So, it turns out that not everyone is charmed by my adorable, chubby cheeks.

  I realized pretty quickly that my grandfather doesn't like me. In fact, "doesn't like" is putting it mildly. The old man looks at me like I’m a stain on his expensive carpet that he can't quite scrub out.

  The reason? Aesthetics. Pure and simple.

  You see, the Crimson bloodline is famous for two things: deep crimson hair and emerald green eyes. It’s their brand. It’s their trademark. And then there’s me. I popped out with stark white hair and glowing blue eyes.

  According to him, I am a genetic failure. A break in the pattern. I think I look cooler—like a limited-edition collector’s item amidst a sea of generic red—but he thinks I’m defective. He has made it very clear: if I don't manifest a powerful core, I’ll be disowned. Kicked out of the family.

  "A Crimson without power is just meat for the forest beasts," he said once, looking right through me.

  I was four years old when he dropped that ultimatum. And as you know, my spiritual world still looked like an empty parking lot. No core. No familiar. Just those three baffling, empty slots.

  So, I came up with a plan.

  If I can't blast people with magic yet, I need to make sure I can stab them really, really well. If they kick me out into the monster-infested forest, I refuse to be a snack. I’m going to be the apex predator.

  Now, you’ll ask me: Ragna, you’re a toddler. What’s the plan?

  Even if you didn't ask, I’m going to tell you, so shut up and read.

  I decided to ask my father, Akira Crimson, to teach me swordsmanship.

  One afternoon, I waddled up to him in the garden. He was cleaning his blade—a massive thing that looked like it weighed more than I did.

  "Hey, Dad," I asked, putting on my most innocent, wide-eyed voice (it usually works on Mom). "Can I ask you something?"

  He looked down, his expression softening. "Yes, you may."

  I dropped the act. I didn't want to baby-talk this. I told him everything—about Grandfather’s threats, about my lack of a core, and about my desperate need to survive. I expected him to laugh.

  Instead, he nodded solemnly. "Very well. If you have the resolve, I will train you."

  We started the next day. And this is where things got... weird.

  I picked up a wooden sword, and it didn't feel heavy. It felt like an extension of my arm. Dad showed me a stance once, and I mirrored it perfectly. He showed me a complex strike; I executed it on the first try.

  In 1.5 years—by the time I was five and a half—I had mastered every sword style the family tutors could throw at me. I wasn't just learning; I was absorbing.

  I have a theory about this. Remember Talestia? The Goddess who screamed at me? She called herself the Goddess of Wisdom. At the time, I thought she was just a high-strung bureaucrat, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe she wasn't that bad. Maybe, seeing that she was sending a soul into a world of monsters, she gave me a parting gift. A blessing.

  High-Speed Learning. Perfect Recall.

  It makes sense. She helps heroes, right? Even if the "hero" in question was a rude, sarcastic jerk to her face. If that's the case... thanks, Tally. Sorry I called you a witch.

  But talent is nothing without sweat. And I sweated buckets. I trained until my hands bled and my legs shook. I was determined to survive.

  Finally, the day came to test my limits. I had beaten the tutors. Now, it was time for the boss battle.

  "Come at me," my dad said, standing in the center of the training ring. He held a blunted practice sword, but in the hands of a Half-Demon, even a stick is a lethal weapon.

  I launched myself at him.

  He was fast. Absurdly fast. He moved like a blur of red and black. But I... I could see him.

  He struck from above—a heavy, crushing blow meant to end the fight instantly. I didn't block; I would have been crushed. I side-stepped, letting the wind of his blade ruffle my white hair, and slashed at his ribs.

  He blocked it, but the impact made him slide back a few inches.

  "Hah!" he grinned, and the tempo increased.

  We danced around the ring for an hour. Steel (well, wood) clashing against wood. I was panting, my lungs burning, relying on my small size to weave through his defenses. He was holding back, sure, but he was actually trying.

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Finally, we broke apart, both chests heaving. I collapsed onto the grass, completely spent. Dad dropped his sword and sat next to me, wiping sweat from his brow.

  He threw his head back and laughed—a booming, proud sound.

  "I am really happy with your achievement, Ragna," he said, clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder. "You have the heart of a warrior. Truly."

  He looked at me with a seriousness that made me sit up straight.

  "If there is anything you need," he said, "just tell me. I’ll try my best to fulfill that need."

  My heart skipped a beat. This was it. The moment I had been waiting for.

  "I want three things," I said, holding up three small fingers. "A Phoenix wing. A Dragon scale. And a real sword."

  My father blinked. Most kids ask for a pony or a toy castle. I was asking for legendary biological materials and a weapon of war.

  "A Phoenix wing and a Dragon scale?" He rubbed his chin, looking amused rather than concerned. "Those are rare, Ragna. Extremely rare. And expensive."

  "I know," I said seriously. "But I need them."

  He looked at me for a long moment, searching my eyes. He didn't ask why. He just nodded once, a silent promise between warriors. "Very well. I will see what can be done."

  He didn't give them to me then and there, obviously. You don't just pull a dragon scale out of your back pocket. But the promise was made.

  The Calm Before the Storm

  The next six months were... deceptively peaceful.

  If you looked at the Crimson estate from the outside, you’d see a happy, wealthy family. And for a while, I let myself pretend that’s exactly what we were.

