Overwhelming Firepower Chapter 388: The Beginning of Hatred

Once upon a time, in an era long forgotten by time, in an empire that no longer exists, there lived a commoner who was a talented mage beyond comprehension.

He was not born in a noble estate, nor was he raised inside a tower filled with books and crystals. He was born in a small town near the edge of the empire, in a house that leaked whenever it rained and grew cold whenever winter came.

His parents were ordinary people. His father repaired roofs and fences. His mother washed clothes for soldiers who passed through their town.

They had no bloodline worth mentioning, no inherited magic, no famous ancestor, and no patron willing to raise their child into greatness.

Still, the boy had no need for a teacher as the world itself was his teacher. The boy had a unique ability to see the invisible force of mana. Since he could see it and interact with it, he started to learn how to manipulate it.

At first, the adults thought the boy was simply strange. He would stare at empty air for hours.

He would reach out toward nothing, moving his fingers as if he were touching invisible threads.

Sometimes, a candle flame would bend toward him without wind. Sometimes, dust would gather in strange circles around his feet.

In this era, only nobles knew of magic, and the commoners only heard rumors of it. Seeing such a sight made them think that the boy was being possessed by a spirit.

Some adults told his parents to take him to a temple and have the clerics cleanse him.

Others told them to abandon the boy before whatever possessed him brought misfortune to the entire town.

His parents did not listen. They were ordinary people, but they loved their son. Even if they did not understand what he was seeing, even if the neighbors whispered and avoided their home, they continued to hold his hand when he became frightened.

The boy did not understand why people feared him. To him, the world had always been full of light.

Mana drifted through the air like countless threads. It flowed through the soil, gathered around flames, clung to water, and moved through people like breath. He thought everyone could see the same world as him.

When the boy turned eight, a noble mage came to the village after hearing stories of a boy who talks to trees and can bend light.

The noble mage was a rather kind old man who wanted to take the young boy as his apprentice.

At first, the boy’s parents refused. They did not know what kind of world mages lived in. They did not know what nobles did inside their towers, nor did they understand why someone so important would suddenly want their son.

To them, magic was not a path to greatness. It was a door to a world they could never follow. It might mean never seeing their son ever again.

The old mage understood their fear. He did not threaten them. He did not wave his noble title around.

He simply sat inside their small, leaking house, drank the thin soup the boy’s mother offered him, and spoke to them like people.

He stayed in the village, slowly trying to convince the boy’s parents. Despite being of noble status and a mage at that, he did not shy away from working in the dirt with the others.

He was kind and well-liked by the villagers. He spoke to the boy and taught him of the wonders of magic, and he told him stories of the bigger world outside the village.

The boy listened to those stories with wide eyes. To him, the world outside the village had always been something distant. He could never imagine something so grand as what the old mage was saying.

He wanted to see it; he wanted to see that grand world with his own eyes. He wanted to learn more about spells, about mana. He wanted to go on heroic adventures.

The old mage saw that desire in the boy’s eyes, and so did his parents. What kind of parents would hold back their child? Especially one as talented as their own. In the end, they allowed him to leave.

His mother cried the night before his departure. His father said very little, but he spent the whole evening making travelling boots for his son. He poured everything into making them; this was his final gift to his beloved child.

The next morning, the boy left his village.

He wore the boots his father made. They were a little stiff, a little rough, and far from the kind of shoes noble children wore, but to the boy, they were more precious than any treasure.

His mother hugged him until his ribs hurt. His father placed one large hand on his head and told him to listen well, learn well, and never forget where he came from.

"And always remember you are our son, our most precious treasure." The boy nodded with tears in his eyes. Then he followed the old mage.

At first, the journey felt like an adventure from one of the stories he had heard. He saw stone roads wide enough for carriages to travel side by side.

He saw towns larger than his village, markets filled with goods he had never seen before, and soldiers wearing armor polished so brightly that the sun reflected from their chests.

Yet among all those things, what fascinated him the most was the way mages spoke.

The old mage sometimes used magic during their journey. Unlike him, who manipulated mana through touch, the old mage reshaped the very essence of mana using words.

Sometimes, when the wagon wheel sank into mud, the old mage would utter a short phrase, and the earth beneath the wheel would harden. When the fire in their camp began to die, he would speak another word, and the flames would rise again.

To normal people, it looked like magic. To the boy, it looked like a conversation. The words left the old mage’s mouth, and mana answered.

At first, the boy thought all words could do this. He whispered the names of stones, trees, water, and fire when no one was watching. Nothing happened. The mana around him did not respond.

