It is said that once there was a being who could see both the past and future of the universe by knowing the position and momentum of every particle in a single instant. The one who imagined this being was called Laplace. Whether such a being ever truly existed, or was only a legend passed through generations, no one can say. Yet in these days, such mysteries mattered little to ordinary people.
In the Kingdom of Crystal, the streets overflowed with life. Merchants cried out from their stalls, voices overlapping in a desperate chorus as they tried to earn enough to keep their families fed.
"Young lad! You won't find anything like this! With this marvel, you'll leap higher, stronger than the heroes of old!" one vendor shouted, brandishing his wares with theatrical flair.
Most men clung to their livelihoods with raw determination, doing whatever they could to protect their children. Their struggle was plain to see, though only the wealthy had means enough to offer charity. For the poor, there was nothing but hope.
The city was divided into three classes: the Roughs, the lowest; the Workers, the middle class; and the Superior, the high-born elite. The Superior were mostly nobles and branches of the royal family, though a handful of commoners had clawed their way into their ranks through sheer wealth.
"Ugh, it stinks here. I walk this street every day, and the smell never changes," Laplace muttered.
"Hey, boy! Come over here! I'll show you something worth your coin!" called a middle-aged vendor.
Laplace rolled his eyes, sighing as he passed. The vendor frowned faintly as the boy moved on. Strange… he looks familiar, though I can't place why. Must be my imagination.
Why couldn't I have been born into a rich family? Those spoiled noble brats have everything handed to them. If only someone with money could see my talent—they'd hire me on the spot.
…
At last he reached his destination: a vast forest stretching endlessly across the horizon. This was his home—his bedroom, his training grounds, his kitchen. A small red tent stood at the edge of the woods, patched together with scraps of old clothing and wooden poles sealed with moss and honey. From within, Laplace pulled out a pan, set it over the campfire, and laid a piece of bread upon it to warm.
Beyond the flames lay his training ground: rough wooden targets, straw dummies, and a narrow creek running alongside them. Each day, Laplace trained his swordsmanship here. The creek gave him water; bread—cheap and filling—was his only food. Each night, merchants sold leftover loaves for a fraction of their price, and Laplace bought two: one for morning, one for evening. Lunch he skipped, saving both money and hours for training.
Inside his tent, hidden away in a wooden box, was every coin he had managed to save. His dream was to enter the Crystal Academy, an institution second only to the royal household itself, famed for producing the kingdom's finest fighters. Its students were nobles and even heirs to the throne, but a few determined commoners had earned their place there as well. Laplace longed for the day when he could face those pampered heirs on equal ground. Fortunately, tuition was steep but not unattainable. If he saved carefully—five pounds each week—he could afford it soon.
On weekends, he worked as a bodyguard in a tavern where drunken nobles gathered. They hired him not for protection, but for sport, delighting in watching a poor child struggle to fend off their challengers. Though the royal family was said to be kind and just, the nobles were their opposite: petty, jealous, and proud only of the titles their ancestors had earned. Without those forebears, they would have been beggars themselves.
…
The sky burned with crimson hues as the crescent moon rose.
Slash! Rip! Crack! Laplace's training came to an end. Breathless, lungs aching, he collapsed onto the ground. His wooden sword had split, a shard splintering off.
"Nothing a bit of honey and moss can't fix," he muttered, still gasping for breath as he inspected the blade. Real swords, forged by blacksmiths, were far beyond his reach. For now, he had to rely on his handmade wooden ones—but his strength was beginning to outgrow them.
At sixteen, nearly seventeen, he had reached the age most youths entered the academy. The tuition was about five hundred pounds per year, taxes included. Laplace had saved 473. He had dipped into his savings a few times when his weekly budget failed, but the goal was close.
Back in his tent, the bread had cooled. He devoured it in a few bites. "Thank you for the meal," he murmured aloud, offering his gratitude to whatever god might be listening.
Inside his modest shelter lay all he owned: a pan, two pairs of clothes, spare firewood, a straw-filled bed, his sword, and the wooden box of savings. His eyelids grew heavy as he stared into the distance—until voices stirred him from the edge of sleep.
"He's here. This must be the place."
"So this is where His Highness has been living?"
"Poor boy… he must have suffered greatly."
Two men and one woman, all in their late forties, approached quietly. They wore the attire of a butler and maid. The woman's hair was dark orange, her skin pale as snow. The men, nearly identical, bore thin hair, reddish-olive complexions, and neatly groomed mustaches.
"Let's not wake him. Better to take him to the palace while he sleeps, so things proceed smoothly."