When Did I Lose Myself?

I’m not sure if at any point in my life I’ve ever done something I truly wanted. It feels like God never gave me that chance.

Or at least, that’s what I might believe.

What value does someone like me have?

My name is Ryo Shinmon. I was born in Kasarawa Village, a small settlement under the diplomacy of the Asura Kingdom. I’m currently 16 years old, and I’m trying to find my purpose.

To tell you a bit about myself, I need to go back 13 years.

At that time, I was just a three-year-old child. But there was a problem—I never really had a childhood. My father was killed months before I was born, a victim of a settling of scores. He was a chronic debtor. According to “that man” who told me about him, my father spent half his free time on three things.

The first, and most important to him, was gambling. He believed he was an omniscient genius, that his failures were just pieces of a puzzle he needed to solve to achieve ultimate success—a success that never came.

The second was frequenting brothels. Despite being married with children, he saw monogamy as a dull choice that didn’t suit his desire for freedom. He was a Casanova, hopping from one fling to another.

The third was fighting. Despite his reputation as a complete failure, he wasn’t bad in a fight. In fact, he was quite capable when he took it seriously.

But treating life like a constant game is a grave mistake if you want to survive. He never grasped that, and one day, while returning from fishing, he was kidnapped, had his throat slit, and was dumped in a river.

A few months later, I was born.

My mother, as I was told by the vendors who helped deliver me, had a psychotic breakdown shortly after my birth. She directed her rage at me, and that day, I lost a toe on my left foot.

I don’t know what caused her breakdown. But two years later, I learned something else significant: she was attracted to women.

Back then, I didn’t understand. My mind was still naive and innocent, and though most of my memories from that time are vague, some things remain vivid. I remember how she brought a different woman to our shared room every night, engaging in sexual acts in front of me. The saliva dripping from her mouth sometimes fell onto my small body as I lay there. Her partner, when penetrated with some vegetable, would lean on me, digging her nails into my chest as if I were a fleshy pillow.

I could go on, but I don’t want to dwell on such graphic memories.

That was just the tip of the pyramid. Some time later, my mother became a prostitute. I wouldn’t be ashamed today to say my mother did that to provide for me as a young child—but that wasn’t the case. She turned to prostitution to fund a strange magical powder called “Narkhama,” whose origins remain unknown to this day.

This powder worked like oil in water—two substances that don’t mix but remain in a fixed state. Narkhama drained negative mana into the user’s body, which clashed with their natural mana. Since neither could dominate the other, they fought in a battle of attrition. Whichever mana ran out first would disappear, leaving the user exhausted. Yet, it’s said there’s no sensation more satisfying than consuming that powder.

There’s no simple explanation for it.

My mother was an active user, and over time, she developed a neurotic condition called “Magical Persecution.” The name comes from the belief that everyone is an enemy, forcing the sufferer into a constant state of paranoia and stress. This stress grows daily, turning them into an irrational, incoherent being. The “Magical” part refers to the mana imbalance causing these effects.

As a result, my mother spent half her time in a state of intense stress. Her way of relieving it? Using me.

She set up a dark room in the attic, filled with tools and objects on shelves. She placed a chair there, which she called “The Chair of Peace.” I was five years old the first time she tied me to that chair with belts and began testing methods to relieve her stress.

The first method was hitting my legs with a hammer. It didn’t calm her, so she deemed it ineffective.

The second was striking my head with a wooden plank. The plank breaking frustrated her more, so it was discarded.

The third was pinching and twisting my skin with pliers. She found it clumsy and discarded it.

The fourth was pressing hot metal pipes against my skin until they sank in. The process was too slow, so she abandoned it.

The fifth was crushing glass—not too finely—and throwing it onto my body. Since it didn’t satisfy her, it was discarded.

I mentioned the chair was called “The Chair of Peace,” didn’t I? Well, the person sitting in it wasn’t the one who’d find peace.

This went on until she reached her hundredth method.

The method that worked for her was emotional abuse.

For her, there was no greater satisfaction than unloading all her toxic thoughts onto someone without restraint. So, she made it a daily ritual after consuming Narkhama.

This lasted an entire year until the following year, when something inevitable happened.

Our village was invaded. The “Rakasaoka” clan decided to burn it down to expand their territory. As everyone evacuated, I remained tied to the chair, and it was only a matter of time before they found me and ended my life.

“Is this it?” I thought. “So this is all there is.”

“At least I wish I’d had a friend to mourn my death.”

But what is “all”? Is “all” the absolute?

When I thought about whether I had any dreams, I came to a conclusion: I dreamed of having value.

I’d already let myself be beaten, but the one who strikes first doesn’t always win. The belt she used to tie me hadn’t been changed in those hundred days—it had loosened over time. Though I ate and drank little, with immense effort, I managed to slip out of the belts.

I stumbled down from the attic to the first floor. My steps were unsteady, almost as if I’d forgotten how to walk, but with what little energy I had, I made it to the back door. Being small, I could crouch and sneak toward the village square, hiding behind fences.

What I saw was something I never imagined.

Piles of corpses were stacked like mountains—babies, children, men, women, and elders, all alike. A place that once overflowed with life had become a den of vile, cruel beasts waiting for more prey to devour.

But the perpetrators weren’t monstrous creatures. They were people—people who looked just like us.

I crept silently, my footsteps light, and reached the village’s exit. I ran as rain mingled with my tears of fear. In the distance, I heard shouts: “Over there!”

This was the end, I assumed.

But if it was the end, why did I keep running? Perhaps, though my mind had accepted defeat, my heart still screamed for one last chance.

“Please, God, just this once, let me have what I want.”

One last chance.

One final breath.

A breath that would tell me, “Everything will be okay.”

