For many years after that night, Ragnarok lived in silence. The world beyond his burned village was not kind; it was cruel in new and clever ways. Every road was filled with people running from hunger, war, and plague. The skies never cleared. The rain was gray, the rivers bitter, and the nights endless.
He was only fourteen, but his eyes already looked like those of an old man. He walked barefoot across dirt roads and slept under broken carts. Sometimes, kind strangers gave him a piece of bread. Sometimes, they chased him away with stones.
One night, when he was starving and too weak to walk, he found an apple on the ground, half-rotten, covered in mud. He picked it up and wiped it clean with trembling hands. Just as he was about to eat, he noticed a smaller boy nearby, even thinner than him, staring with desperate eyes.
Ragnarok paused, then handed the apple to him."Eat," he said quietly. The boy snatched it and ran away. Ragnarok never saw him again.
He spent that night in pain, hungry and cold. But as he looked up at the stars, he felt something strange inside him, not pride, not comfort, just a quiet understanding.If I can keep someone alive, maybe my parents won't have died for nothing.
When he was eighteen, his wandering brought him to Asper's capital. The city was beautiful, tall towers of stone and gold, markets full of light and sound. But beneath all that, he saw the same thing as everywhere else: hungry eyes, tired hearts, and people pretending the curse didn't exist.
Ragnarok found work as a laborer on the city's outskirts. He carried stones, chopped wood, and swept the courtyards of the training fields. It was honest work, and he was grateful, but every evening, when the soldiers trained, he would stop to watch.
Their blades gleamed, their movements sharp and precise. Every swing of their swords stirred something inside him, a memory of his father's wooden blade, and that promise whispered to the wind.
Sometimes, when no one was watching, he picked up a broken broom handle and practiced in the corner. His swings were clumsy, unbalanced, but he didn't stop.
One afternoon, an older warrior noticed him."Boy," the man said, walking over with a half-smile, "if you're going to imitate us, at least learn to hold the weapon right."
Ragnarok froze. "I... I didn't mean "The man chuckled. "Relax. You've got the spirit. Come back tomorrow before sunrise. I'll show you how not to cut your own leg off."
That was the start of everything.
The man's name was Darius, a retired soldier with one arm and more scars than Ragnorok could count. Every morning, Darius trained him at the edge of the field, not with magic or fancy moves, but with simple, relentless drills.
"Again," Darius would shout.Ragnarok swung until his arms gave out."Again!"He kept going, his hands bleeding.And when he finally collapsed, Darius only said, "Good. Now you're learning."
After a week, the other trainees also started noticing him. He was there in the tranning ground every single day.
He never gave up, even when the sun burned his skin and his muscles screamed.But Darius smiled. "Let them talk. Every blade is dull before it's forged."
Those years were hard, but they were also the first time Ragnarok felt alive again. He had a purpose, to grow strong enough that no one could ever take from him what he loved.
At twenty, Darius pushed him to enter his first small tournament in the slums. The prize was nothing more than a few silver coins and a loaf of bread, but it was a start.
He lost.Then lost again.And again.
After his fifth defeat, he sat outside the arena, bruised and exhausted. "Maybe I'm not meant for this," he muttered.Darius dropped a small loaf beside him. "Eat," he said. "And remember this, every time you fall, you're building a reason to stand."
The next week, Ragnorok entered again.That time, he won.
He didn't celebrate. He just looked at his bleeding hands and whispered, "Thank you."
Years passed. Ragnorok joined small mercenary bands, taking jobs across the kingdom. He protected travelers, fought off bandits, and cleared cursed lands where monsters roamed. He didn't do it for money. He did it because every fight made him stronger, not just in body, but in will.
People began to recognize him. "The man who never falls," they called him. "The Steel of Will."But Ragnorok never cared for the title. What mattered to him were the faces of the people he helped, a mother thanking him with tears, a child smiling over a bowl of food.
He always said the same thing before leaving a village:
"Strength means nothing if it doesn't protect someone."
He was alone, but not empty.Every scar he carried was a reminder of what it meant to keep standing, no matter what.