Noa staggered out of the training grounds, his footsteps echoing through the ice-covered corridor. Every movement felt unbearably heavy, as if he were dragging massive boulders across the frozen floor. His breath rose in pale clouds, and his legs trembled, refusing to obey him.
Reaching his door, he grasped the handle. The iron bit into his bloodied palm, its cold sharpness burning against his skin. His fingers shook, his wrists weak. He pulled once—the door did not move.
For a moment, he simply stood, staring at his stained hands. His nearly frozen fingers would not obey him. Gritting his jaw against the pain, he gathered every ounce of strength and pulled again.
The door groaned open.
It should have felt like victory. Yet Noa's face showed no triumph. He stepped into his quarters, burdened not by the cold but by the crushing weight of his exhaustion.
The room was plain: a narrow bed, an old table, a chair. Not a prison, but not freedom either. For the soldiers, a shelter; for Noa, yet another extension of the battlefield.
He took a strip of cloth from the desk and wrapped his bleeding hands. Pain coursed through his body, but he sat in silence, his eyes searching the emptiness.
He sank onto the bed. His breath trembled, his body shuddered.
In a whisper that was more plea than thought, he asked:
— How much longer will this last? How much more must I endure…? Can I not endure it? Is this my end?
No answer came. Only the trembling of his body carried him into uneasy sleep. Even in slumber, his fists remained clenched in pain.
Dawn broke, and this time Noa awoke on his own. His muscles screamed with stiffness, his arms felt carved from stone. Yet he did not see torment—he saw a sign. A sign that his body was changing, straining toward strength. His limbs were heavy, unwilling to obey, like stones that refused to be lifted.
He rose slowly and made his way to the mess hall.
The soldiers lined up for rations. When it was Noa's turn, his tray held only a cup of icy water.
He stared.
— This… is all? — he whispered.
The soldier beside him laughed with cruel amusement in his eyes.
— What, were you expecting warm meat and soft bread? This isn't a palace, boy. Here, hunger and hardship are your teachers. Hahaha!
Laughter rippled through the hall. Some whispered, "The prince still hasn't woken."
Noa said nothing. He took the bread, its hardness stinging his sore fingers. He did not shy away from the pain—he consumed it.
At the edge of the mess hall, staring at Noa as he ate, he said:
— There is no justice here. They weaken the weak through hunger, and they keep losing, while the winners grow stronger. Why did the officer set him against me? — he said, chewing the meat.
Noa looked around and stared at those laughing.
— I didn't eat last night. Aren't the defeated not given food until they become victors?
The icy water burned his throat. Yet to him, these were not punishments—they were lessons.
Though the soldiers laughed under the torchlight, a glimmer burned in Noa's eyes—silent defiance, quiet fury.
After breakfast, the soldiers returned to the courtyard. The wind cut like knives, the snow shimmered under the ruthless dawn. Noa still trembled, his body worn from the previous day's trials, but in his heart something heavier than fatigue burned—a cold beyond mere freezing, a pain born of another level of frost.
The officer's voice thundered from the platform:
— Listen up, you pieces of trash! Struggle to stay alive. If you can't manage it, don't burden us with burying your corpses like dogs—or should we just feed them to the beasts?
The ranks shouted in unison.
— We won't trouble you with that, officer.
And the whispers began:
— We'll have to dig a deep grave for his corpse—or should we just throw him to the wild animals, damn it?
Noa turned his gaze away, lips sealed. Their hatred no longer pierced him. Inside, another voice whispered: Mock me. Curse the love in my heart a thousand times—I cannot hate. But you are awakening it.
— On the ground! — the officer barked.
— Breathe against the ice. Let it judge your flesh.
The soldiers sprawled onto the snow. Frost bit like a thousand needles. Some leapt up moments later, exhaling clouds of steam.
Noa shivered violently. His teeth chattered, his toes numb. But he told himself: If the ice consumes me, perhaps I'll finally be free of it all.
He pressed deeper into the snow. The laughter around him blurred, harsh breaths faded, leaving only the silence of cold.
The officer's gaze fell on him. He studied Noa for a long while—neither pity nor hatred in his eyes. Only fire wrapped in frost: Rise. Endure. Fail, and I will forget you.
When the drill ended, lips blue, hands raw and swollen, Noa staggered to his feet—but did not fall.
— Final trial! — the officer thundered. — Pair up. In the water and on the ice, show me who you are.
From across the yard, Garn stepped forward.
— You were already in debt from the moment you were born. The time has come to pay your debt, — he said in a low voice.
They waded into the pool. The black water steamed. Garn plunged in and went under.
Noa followed. The water struck like knives, piercing bone and crushing breath. His body convulsed, yet inside he whispered:
— I will not break. I will not break… then, a moment later, he whispered again: No… I will break. I cannot endure this.
When the exercise ended, the soldiers climbed out of the water, wrapping themselves in shimmering mana—crimson, gold, and blue glows dancing like flames around them. Each shielded themselves, holding back the deadly cold.
Noa stumbled from the water, skin numb, hands trembling. He stared at the others, bewildered.
— What… is this?
The officer barked:
— What are you waiting for? Cloak yourself—or do you intend to fall sick?
Laughter broke out again:
— He can't even weave mana around himself!
— So this is what true talentlessness looks like.
The officer stepped closer, voice sharp as steel:
— Picture your body. Envision wrapping it in your inner force, as if sealing yourself in armor. Guide it with your hands. Do it—and the cold will no longer touch you.
Noa whispered weakly:
— All right…
He closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and imagined his body wrapped in warmth. He waited.
But nothing happened.
Opening his eyes, he looked helplessly at the officer.
— Sir… I feel nothing.
The officer paused, then pressed a hand to Noa's chest. His eyes widened, pupils narrowing like a predator's.
He whispered:
— Impossible… You have no mana?
Gasps and laughter rippled through the ranks:
— Hahahahaha!
— He doesn't even have mana!
— Not just ordinary talentless—history's greatest talentless!
The laughter shook the courtyard.
Noa staggered back, voice trembling:
— W-what did you say, sir?
The officer's gaze was frozen:
— Every child of dragons awakens with mana—the inner spark, the soul's trigger. It turns cold to flame, fear to strength. But in you… there is nothing. You are an empty shell.
Noa's heart pounded, vision blurring.
— No… that's impossible. I… I must have… after all, I am a high dragon.
The soldiers howled with laughter, some doubled over.
— Even this so-called prince… is hollow! Weak! Hahaha!
The officer roared, silencing them instantly:
— Enough! He is manaless. And here, there is only one path left: prove yourself through strength alone.
In Noa's ears, a single word echoed, louder than cold, louder than their mockery:
Manaless… manaless…
Inside, he screamed:
No! This cannot be true! This is nonsense.
Noa's pupils shrank, his eyes widened. The laughing dragons seemed to freeze for a moment, their voices coming in more slowly. Noa was panting for no reason, and above the outside sounds he could hear his own heart pounding.
For the first time, Noa's heart truly broke: the truth struck like a blade of frost—the mana, the gift given to every child of dragons, was not in him.
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