But my legs, desperate to keep running, gave out, and the closest thing to an embrace I’d ever felt was the mud piling on my back as I fell.

As I heard my pursuers’ footsteps closing in, I made my decision: I’d given all I could. Whatever happened next depended on whether God had heard me.

“I wonder if killing you would make a difference in your current state,” someone said.

I looked toward the voice and saw a tall, burly figure—a hooded man whose face I couldn’t make out.

“Who are you…?” I asked.

“Kid, what does it mean to live?” he replied.

What is living? I didn’t know, but instinctively, I answered, “I think it would be something beautiful…”

Living isn’t the same for everyone.

For some, it’s a privilege, a luxury to cherish. For others, it’s a prison you can only escape by ending it all. But undoubtedly, living is something beautiful—because we’re here, because we *can* be here, because being here means we can dream. And even if our dreams don’t come true, believing they might is enough to make each day worth living.

In that moment, I saw a smile on the man’s face. A dark whirlwind swept through the area, and cries of agony from my pursuers filled the air before I fell unconscious.

Part 2

When I woke up, I was in a room with wooden walls and a refined stone ceiling. The single bed was comfortable, and there was a birch desk beside a bookshelf filled with books.

As I studied the room, I heard footsteps in the hallway. I stepped back from the door, and a tall, burly man entered, wearing a garment embroidered with a golden dragon. He removed his hood and looked at me.

“Welcome back to life, kid,” he said with a deep, commanding voice.

“W-Who are you?” I stammered.

“My name is Aaron Coperville.”

I later learned of Aaron Coperville’s greatness when I taught myself to read. He was a master of dark elemental magic, hailing from a minor royal family, the Copervilles. They weren’t particularly prestigious, but Aaron was different. He could devour mountains with his dark magic. At 11, he abandoned his family, believing they were a disgrace.

He crouched in front of me, inspecting me from head to toe.

“I’ve introduced myself, so it’s only polite to return the gesture, right?” he said.

“Y-Yes…! I-I’m Ryo… Ryo Shinmon.”

“Well, Shin,” he said.

“Sh-Shin…?” I repeated. A nickname was new to me.

“I bet you have a lot of questions, don’t you?” he asked.

“Well… yeah…”

“Go ahead, then.”

“Who are you? I mean… what do you do, and all that stuff…”

“I’m a Class SS+ Archmage.”

“W-What!?”

In this world, magical ranks range from F to SSS+. Rank F mages have basic magical control but lack skill, often using magic for daily life rather than combat. Class S mages are exceptional, capable of wiping out monstrous armies with ease. SS+ Archmages are on another level entirely, able to split continents with minimal effort. And then there are those whose power borders on divine.

It’s said the most powerful mage in history, Ajax Harmunder, recreated a universe using mana flow—though those are just rumors. For a mage, the only limit is imagination.

Aaron sat beside me on the floor. “Kid, my darkness doesn’t discriminate. It can devour any kind of darkness. But when I saw yours, I noticed it went beyond any atrocity I’d ever witnessed.”

“I-I…” I stammered.

“Do you know what the greatest enhancer for a mage is?”

“I’ve never had the chance to study…”

“Emotions,” he said, opening his palm to reveal a small dark flame. “This flame represents my state of mind. Magic isn’t just a skill—it’s part of our being, our soul. Do you know what it takes to turn this small flame into a blaze?”

“F-Fire?”

“Hahaha, no. It takes a *stimulus*, something to feed the flame. You won’t find that stimulus in mana or your surroundings—it’s in your blood and mind.”

“I don’t understand, sir…”

“I know. When I lived with my family, I felt something dampening my flame, making it weak, like a faint warmth. They were content with their basic elemental magic, thinking it made them superior. But they were just a collection of sparks pretending to be a blaze. They lacked the stimulus to grow, but I was different. The more frustration and anger I felt, the more my fire wanted to burn. So, I left to become the ultimate eruption.”

“That sounds amazing… but why would someone as great as you tell a miserable person like me something like that?”

“Shin, when I saw your eyes, your body lying there waiting for the end… I saw the greatest stimulus I’ve ever witnessed.”

That stimulus was…

“The desire to live.”

“W-What? N-No… I was preparing for my death.”

“True, you were preparing for death. But your heart was beating—not just biologically, but because it refused to stop.”

“If my heart stops, I-I’d die… that’s normal…”

“You’ll understand one day, Shin. But I can’t let a source of such immense stimulus like you fade into a mere spark that once tried to ignite.”

“W-What do you mean…?”

“Shin, I want you to become my disciple—not just in body, but in soul.”

“I don’t have elemental magic like you…”

“You don’t need it.”

Aaron pulled a long rectangular box from under the bed and opened it, revealing a sheathed sword.

“When you have enough power, you can create interesting things like this,” he said, unsheathing the sword. A purple aura emanated from it. “I made this sword at 13, trying to harness my full power, but I could only contain 15% of it.”

“Shin, become my sword.”

“You want me to turn into an object!?”

“Hahaha, no, not at all. I mean, fight by my side.”

“But I don’t have any skills…”

“That’s what training is for. I wasn’t born muscular, you know.”

“I don’t know if I can… No one’s ever trusted me with anything. I’m scared I’ll just be a burden to you. If that happens, I don’t think I’d ever trust myself again.”

Aaron stood and lifted me into his arms. “Shin, do you know what’s scarier than failing?”

I shook my head.

“Standing still while life moves on. You can’t bathe in the same river twice, Shin. Everything changes, and you can too. I’ll trust in you, even blindly.”

In that moment, his words felt like they saved my life. “What’s my value?” I didn’t know if my worth could be measured, but with this man I can say "don't worry, everything will be okay"