Everyone is born with a gift from the gods. It lies dormant until the age of maturity, and when it finally awakens, it’s usually a cause for celebration. A gift can shape a person’s destiny, elevating them to greatness or, in some cases, burdening them with an unfortunate fate.

  So, what exactly are these gifts? Well, they vary. Some people are blessed with immense strength, turning impossible feats into everyday tasks—lifting boulders, smashing through walls, you name it. Others might have towering intellects, allowing them to weave spells with unparalleled efficiency, casting multiple incantations at once.

  Sounds amazing, right? Like something out of a grand adventure tale.

  Well, hold your excitement. These gifts come with their own set of drawbacks. Sure, you might be strong enough to punch through solid rock—but what if your muscle density is so absurdly high that you sink like an anchor in water? Or maybe you can cast multiple spells at once—but your mana regeneration rate is so abysmal that after one impressive display, you’re left as useful as a dried-up husk.

  And then there are the gifts that are just… well, utterly disappointing. I know someone whose only ability is to cast a cleaning spell. Not exactly battlefield material, so naturally, they ended up as a glorified maid.

  Getting the picture?

  Good.

  Now, why am I telling you all this?

  Because if you don’t understand how this world works, my story won’t make much sense. This is a world where might makes right. The strong rule over the weak, though “rule” is a bit too noble a word. “Oppress” is more fitting. Yeah, that’s better.

  By now, I’m sure you get the idea. It’s not a pretty world.

  And where do I fit in?

  Well, my gift is called:

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  [Mana Master]

  Your mana regeneration is doubled per second, based on the mana required to cast a spell.

  Example: If a spell costs 50 mana, your mana regeneration rate becomes 100 MPS (mana per second).

  However, you are unable to project mana beyond one inch in any direction.

  Did you catch it? The gods must have been rolling on the floor laughing when they handed this one out. Let’s give him the highest mana regeneration rate possible… but make it so he can’t actually use it.

  And that brings us to my current situation.

  Reaching the age of maturity also means enrolling in an academy—a place where we learn how to use our gifts. Or, in my case, a place where I became a living joke and was given some of the most endearing monikers such as useless, the walking waste, or, my personal favorite, the forgotten.

  Now, before we dive into the so-called academy (yes, I’m air-quoting—just picture me doing it), I figure I should at least introduce myself and give you a bit of backstory. Trust me, it’ll clear up a few things.

  First off—hi, I’m Jackson. But most people just call me Jax. I’m 21 year old orphan and hail from a little village called Mur. Ever heard of it? Probably not. Most people couldn’t find it on a map if their lives depended on it. Mur is one of those sleepy frontier towns where kids dream of escaping, only to come crawling back when life inevitably chews them up and spits them out. I never understood that growing up, but oh, do I get it now. That, however, is a tale for another time.

  As for my family before the orphanage? Well, that’s the kind of story best told over a stiff drink and a few moments to collect yourself.

  See, my conception wasn’t your typical boy meets girl, they share a few drinks, a little bump in the night, and—boom—nine months later, baby’s first crying session.

  Nope.

  My mother was married to a "retired" adventurer (yes, I’m air-quoting again) who had the financial skills of a concussed goblin. He fell behind on land payments to the local magistrate—who, in his infinite generosity, decided to collect on the debt in a way that didn’t involve coin. Long story short? My mother became the magistrate’s personal payment plan, and I was the unwanted interest.

  Now, as you might imagine, my mother’s husband wasn’t exactly thrilled about this arrangement. The magistrate, on the other hand, wanted absolutely nothing to do with me. That left my mother in a rather awkward position—one she solved in the worst way possible.

  My childhood was a delightful cocktail of physical abuse (courtesy of the husband), neglect (shoutout to the magistrate), and complete indifference (thanks, Mom). It got so bad that one day, she took me into town, sat me down at the local inn with a note shoved in my tiny hand, turned around, and walked away.

  What happened next, I only learned from the town guard. My mother went home, grabbed a pitchfork, ventilated her husband, and then decided that simply leaving wasn’t enough—so she set the whole house, including herself, on fire.

  And just like that, I found myself carted off to the local orphanage.

  Now, if you’ve ever heard stories about orphanages being terrible, soul-crushing places where kids barely survive? Yeah, those are completely accurate. Rock-hard beds, clothes that didn’t fit, food that barely qualified as edible—we got the full experience. Our so-called caretaker, the headmaster, spent more time ensuring the local prostitutes were “well taken care of” than actually watching over us.

  To make ends meet, we worked the fields surrounding Mur, earning just enough to keep us from outright starving. I got by, as you do. Then, on my 21st birthday, my gift revealed itself.

  And just like that, I was yanked out of Mur, tossed onto the next caravan to the capital, with nothing but the clothes on my back and a threadbare blanket someone had thrown at me as a parting gift.

  So yeah. That’s how I got here.

  And if you think my luck’s about to turn around? Well... let’s just say I’m not holding my breath and nether should you.