The knight's words echoed in my skull long after he disappeared.
"Fix your stance. Fix your weapon. Come back tomorrow."
He said it so casually, like he wasn't shattering the quiet, predictable failure that had been my life until now. Like he wasn't handing me the first real chance I'd ever been given.
But chances mean nothing if you don't reach for them.
So that day, sitting in the empty orphanage removing splinters digging into my palm, I made a decision.
A simple one.
A dangerous one.
A stupid yet necessary one.
I decided I would be stronger. Strong to survive.
Not as a mage.
Not as a summoner.
Not as a summoner whispering to spirits.
As a knight.
A real Knight—not the kind that is corrupt and unjust.
A Knight.
The kind of knight people look up to whenever they need help.
The kind whose aura can shake the ground.
The kind whose blade carves legends.
But wanting it didn't suddenly make my body stronger or my mind sharper or my core awaken. I still had nothing—no skill, no equipment, no guidance, no lineage, no awakened core.
Only a broken wooden sword
and a flicker of something I couldn't explain. Still, that flicker was enough to spark a flame.
That evening, while the other kids at the orphanage fought over stale bread and the care-takers shouted for quiet, I sat on my thin mattress and stared at the broken hilt in my hands.
The knight had given me no name.
No instructions.
No promise. Just a challenge.
I ran my thumb along the splintered edge.
It hurt. Good.
Pain reminded me, I was still here even if the world wished I wasn't.
So I began planning.
Step one: get a real weapon.
Not a sword—no blacksmith would hand a blade to a slum orphan. I can work at a tavern or a brothel to earn coins to buy a real sword. Once I save up enough bronze, silver, or even gold coins I will find the best blacksmith in the slums of Ignis.
Step two: fix my stance.
I replayed the knight's gaze in my mind—sharp, disappointed, evaluating.
I didn't know knight forms or official techniques, but I could study fighters in the streets, mercenaries in the markets, duelists practicing behind taverns. I could copy, observe, adjust.
Step three: train my core.
Even if it was silent.
Even if it was nothingness.
I remembered the sensation from earlier—the pulse, the spark.
It was faint, barely there… but it existed.
And if something existed, then it could be found again.
I didn't care how long it took.
Days.
Months.
Years.
I would keep swinging until that flicker turned into a flame.
Until aura—my aura—surged through me like a tide.
Until I no longer needed anyone's pity.
And step four…
The final goal.
Become a real Knight.
Stand before him with real skill, a real blade, a real core.
If I see him again I will make him look at me—not with disgust or curiosity—but with recognition.
I didn't want praise.
I didn't want kindness.
I wanted acknowledgement.
Proof that I existed.
Proof that I wasn't just Rain that simply Drizzles but a heavy, and feared Rain.
I wanted to become the storm. And storms never ask for permission. They arrive. They roar. They Boom.
So from that night onward, I carved a single promise into my heart:
I will become a Knight.
No matter how far I have to climb.
No matter how many times I fall.
No matter who tries to break me.
The world doesn't wait for the weak. So I won't stay weak. Not anymore.