Not every Awakened can grow infinitely.
That's one of the first truths you learn in this world.
Your limits—the height of your power, your future, your worth—are decided the moment you awaken.
The moment your trait reveals itself—before you cast your first spell.
Before mana flows through your body.
Before your core even begins to take shape.
That's when the ceiling is carved in stone.
So, does that mean all Awakened are not equal?
Absolutely.
Some are born to rise. To climb, evolve, and eventually brush shoulders with legends.
And some?
Some are only meant to walk a little further—enough to matter for a while, but not enough to change anything.
It's not fair. It never was.
But fairness was never part of the contract.
Just like people are born into this world with different names, different homes, different chances—
The Awakened are born with different ceilings.
Some can reach Zenith; some never get close.
And the rest of us… we just learn to live with the gap. We learn to curb our ambitions, to temper our dreams. We watch the select few ascend, knowing our own climb will forever be cut short, our wings clipped before we even learn to truly fly. The world, eager for heroes, quickly forgets the ones whose brilliance fades too soon.
I still remember the day of the Awakening Ceremony.
How could I forget?
The grand hall was filled with whispers and eyes—all of them fixed on me.
The heir of the Brightwill family. The son of that man.
There were expectations, unspoken but heavy. Suffocating.
What kind of genius would he be? What kind of power would he awaken?
I was just fourteen.
And already, I was being measured.
Every breath felt like it was being drawn through thick, expectant air. The silence, punctuated only by my own racing pulse, felt less like calm and more like the charged stillness before a storm. I could almost feel the phantom eyes, heavy with their silent demands, boring into my back.
The moment came.
The air shifted. The light dimmed.
A tremor, brief and electric, passed through me, but it was quickly swallowed by a profound, echoing emptiness. The surge of power I'd imagined, the brilliant burst of light that accompanied true genius awakenings—it simply wasn't there. Only a quiet, almost apologetic hum within my core.
Everyone waited—for brilliance, for legacy, for something worthy of the Brightwill name.
And what did they get?
A ceiling.
A limit.
Core A—at best.
That was my judgment. Not whispered, not shouted. Just passed along quietly.
And in that silence, I felt it. A crushing weight settled on my chest, not from air, but from the sudden, profound silence that followed.
The shift in how they looked at me.
Not with disdain, not even with sympathy.
Just with detachment. It was colder than anger, sharper than pity. It was the swift, clinical re-categorization of a resource that didn't meet the required specifications. My identity, forged in years of expectation, crumbled in that instant, replaced by a single, unyielding label: insufficient.
Like I'd already failed a test I didn't know I was taking.
I didn't need to look to know how they saw me.
But I looked anyway.
And there he was.
The man at the head of the room—the head of the Brightwill family.
My father.
His expression didn't change. Not even slightly.
Not disappointment.
Not anger.
Just cold silence.
His gaze, usually a demanding force, was utterly flat, devoid of any discernible emotion. It was the look of a man confirming an expected outcome, a checkmark on a list he'd already written. It was as if I wasn't even there, just a data point confirming a known deficiency.
Like he'd expected this.
Like I had simply confirmed something he'd already known.
That no matter what happened that day, I would never be enough.
And somehow, that cut deeper than any words ever could.
Because disappointment means they hoped for more.
But indifference?
That means they never did.
Something in me shifted that day.
It wasn't rage. I didn't scream, I didn't cry.
I just stood there, feeling something cold settle in the pit of my stomach.
Something sharp behind my ribs. Like a splinter too deep to pull out.
It was the death of something pure, a naive expectation that the world, or at least my family, might ever truly see me. In its place, a new, colder foundation began to set, brick by unyielding brick.
It wasn't a wound that bled openly, but an internal corrosion, slowly eating away at the parts of me that had once hoped for acceptance. It seeped into my veins, coloring my perception, shaping my resolve in ways I couldn't yet comprehend.
If I had to name it, I'd call it hatred.
Not loud, not fiery.
But real. And quiet. And steady.
It wasn't a sudden burst, but a slow, persistent gnawing, like rust corroding iron. It lodged itself deep, settling into the quiet corners of my being, a constant hum beneath the surface of my consciousness.
I'd never hated anyone in my family.
Not my mother, not my sister, not even her mother.
But that day…
That day, I found someone to blame.
For the silence. For the pressure.
