It had started with a choice—a simple, human decision. He couldn’t bring himself to steal from the kind baker who always saved the burnt loaf just for him. He should have run. He should have hidden. But instead, he walked back empty-handed to the people who raised him.
He barely made it a few steps before a shadow blocked the light.
“The goods… where are they, Michael~?” A thug’s voice slurred, thick with drunken anger.
Michael froze. He knew what was coming.
“I… I couldn’t do it…”
Silence.
Then—pain.
A fist to his gut. A knee to his ribs. The ground rushed up to meet him as they kicked him like a broken toy.
“Why couldn’t you do such a simple job?!”
“You’re pathetic! No wonder you got left behind at the orphanage!”
“You’re nothing but a hopeless fool!”
The words cut deeper than the blows. Michael curled in on himself, breath ragged. One of them stumbled back, grabbing a glass bottle, shattering it against the wall. The jagged edge gleamed in the firelight as the thug loomed over him.
Michael closed his eyes.
Then—a flutter.
A single sheet of paper drifted down from the sky. Then another. Then a dozen. Hundreds of pages rained down like falling stars, their descent slow, deliberate. The air itself grew thick, pressing down on them like an unseen force.
Michael gasped for breath, his body refusing to move.
Then he heard footsteps—light, elegant, defying gravity itself.
He forced his eyes open.
A boy, roughly his age, descended through the air, walking on the floating pages as if they were solid ground. He had a red blindfold over his eyes, a smile sharp enough to cut glass.
The thugs stared, frozen in place.
The boy tilted his head, mildly disappointed. “You’re special, just like me… so why on earth would you take a beating from these weaklings?”
Michael’s breath hitched.
Even as a child, he could sense it—the raw, terrifying power radiating from this stranger.
“You’re stronger than them,” the boy said, his voice eerily calm. His hands were in his pockets, head tilted as if studying a puzzle. “So why do you let them push you around?”
Michael’s heartbeat pounded in his ears.
The boy looked no older than him, yet his mana—dense, suffocating, and heavy like an ocean current—was far beyond anything a child should possess.
The thugs hesitated, their bravado faltering.
“This… This isn’t normal,” one of them muttered, backing up. “A kid shouldn’t have that kind of—”
The boy smiled.
It wasn’t friendly.
The air froze.
In an instant, the alley was filled with a bone-chilling cold, the temperature plummeting so fast that frost spread across the stone walls.
The boy exhaled, watching the terrified men with an amused expression.
"If you’re not strong enough to back up your words… then you shouldn’t speak at all.”
A shard of ice formed in his palm—sharp, pristine, lethal.
Michael didn’t think.
His body moved on instinct.
“STOP!”
A crimson aura flared around him, wild and unrefined. Prana erupted from his small frame in a violent, uncontrollable burst.
The thugs collapsed instantly, screaming as their insides burned from the force of his unleashed energy.
Michael staggered, his breath ragged. He had no idea where that power had come from—or how to control it.
The boy blinked, intrigued. Then he grinned.
“Well now,” he murmured, stepping over the unconscious bodies. “That was impressive.”
Michael’s vision swam. He struggled to stay upright, the sudden use of his power leaving him lightheaded.
Then—a hand extended toward him.
“I’m Darri,” the boy said, silver-blue eyes gleaming beneath his red blindfold.
Michael hesitated.
Then, for the first time in his life, he grasped someone’s hand as an equal.
“Michael Von Smith.”
And from that moment on, nothing was ever the same.
The memory faded, the echoes of that distant alley dissolving into the night.
Michael sat on his branch, gazing at the endless horizon. His fingers curled into his palms.
"I wish we could stay like this a little longer…"
A single tear rolled down his cheek.
A gentle golden light peeked through the window, creeping across Althia’s face.
She groaned.
With a dramatic roll, she flopped to the side—only to miscalculate and tumble off the bed with a loud thud.
Face-first on the floor, she muttered in sleepy resentment, “Curse you, sun…”
Dragging herself downstairs, hunched over like a lifeless zombie, she blinked blearily at the sight before her.
Darri, Michael, and Ranthia were already dressed in their academy uniforms. The aroma of fresh breakfast filled the air, but Darri looked half-dead, his head planted on the table. Ranthia, on the other hand, was practically vibrating with excitement.
Althia yawned, trudging toward the kitchen—
BOOM!
A loud bang erupted overhead.
Confetti rained down.
Michael and Ranthia leaped up, throwing their hands in the air.
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ALTHIA!!"
Althia froze, blinking.
She peeked back into the living room. Only Darri lay motionless at the table. No signs of the dramatic confetti explosion.
“…What on earth?” she muttered.
Michael chuckled, walking over. “It was just Darri using illusion magic.”
Althia sighed, running a hand down her face. “At this hour? Really?”
Darri weakly waved a hand from the table. “You have no idea how hard it is to make confetti out of mana…”
Michael clapped his hands together.
“Alright, enough stalling! Cut the cake, open your presents—we've got orientation soon.”
Althia blinked again, her mind still waking up. But then, despite herself, she smiled.
