Mav burst through the door of their home, his breath coming in ragged gasps, as if the air itself were too thick to draw into his lungs. The walls of the house, usually warm and familiar, seemed to close in on him, amplifying the turmoil that churned inside his mind. The familiar scent of the wooden beams and the distant hum of the village felt foreign, tainted by his anguish.

The village chief and Mav’s parents arrived soon after, having seen the distressed way he had fled the carriage. They exchanged silent, grave glances, their eyes reflecting a mutual understanding of the weight of Mav’s struggle. The village chief, a man whose eyes had seen more than his mouth had ever spoken, cleared his throat, breaking the oppressive silence. "I see," he murmured, his voice gravelly with the burden of years. "Give him time to come to terms with it. He’s young. Oraios Village will always be here for him. We’ll support him in whatever way he needs."

Mav’s parents nodded, their faces etched with the same quiet determination. There was no need for more words; they knew this was a battle Mav had to fight on his own, but they would stand by, ready to catch him if he fell.

In the months that followed, Mav withdrew into himself, seeking refuge in the only thing that made sense—physical exertion. Each morning began with a ritual of push-ups and curl-ups, his body moving mechanically, as if the repetition could somehow beat his thoughts into submission. His runs took him farther and farther from the village, the pounding of his feet against the earth matching the frantic beat of his heart.

He threw himself into climbing trees in the nearby forest, each branch a new challenge, a new way to prove he could overcome something—anything. The fruits he gathered on these trips became small tokens of his effort, but more than that, they were proof that he could still be useful, even if only in the simplest ways.

As Mav’s muscles hardened and his stamina grew, the heavy thoughts of his useless affinity for the Dark Flame began to fade. The physicality of his new routines—sweat, strain, and the simple pleasure of his body growing stronger—became his focus, pushing his doubts to the edges of his mind. The dark cloud of uncertainty that had loomed since the Bestowal Ceremony seemed to dissipate, though its shadow lingered faintly in the background.

Months and years passed, and by the time Mav reached 12 years old, his routine had become a way of life, shaping him into a stronger and more disciplined individual.

But life, ever unpredictable, dealt another cruel hand. Emily, his mother, fell ill without warning. Her sickness was a mystery, a slow, insidious force that drained her strength with each passing day. Mav’s world, already fragile, began to fracture anew.

As Emily's condition worsened, the village rallied around her, but their efforts were in vain. No remedy seemed to touch the illness that gripped her. The sense of helplessness that had once been a quiet undercurrent in Mav’s life now threatened to drown him. The exercises that had once brought him solace became a distant memory as he took over Emily’s duties in the vegetable garden, his hands working the soil with a mechanical rhythm, his mind wandering back to the fear gnawing at his heart.

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The visits to Blue Flame healers became a routine of their own—each one bringing a flicker of hope that was quickly extinguished. The few they could afford offered kind words but little else. Their skills, limited by their own low affinities, could only provide temporary relief. The healers who might have been able to do more were either too expensive or too far away, caught up in the battlefields where their talents were most needed.

One night, as the cold wind whispered through the cracks in their small home, Emily’s condition took a drastic turn. Her breathing grew shallow, each breath more labored than the last. She fell into a deep sleep, one from which Mav and Nacht could not rouse her. The inevitability of her fate hung heavy in the air, a silent truth neither could deny.

Despair settled over Mav like a shroud, suffocating and relentless. The memory of the Bestowal Ceremony surfaced in his mind, bringing with it a wave of bitter regret. How small and insignificant those feelings seemed now, compared to the darkness that loomed over them. But even in this moment, as hopelessness clawed at his heart, he couldn’t escape the reminder of his affinities.

His thoughts drifted to his pitiful affinity for the Blue Flame. A mere 5 out of 120—almost a cruel joke, if it weren’t so painfully real. But what choice did he have? It was all he could cling to, all that was left to him in the face of his mother’s suffering.

Back then, he had quickly dismissed them as useless. Why bother wasting precious mana on a fireball that could barely singe a leaf or a healing flame that could only close a scratch? He had convinced himself that even trying to use these skills would be a waste of time and energy. And besides, every time he opened his status, the memory of the Bestowal Ceremony came rushing back—the way the crowd had stared, the whispers, the pitying looks. The shame that had gripped him that day lingered long after, festering in his mind and growing with each passing day.

The trauma from that day had taken root deep within him, a constant reminder of his perceived inadequacy. It had made him wary of using his skills, afraid that each attempt would only confirm what he feared most—that he was useless, a failure. So, he had pushed it all aside, focusing on physical exercise, on helping his mother with the vegetables, anything to distract himself from the painful truth.

But now, as he sat in front of his dying mother, the memories of those days came flooding back. The shame, the fear, the constant refrain in his mind that told him he wasn’t good enough—it all seemed so small compared to the desperation he felt now. His mother was slipping away, and he was out of options.

For the first time in years, he felt a flicker of hope, however faint. Maybe… just maybe, he had overlooked something. Maybe there was more to his skills than he had originally thought. And maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to save her.

Driven by that faint hope and the desperation of the moment, Mav made the decision to try once more. He whispered the words that had haunted him for so long, “Display Status,” and prepared to face the truth, whatever it might be.

The dark-colored box appeared before him, stark and unfeeling, listing his affinities with a cold, detached precision.