For the emptiness I couldn't name back then.
And that hatred?
It never really left. It became a silent companion, a shadow that stretched behind me even in the brightest light. It fueled me, yes, but it also isolated me, building walls between myself and a world that demanded a façade of normalcy.
---
"Participants for the third round, be ready."
The announcement snapped me out of my thoughts.
Only then did I realize I was gripping the handle of my sword too tightly—my knuckles pale, my palm damp.
Hah.
Since when had I become the kind of person to get lost in thought like this?
With a quiet exhale, I rose from my seat and moved along with the other participants. The air had changed—denser, charged. The distant roar of the earlier matches had subsided, replaced by a concentrated hum of anticipation specific to this event. The arena lights seemed to intensify, stripping away shadows, laying bare every nervous twitch and every calculating glance.
The crowd had grown.
I could see second and third years now gathered in the stands, their uniforms unmistakable. They must've finished their classes early... just to come watch us.
Their juniors.
The weight of those gazes...
It pressed down harder now.
Expectations—silent but loud in their own way. I could almost hear the whispers that would follow these junior years, the judgments that would solidify once the match was over. It was the same cruel theater I'd been subjected to, just on a grander, more public scale.
Fourth years, of course, were nowhere to be seen. They were always off-campus, consumed by their internships. Out there in the real world.
But here?
Here the pressure felt real enough.
Yet within me… there was none of that.
No eyes.
No noise.
No future or past.
Just a singular, cold focus. A quiet hum of anticipation, not nerves. It was the only place where the weight of my name, my past, my very 'ceiling' seemed to vanish, leaving only the purity of the fight. My hand, which had been damp moments ago, now felt perfectly steady around the familiar hilt of my sword. It was an extension of myself, and in its cold steel, I found an almost serene clarity.
The dueling ring looked larger than before.
Not because the size had changed—but because of who would step into it this time.
Because of what this match represented. This wasn't just another qualifying duel. This was a statement. A confrontation not just of skill, but of legacies, of the very 'ceilings' this world imposed. Leon Ashborn wasn't just an opponent; he was the living embodiment of everything I wasn't, everything I was denied.
I stepped forward calmly and took my place at one end.
And waited.
But not for too long.
Because I saw him—my opponent—making his way toward the ring.
Even among the crowd of participants, he stood out with ease. The murmurs of the crowd seemed to follow him, a low thrum of excitement that intensified with his every step. He moved with an effortless grace, a natural confidence that bordered on arrogance—the kind only those truly 'born to rise' ever possessed.
His blonde hair, a stark contrast to the arena's muted stone, seemed to blaze with captured sunlight, drawing every eye. His eyes, like the deepest ocean, held a calm, confident depth that made them impossible to read, yet undeniably captivating. And that face... sharp, composed, effortlessly charming—the kind that made people stop and look twice without knowing why, pulled by some magnetic, inherent superiority.
That was him.
My final obstacle for today.
The one opponent I've been quietly preparing for ever since I woke up in this world.
Then, like fate sealing a stage play, the display above the arena flickered to life:
Leon Ashborn vs Edward Brightwill
So, it begins.
"Let's have a good match," a calm voice said.
I looked up to find Leon facing me, his expression unreadable, hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword.
"Yeah. Likewise," I replied.
That was the end of our conversation.
No taunts.
No theatrics.
Just two swordsmen—standing on opposite sides of a line drawn by fate.
We both placed our hands on our respective blades.
The referee raised his arm, a stark silhouette against the buzzing display. A hush fell over the stands, the collective breath of hundreds held tight. In that single, drawn-out moment of silence, the weight of a thousand unspoken questions hung in the air. I could feel the faint tremor of the ground, or perhaps it was just the thrum of mana gathering, both in me and in him. My gaze locked onto Leon's, and for a fleeting second, I saw a recognition, an understanding of the moment's gravity, reflected there. A quiet, almost imperceptible nod passed between us—a silent acknowledgment of the impending storm.
Then—chime.
The second bell echoed across the arena, sharp and clear.
The signal to begin.
We moved at once.
No hesitation. No testing the waters.
Steel met steel at the center of the ring, and the sound cracked through the air—loud, heavy, final.
Sparks danced from the impact.
And just like that, the match was underway.
The one currently known as the Sword Genius…
Versus the one who once held that title.