It was only when the old mage spoke that the invisible threads bent and changed. One night, while they rested beneath a large tree beside the road, the boy finally asked.

"Master, why does mana listen when you speak?"

The old mage paused. For a moment, he looked surprised. Then his expression softened. "So you noticed that."

The boy nodded. "When you speak, the mana changes. It is different from when I move it with my hands."

The old mage stared at him for a long time before laughing quietly. "This is the language of dragons, who are the strongest creatures in the world. They control mana and reshape with words alone."

The boy’s eyes widened. "Dragons?"

"Unlike other races that had their special abilities, humans had nothing, but we tried everything. We copied the smithing of dwarves, the monster taming of orcs, the fighting style of beastmen, the way to speak to spirits from elves, and how to manipulate mana from dragons. We might not be as good as the other races in their specialties, but we can use them all, and with our numbers, our territory is larger than the other races."

The boy listened to the old mage’s words with shining eyes. Humans had nothing. That was what the old mage said.

Yet to the boy, those words did not sound shameful. If anything, they sounded wonderful. Humans had nothing, so they reached for everything. They listened, they copied, they failed, and then they tried again, never giving up.

***

Several years passed, and the boy grew up into a man of great power and skill. He continued to learn under the old mage and even surpassed him.

The old mage loved the boy as if he were his own grandson. Still, in the world of mages that was full of noble bloodlines, a person with a commoner’s background surpassing them was quite an insult.

Many had hurled direct insults at the young man, but the young man did not care. He continued learning more and more, advancing the way they use mana and spells.

He was shunned by almost every other mage, but that was alright as long as he had the old man. Unfortunately, no matter how great a mage you are, a human has a limited lifespan, and the old mage was reaching his end.

"Don’t cry, my beloved disciple. The days I spent adventuring with you, teaching you, and learning from you were the most wonderful and exciting years of my life. I have seen many more wonders thanks to you..."

The old mage’s voice was faint. Once, that voice had been strong enough to calm storms of mana and command fire to rise from dying embers. Now, it trembled like a candle flame before the wind.

The young man knelt beside his bed, holding the old mage’s thin hand. "Master, there must be something I can do."

The old mage smiled weakly. "There are things even magic cannot change."

The young man lowered his head. He hated those words. He hated them more than any insult the nobles had thrown at him. He hated them because they were true.

He had learned to move mana. He had learned to reshape spells. He had learned to twist the draconic words humans had copied for generations and make them clearer, sharper, stronger. He could control the very forces of nature, but he could not stop time.

He could not gain what was lost, and he could not extend someone’s life. He could not command the body of the old man before him to remain alive.

The old mage slowly raised his trembling hand and touched the young man’s head, just as he had done when the boy was still eight years old.

"You were the greatest student I could have ever asked for."

"Master..."

"But remember this," the old mage whispered. "Talent is not everything. Knowledge is not everything. Power is not everything. If you let loneliness turn into hatred, then all the magic in the world will only make you more miserable."

The young man could not say anything and simply held onto his master’s hand.

The old mage smiled one last time. "Live well, and be happy..."

Those were his final words. The hand on the young man’s head slowly lost its strength.

For a long time, the young man did not move. He simply knelt there, holding the hand of the person who had given him the world.

The tower held a funeral for the old mage. Many noble mages attended. They wore solemn expressions, spoke refined words, and praised the old man’s achievements.

They called him a great mage, a wise teacher, and a pillar of the empire. Yet many of those same people had mocked his final decision in life.

They had mocked him for taking in a commoner. They had laughed behind his back for calling that commoner his greatest disciple.

Now that the old mage was gone, their eyes changed. The young man noticed it immediately. Before, they had held back because of his master. Now, there was no one standing between him and the tower.

No one insulted him openly during the funeral. They were not that foolish. But after the old mage’s body was burned and his ashes were sealed inside a small stone urn, the whispers began again.

"A pity. The old man wasted his final years."

"That commoner has no patron now."

"His talent is dangerous."

"Someone like him should know his place."

The young man heard them.

He heard every word, but he did not speak. He simply stood before his master’s grave, wearing the old travelling boots his father had made for him years ago. The leather had been repaired many times, but he never threw them away.

His parents had given him those boots so he could walk toward the future. His master had given him magic so he could see that future. Now, both felt unbearably heavy.

Days passed, and the harassment against him was becoming more and more intense. He tried to continue his research, but it proved difficult as every path he was trying to take, someone was blocking him from moving forward.

