Eudora's legs burned as he pushed through the tenth lap, the uneven ground of the training field unforgiving beneath his bare feet. Sweat dripped down his forehead, mixing with the dirt smeared across his cheeks. His chest heaved, throat raw, but he kept moving.
Behind him, Ragna's footsteps were light, almost effortless, his breath steady and calm.
"Keep going, lazybones!" Ragna teased, running circles around him.
Eudora didn't respond. There was no fight left in his voice, only a hollow determination.
Why do you even try? The words echoed, a cruel reminder from the past.
He forced his legs to move faster.
The truth was simple: he had no talent. No aura. No magic. No divine spark to light his path like others. And his body, so worn by the memories of a future destroyed, rebelled against this child's frame.
But the future—his future—had been worse.
He had fought against monsters with claws like blades, fought armies with nothing but raw will. He had seen friends die in his arms, seen kingdoms burn beyond repair.
And he had survived.
This, he could endure.
He slowed to a stop, trembling, wiping sweat from his brow. The village lay quiet beyond the trees, peaceful in its ignorance.
"You're slow, but you have heart," Kavel's voice broke through the heavy silence. The knight-turned-father stood watching, his stern gaze softened by something like approval. "That's something no talent can buy."
Eudora looked up, meeting his father's eyes.
"Heart isn't enough," he said quietly. "I've learned that."
Kavel nodded. "Then learn this—heart and sweat build strength. Talent is a gift, yes. But it's not the whole story."
Ragna trotted back, tossing his wooden sword to Eudora. "Dad says you're gonna be strong. I believe it."
Eudora caught the sword, feeling the rough wood against his palm. The weight was familiar, but now heavier—not just in form, but in meaning.
He looked to the horizon, where the valley stretched endlessly beneath a clear blue sky.
He could feel the future's shadow creeping in—the coming storms, the betrayals, the blood. But for now, there was only the moment.
And in this moment, he had a choice:
To give up and fade like the talentless he was called.
Or to rise.
Step by slow, painful step.