They never expected much from him.

Not first, not best, not chosen. He was the one who arrived late to a race that had already begun. The others were younger, faster, sharper—groomed for this life since childhood. He came in at twenty-eight, already older than most fresh recruits, with hands that had never swung a real sword and a past empty of training, titles, legacy, or mentors. Just a late bloomer with a stubborn streak.

He remembered those early days vividly—how he stood out, not because he was special, but because he didn't belong.

The rookies mocked him, called him old man like it was a curse. He was slow, clumsy, his stance awkward and unsure. They laughed when he tripped. They sneered when he stayed behind after drills, drenched in sweat long after the sun had set.

"Old man's gonna break his back before he even gets a hit in," they'd joke, tossing their words like stones.

The veterans were colder. They didn't laugh—they ignored him. He was a novelty at best, a waste of resources at worst. They dismissed him as someone who was playing around.

"Go back to the forge before getting yourself killed," one of them sneered, not even looking at him in the eye.

They didn't see the bruises he wrapped in silence. The bloodied palms from swinging too long, the blisters beneath worn gloves. They didn't see the nights he spent studying—tactical manuals in one hand, monster behavior logs in the other, replaying old battle footage until his eyes blurred... or maybe they chose not to see.

But Sébastien never lashed out. He never explained. He simply stayed—day after day, pushing, training, learning. He joined sessions he wasn't officially signed up for, slipping into the back without a word. Most instructors let it slide. Some didn't even notice. But he was always there—watching with sharp, tired eyes, absorbing everything like a man trying to catch up to years he'd already lost.

If he was slower, then he'd be more precise. If he was weaker, then he'd be smarter. If he didn't belong, He'd earn his place—inch by inch, breath by breath.

***

Sébastien was painfully aware of how absurd it was to start combat training at twenty-eight.

In a world where most trainees began at seventeen, sometimes younger, he stood out like a rusted blade among polished steel. But it wasn't like he came from nothing. Before all this, he had a place. A respectable job. A future others envied.

No, he didn't come from a family of fighters—he didn't even have a family. He was a junior forgemaster, trained under none other than Master Eckhart Kraus—renowned for his work in binding elemental channels into weaponry. Under Eckhart, Sébastien had spent years etching runes into steel, infusing metals with rare dusts, stabilizing enchantments that others barely understood. On paper, he was set for life.

But the longer he spent in the forge, the more restlessness grew inside him.

Every tool he shaped was meant for the field—for others to wield. Others who bled and broke and fought things that didn't follow the rules written in old books. Every scarred fighter who returned from the wilds brought back more than stories—they brought a reminder: no matter how finely crafted a blade was, it meant nothing if you didn't understand what it was really for.

More and more, he found himself listening too closely to their stories. Not for inspiration—but for longing. For something he couldn't name.

It was a slow unraveling. First, a thought. Then a whisper. Then a pull he couldn't ignore.

The forge started to feel too clean. Too still. Like he was writing stories in a language he'd never spoken aloud.

He remembered the night he finally told Eckhart.

"You've got the mind for this," Eckhart had said, not looking up. "Don't go chasing ghosts."

But it wasn't ghosts Sébastien was chasing. It was something real. Something he needed to touch with his own hands. To feel under his skin, in his bones.

So he left.

Walked away from a future paved in certainty, and stepped into one built entirely on doubt.

People thought it was madness. Maybe it was. But every bruise, every failure, every silent hour in the training yard felt truer than any blueprint ever had.

He'd forged weapons his whole life. Now, he was becoming one.

***

After a few months, one instructor finally acknowledged him.

"He's rough," he told another instructor. "But he learns. And more importantly—he doesn't quit."

That was how he got his first real opportunity: a spot on a low-leveled support squad. It wasn't glamorous. They weren't heroes. Most of the time they cleaned up after higher-ranked teams, handled minor infestations, and escorted caravans through roads no one remembered. But to him, it was everything.

Every mission was a lesson. Every failure, a chance to grow. He listened, he watched, he grew. Not all at once—but steadily, quietly, like roots twisting deep into the earth.

And little by little, he began to change.

Not into the strongest. Not into the fastest. But into someone who could be counted on. Someone who stayed standing when others fell.

He didn't need to be chosen. He just needed a chance.

And once he had that—he never let go.