Despite having money, he could not find any of the materials he needed, nor did any merchant wish to sell him items.

He tried to hire mercenaries to get what he needed, but none would take his commissions. He was forced to do everything alone. The joy he felt while researching was slowly being eroded as hardships kept piling up.

It was during those days that he met her. At first, she was nothing more than a stranger standing in front of a merchant stall. He was once again being told by a merchant that he had nothing to sell him.

That was when a woman’s voice spoke from behind him. "Then sell it to me."

The merchant immediately changed his expression. His back straightened, and his voice became polite. "Of course, my lady."

A woman wearing a pale cloak stood a few steps away. Her face was partly hidden beneath the hood, but he could still see her eyes. They were calm, clear, and strangely fearless. Once the woman got the item, he handed it to the young man.

"Here you need it, right?"

"Um... Are you sure? This might get you into trouble?"

"Trouble? Heh, I always get into trouble."

That was how he met her. Her name, which he would never forget, was Liora Veyne, the only daughter of Viscount Veyne. She was not the kind of noble he had known inside the tower. She did not look at him with disgust, nor did she speak to him as if his common blood stained the air around him.

At first, she only helped him because she found the situation amusing. Then she helped him again because she wanted to see what he would create. Before long, she began visiting his workshop, listening to his theories with a smile while pretending she understood everything.

The young man knew she did not understand all of it, but she listened. That alone made her different from everyone else.

Years passed, and the two grew close. She became the one person who stood beside him when the tower turned its back on him. She brought him materials, books, and rumors from noble circles. He, in turn, showed her the world of mana only he could see.

For the first time since his master died, the young man was no longer lonely. He loved her, and she loved him.

It was at that time that a war had begun on the eastern border, and the emperor needed a weapon powerful enough to crush his enemies.

The young man refused at first. He had no desire to kill strangers for nobles who had spent years trying to bury him. Magic was not meant for taking lives; it was meant to enrich them.

Then Liora disappeared. Her family estate was surrounded by imperial soldiers. Her father was arrested. Her mother was taken. Liora herself was brought to the palace as a guest.

The message was loud and clear. Fight for the empire, and she would live. So, with no choice, he fought on the battlefield.

The commoner mage who had once dreamed of heroic adventures became the empire’s most terrifying weapon. Fortresses fell, armies were burned, and enemy mages died before they could finish speaking.

He won the war for them. He returned victorious, thinking of his beloved. At the capital gates, the emperor’s right-hand man awaited him with a calm expression.

"The Veyne family was found guilty of treason. They were executed three months ago. Alongside your parents that colluded with them." The man spoke with utter indifference.

Hearing those words, the young man could not breathe, his heart was racing his head was dizzy.

"And you, ally of the Veyne, are judged as a traitor and sentenced to death." The army that had come with the man surrounded the young mage.

It was at that moment that something within the young man broke. He just wanted to learn more, to see more, he wanted to have a family with her, that was all he wanted. Yet the empire took everything from him.

The young man roared, his mana surging all around; the mana in the surrounding area also shook the very ground. In that instant, he killed everything in sight.

Soldiers, knights, mages, and the emperor’s right-hand man were all torn apart by the storm of mana that burst from him.

The capital gates shattered. The stone road cracked. The air screamed as if the world itself had been wounded, but even after killing them, his hatred did not fade.

Liora was still dead.

His master was still gone.

His parents were no more.

Everything he loved was taken from him. The boy who had once wanted to see the world and its wonders had vanished beneath grief.

The empire tried to hunt him down. Armies marched after him. Mages were sent to kill him. Temples declared him cursed. Every noble who had once mocked him now feared his name.

He studied death because life had betrayed him. He studied corpses because the living had taken everything. He learned how to bind mana to bone, how to force dead hands to move, and how to make fallen warriors rise again with the skills they had possessed in life.

The first undead he created could barely walk. The hundredth could hold a sword. The thousandth had become as skilled as any knight.

With an army of corpses behind him, he marched toward the empire that had stolen his beloved. Yet even with all his genius, he was still human. His body weakened. His enemies surrounded him. The empire, desperate and terrified, gathered everything it had left to destroy him.

So he used his final spell. He tore his soul from his dying body and sealed it inside the last gift Liora had given him.

Then the man disappeared from the living world. The empire believed it had won. Centuries had passed, and the empire crumbled into the dust of time. Yet deep beneath forgotten earth, something opened its eyes filled with unending hatred.