Tch.
Ran grunted in frustration, watching the tall manor gates close in front of him. The metallic clunk of the lock echoed in his chest louder than he expected. A cold gust of wind slapped his face, but he didn't flinch.
Olnard, the family butler, stood on the other side, staring at him with the same disgust he'd always carried.
"This is mercy." The old man muttered, voice dry as ash. Then he turned his back and walked away, leaving Ran alone on the stone path.
Ran's fists clenched. His glare stayed fixed on the spot where Olnard had stood. His breathing was heavy, not from rage, but from his body giving up on itself again.
He had a disease. A cursed one.
Mana Drain. He got it when he was twelve.
That year, his father had sent him into the demon woods with a hunting party of half-siblings—sons and daughters of the great Bloodrune line.
Their task: bring back the heads of demon dogs. No support. Just a twisted rite of survival for training.
Most of the kids died. No one mourned them. They were replaceable.
Ran survived.
But he paid the price. His mana slowly leaked from his body, day after day. It left him weaker each morning. It would kill him eventually. Not with drama, not in one blast—but in slow, painful decline.
His brothers had mocked him when he collapsed during training. His sisters whispered about his failures. His father never once looked him in the eye.
Only one person had cared. Pomerian. His sister. Not by blood, but something closer.
He remembered her face. Soft voice. Warm hands, sneaking him bread when he couldn't stand. He shut his eyes.
'No. Not now.'
Memories wouldn't help. Pity wouldn't save him.
He turned away from the manor gate. From the family name. From everything that had left him behind.
Right now, he had one agenda.
Survive.