Ran stood at the edge of the hill, staring down at the massive Bloodrune manor. The stone walls looked colder than ever, casting a long shadow over the land as the sun began to dip below the horizon. He had lived in that house for nearly his entire life, but never once did it feel like a home.
The Bloodrune family was one of the most powerful houses in the empire. Feared for their strength, respected for their influence, and infamous for their cruelty, they were known for producing elite warriors and ruthless tacticians. Love had no place in their legacy—only power, obedience, and results mattered. To be born a Bloodrune was to be born into a life of harsh training, impossible expectations, and zero tolerance for weakness.
But Ran wasn't even that lucky.
He was a bastard, the illegitimate child of Somes Bloodrune, the family patriarch. Bastards had no claim to power, no protection, and no place at the table. They were allowed in the manor only if they were useful—trained to be obedient hounds who never questioned their master, who lived to serve and kill when ordered. A bastard with no use was as good as trash.
Ran grunted, irritated, as he watched the manor from afar.
"Tch."
He remembered the way they looked at him—those cold, proud faces filled with disdain. His so-called father, Somes, had never once acknowledged him with kindness. The legitimate children—Ned, Maria, Max—treated him like he was dirt beneath their boots. Only one of them, Pomerian, had ever looked at him with something close to warmth. Ran never understood why. Maybe pity. Maybe guilt. But it didn't matter now.
He was out.
Thrown away like garbage. Officially disowned, cast out of the Bloodrune household without a second thought. No title. No support. Not even a coin for the road.
The reason?
Mana Drain.
It was a rare, debilitating disease. Slow, painful, and incurable. It ate away at his mana reserves like a leech, weakening him every day. By now, most of his abilities were gone. Once a prodigy in combat and magic, Ran had started to deteriorate at the age of twelve.
Back then, he'd still tried to compete—still trained, still fought, still wanted to prove himself. But year after year, his strength diminished, his stamina dropped, and his spells fizzled out before they could even form. In a house like Bloodrune, that made him useless.
And there was no place for useless hounds.
He clenched his fists as he turned away from the manor. There was nothing left for him there.
They all thought he would crawl into a ditch and die.
Maybe he would.
But not yet.
Not until he had shown them.
He would come back one day. Not as a bastard, not as a failure—but as something stronger. As someone who mattered. That was the only thought keeping him moving now. That tiny ember of defiance that refused to die no matter how much the world crushed him.
But right now, that fire couldn't feed him.
He hadn't eaten in two days.
He didn't know where to go or what to do. He had no food, no money, no shelter. Just the crumpled rejection in his chest and the cold reality of the world pressing in on him from all sides.
He wandered down the slope, away from the manor, past the stone walls, past the training grounds he had once used daily. No one stopped him. No one cared.
By nightfall, he found himself on the outskirts of a nearby village. Small houses dotted the area, smoke rising from chimneys, the smell of stew and bread taunting his nose. He didn't dare approach anyone. Who would trust a stranger with sunken cheeks, torn clothes, and the cursed air of a diseased boy?
He tried anyway.
He asked for scraps.
He begged.
They turned him away, some with a shake of the head, others with disgusted looks. A few threw curses at him, called him a parasite, a failure, a walking death sentence.
In the empire, Mana Drain was feared as much as it was pitied. Some thought it was contagious. Others believed it was a sign of weakness sent by the gods.
Ran slept under a cart that night, shivering as the cold seeped into his bones. Hunger gnawed at his insides, and his throat was dry from lack of water.
Every time he closed his eyes, the memories came back—his training, the battles he fought alongside his half-siblings, the brief glimmers of hope when he believed he might be accepted.
And the moment it all collapsed.
He remembered the day Somes summoned him.
The patriarch hadn't even looked at him directly. Just a statement, cold and final.
"You are no longer needed."
Just like that, years of effort were erased.
The next morning, he tried again. He offered to work—anything, even menial labor. But his body was weak. He could barely lift a sack of grain without gasping for breath. His hands trembled too much to chop wood. He nearly passed out carrying buckets of water. The farmer who gave him a chance eventually shook his head.
"You're no good to me, boy. Sorry."
Ran stumbled out of the village by noon, humiliated and more desperate than before.
For the next few days, it was the same. More rejection. More hunger. He drank from streams and ate what little he could find in the forest—bitter roots, berries he hoped weren't poisonous. He got sick once, vomiting for hours, curled up against a tree with nothing to do but pray it would pass.
It did.
But it left him weaker.
He started to see things. Shadows that weren't there. Voices in the wind. Maybe hallucinations. Maybe the effects of hunger and illness. Maybe the disease was finally getting to his mind.
And yet, every time he was about to give up, something inside him kept him on his feet. Rage, maybe. Shame. The refusal to die a nobody. He didn't want pity. He didn't want forgiveness.
He wanted power.
He wanted to make them regret casting him out.
By the end of the week, his body was little more than skin and bones. He sat by a roadside, slumped against a fence, flies buzzing around his head. Every breath hurt. Every movement was a struggle. And still, he didn't stop thinking.
What now?
He had no plan. No strength. No allies.
Just himself.
He stared at the sky, eyes half-lidded.
"This isn't the end."
He muttered.
Even if he had to crawl, even if it took him years, even if the disease crippled him until he couldn't stand, he would find a way to live. To survive.
And one day, he'd return to that manor. As something they could never ignore.