  I spent a lot of time with my mother. Well, technically, she is my Step-Mother. My father, being the absolute unit of a man he is, has two wives. My biological mother hasn't been in the picture much—she loves me, I know that, but she’s distant.

  But this woman? The one currently pinching my cheeks until they feel like dough? She treats me like her own flesh and blood.

  "Oh, look at you!" she squealed, shoving a spoon of overly sweet pudding into my mouth. "My little Ragna is growing up so fast! Say 'Ahhh'!"

  "Mum, pwease," I mumbled, trying to maintain my dignity while swallowing the sugary goop. "I am a warri—mph!"

  "You are a cutie pie, that's what you are!" she declared, wiping my face with a silk handkerchief.

  She has a son of her own, my older brother. The guy is apparently a certified genius, the golden boy of the family. And then there’s my step-sister—she’s not a Crimson by blood, but the daughter of a family friend. She’s... well, let’s just say I love her as much as I love my own skin.

  I love them all. My dad, my step-mom, my brother, and my sister. They are the only reason I haven’t burned this estate to the ground to get away from my grandfather.

  "Ragna?" my step-mother asked, tilting her head. "Why do you look so serious? Are you thinking about the ceremony?"

  I looked up at her warm, worried eyes. I couldn't tell her the truth. I couldn't tell her, 'Hey, in six months, I’m going to be thrown out like garbage because I have empty holes in my soul.'

  So, I just smiled—a real, genuine smile. "No, Mama. I was just thinking that this pudding is good."

  She beamed, hugging me tight. "I’ll make you as much as you want, my sweet boy."

  I leaned into her embrace, savoring the warmth. I needed to remember this. Because I knew, deep down, that winter was coming.

  The Day of Judgment

  Six months passed in the blink of an eye. The day of the Awakening Ceremony arrived.

  The central hall of the Crimson estate was packed. The air hummed with tension. In the center of the room stood a massive crystal podium, designed to draw out and display a child’s core.

  And there, sitting on a high throne like a dried-up prune in expensive robes, was my grandfather. The Patriarch.

  "Step forward, Ragna Crimson," he commanded, his voice dry as dust.

  I walked up the steps. I could feel my father’s gaze on my back—heavy, hopeful. I could feel my step-mother clutching her hands to her chest.

  Here goes nothing.

  I placed my hand on the crystal.

  Hummmmm.

  The magic engaged. The room held its breath.

  Lights began to swirl inside the crystal. But instead of forming a solid, glowing sphere—a Core—the light fractured. It split into three distinct, hollow rings.

  Empty. Empty. Empty.

  Three gaping voids where power should be.

  The silence that followed was deafening. It wasn't just quiet; it was the sound of a reputation dying.

  "Trash," my grandfather whispered. But in the silent hall, it sounded like a gunshot.

  He stood up, his face purple with rage. "A Crimson with no core? A cripple? You dare stand before me with this... this emptiness?"

  "Father, wait!" My dad stepped forward, his hand on his sword hilt. "He has potential! His swordsmanship is—"

  "Silence, Akira!" the old man roared. He pointed a trembling finger at me. "He is a stain on our lineage! I will not have a core-less leech inheriting my legacy!"

  He began to chant. A banishment spell.

  "Wait, you can't be serious!" I shouted, dropping the toddler act. "You're going to banish a six-year-old?"

  "Begone, defect!"

  The floor beneath me began to glow with a sickly green light. I felt a tugging sensation behind my navel—teleportation magic. Crude, rough, and one-way.

  I looked at my family one last time. My father was being held back by guards, screaming. My step-mother was sobbing, reaching out for me.

  I’m sorry, I thought. I’ll come back. I promise.

  ZAP.

  The Forest of No Return

  The air changed instantly. The smell of perfume and old wood was replaced by the scent of damp earth, rotting leaves, and something copper-like. Blood.

  I hit the ground hard, rolling to a stop in a pile of mud.

  I stood up and brushed myself off. I was in the middle of a dense, dark jungle. The trees were massive, blocking out most of the sunlight. The sounds of distant, guttural roars echoed through the canopy.

  So. This is it. Banishment.

  "Fuck you!" I screamed at the sky. "Fuck you, you old geezer! You wrinkled raisin! Just you wait! I’ll come back and turn your dentures into a necklace!"

  I kicked a tree. It hurt.

  "And Talestia!" I yelled, shaking a fist at the clouds. "Thanks for the 'wisdom,' you useless goddess! Would it have killed you to give me a starter pack? A tutorial weapon? Anything besides potential?"

  Huh. Calm down, Ragna. Breathe.

  And you, dear readers. I know what you’re thinking. 'Oh, poor Ragna, this is so tragic.'

  This is happening for your entertainment, isn't it? You like seeing me suffer?

  Fuck you too. (Middle finger emoji).

  And what do you think I would say next? Nothing to the writer?

  Oh, I have words for him.

  Hey, Writer! Yeah, you!

  Fuck Y... (Wait, why can't I say it?)

  F... me.

  Damn X... me.

  Huh! Alright, Writer. You win this round. You have the edit button. But I will try again.

  You’re a piece of sh... my father.

  Ahhh dammit! He changed it to 'my father'. That doesn't even make sense!

  Alright, fine. You win. I’m done breaking the fourth wall for five minutes.

  (I mean, let's go.)

  What? Why are you still here?

  Just turn the page and go on. If the writer has not written it, then it is not my mistake.