Its the fifth day of the month.
And I'm lying on the ground again.
Back then, my fists were already ruined—skin split, bones cracked, knuckles hardened into something that barely felt human anymore.
I remember staring at my hands, wondering if pain had a limit… or if I had simply crossed it long ago.
I didn't bleed out. I never did.
That would've been too easy.
The truth is, none of that training was happening then. That was before. Long before I became what people now call an Awakener.
Back when I was just a weak, useless kid trying to beat strength into his own body.
In this world, everyone is born with something.
Mana.
It's not just energy—it's identity. It flows through blood, bones, breath. And it always comes with a type. Fire. Lightning. Wind. Earth. Ice. Variations and mutations beyond counting.
Some people awaken early. Some never do.
And some… are born with power that refuses to stay small.
I was born with fire.
At first, it was nothing. A flicker. A useless spark that couldn't even light a candle properly. While others burned bright, I barely smoldered.
Weak.
That word followed me everywhere
My parents were weak too
That's what people said after they died.
"They were unlucky."
"They were too slow."
"They didn't have enough power"
No.
They were weak.
And the world doesn't forgive that
I remember the day clearly. The smell of ash The sound of something tearing through walls like paper.
My mother pushing me away. My father standing in front of
something he had no chance of stopping.
I remember thinking
If they were stronger, they wouldn't die...
If I were stronger… maybe I could've done something.
But I wasn't.
So I trained.
I broke my hands against wood until I couldn't feel them anymore. Again and again. Every day. For three years, No talent, No guidance.
Just hatred.
Hatred for weakness
Hatred for myself
Years passed.
I awakened.
I was first rank.
The ranking system is simple, 6 is the lowest, then 5, 4, 3, 2, 1… and beyond that, the 0th.
Enough to kill.
Enough to survive
Or so I thought
I fought monsters.
I burned through enemies with flames that finally listened to me.
I learned to shape it, control it, push it further than it should go.
There are ways to evolve mana, To refine it. To transcend your original type?
I knew that.
But I didn't care about the theory.
I only cared about one thing:
Never being weak again.
The battlefield that day was nothing special.
Just another operation Just another group of beasts to wipe out. I moved with confidence.
Because compared to who I used to be… I was strong.
Then it appeared.
At first, I didn't even understand what I was looking at.
It wasn't a monster.
Just a figure
Standing there
Watching
The air changed, My body shaked without my command, as if I was afraid.
I felt it then.
That same feeling from years ago
That suffocating realization.
I am weak.
I attacked anyway
Of course I did
Flames roared, everything I had poured into a single strike, The ground melted beneath my feet, heat distorting the air.
It didn't move.
Not until the last second.
Then
It stepped forward.
One punch
That's all it took.
I didn't even feel pain at first. Just pressure. Then a hollow emptiness spreading through my chest.
I looked down.
There was a hole where my heart should've been.
"…Weak" I think it said.
Or maybe that was just my own voice echoing back at me.
Darkness.
Silence.
And then
I gasped, my body jerking upright.
The ceiling above me was unfamiliar. The air felt… lighter.
My hands..
Small
Unscarred
No broken knuckles. No hardened skin.
A child's body.
I stumbled out of bed, heart racing, and caught my reflection in a cracked mirror.
Not me.
Not the man who died on that battlefield
A boy.
Twelve years younger than the life I remembered.
"…What…?"
My voice trembled
But deep inside, something burned
Not fear.
Hatred
Stronger than ever.
Because even after everything...
Even after all that training…
All that power…
I still died weak.
And this time...
I won't make the same mistake.