The day when a king was born

The day a child’s nickname is revealed is one of the most important moments in their life. It is not simply a title; it is fate itself, dictating power, status, and future.
For nobles, it is a moment of pride. For commoners, it is a moment of hope. For outcasts, it is often a moment of despair.
Ren’s parents had been neither poor nor noble. They were middle-class citizens in the Kingdom of Rosian, and when their firstborn son was placed before the Namebearer, they prayed for something grand.
The Namebearer, an elderly woman with eyes like fading stars, placed a hand on the baby’s forehead. She whispered the sacred words, and the light of fate shimmered in the air. The world itself seemed to hold its breath as the name was revealed.
“Cowardly King.”
Silence.
It took a few seconds for the words to settle, for their meaning to fully sink in. Ren’s mother, who had been smiling moments before, froze. His father, who had imagined a future of glory, felt his heart drop into his stomach.
A king.
But a cowardly one?
The room grew tense. Even the Namebearer hesitated before nodding slowly. “It is set in stone,” she said, her voice lacking the warmth she had shown other families.
The world had spoken. Ren was destined to be a king of nothing.
No cheers. No celebration. No happiness.
Ren did not cry that day. He did not wail like other newborns. He simply stared at the world, as if he already understood the weight of his name.
And so his life began.

Ren quickly realized that something was different about him.
He wasn’t abused. His parents still provided food, clothes, and a home. But there was a distance—a silent disappointment that filled the air like an unspoken curse.
Other children his age were paraded through the streets when their names were revealed. Titles like Iron Guardian or Stormblade were celebrated, their bearers given the best teachers and opportunities.
Ren?
He was ignored.
If he had been born without a title at all, perhaps life would have been easier. But the word “King” was in his name—an insult to those who had truly earned the right to rule.
“Look at him,” they whispered. “A king? What kind of king hides in the shadows?”
At first, Ren didn’t understand. But as the years passed, he learned.
He learned that in this world, strength meant everything.
And he had none.

Ren was five when he first discovered what the Cowardly King could do.
He had been playing alone in the garden, crouched near the dirt, watching ants march in perfect lines. He reached out, wondering what would happen if he told them to stop.
They did.
He blinked.
He willed them to move left. They obeyed.
It was a strange feeling—a silent command, as if his thoughts had weight. He experimented more, trying the same trick on birds, on stray dogs that wandered near the house.
They all listened.
At first, he thought he had finally found something special.
But when he showed his parents, they barely reacted. His father simply sighed. His mother gave him a sad smile.
“You can control weak things, Ren,” she said gently. “But that won’t help you in this world.”
Ren did not argue. He simply nodded.
He was learning.
The Strong Rule, the Weak Are Forgotten 
The first time Ren was challenged, he was eight.
A noble’s son, Leon Varien, had taken a particular interest in him. Leon’s title was Blazing Warrior, and it suited him. His body radiated heat, and his fists could burn anything they touched.
Ren? He was nothing.
“You,” Leon sneered one day in the schoolyard. “Cowardly King.”
Ren didn’t respond. He had long since learned that words only invited trouble.
Leon didn’t care. He shoved Ren back against the stone wall. “Fight me.”
Ren glanced around. Other students were watching. Some smirked, amused. Others looked away, uninterested. It was a fight that had already been decided.
“I don’t want to fight,” Ren finally said.
Leon grinned. “Of course you don’t. You’re a coward.”
He raised his fist, flames flickering to life. “Let’s see what happens when a cowardly king burns.”
Ren panicked.
He focused on a bird flying nearby, commanding it to strike. The bird, responding instantly, dived at Leon’s head, pecking at him in confusion.
The crowd laughed.
It was the wrong kind of laughter.
Leon’s eyes darkened. With a single wave of his burning hand, he incinerated the bird mid-flight.
The laughter stopped.
Ren’s stomach twisted as he watched ashes float to the ground. The creature he had controlled, the one thing that had listened to him—gone in an instant.
“Pathetic,” Leon spat, stepping closer. “You’re not a king. You’re a rat.”
Ren didn’t fight back. He didn’t even try to run.
He simply stood there, letting the words sink in.
A King With No Throne...
That night, Ren stared at the ceiling, thinking.
Thinking about what he was supposed to be.
Thinking about the way people looked at him.
Thinking about the bird that had burned.
And he came to a decision.
He would stop fighting.
He would stop trying to prove himself.
He would stop hoping for anything more.
Because in this world, strength was everything.
And he had none.
If the world wanted him to be weak, he would be weak.
If they wanted him to be a coward, he would be a coward.
Because cowards survive.
Because cowards live.
But deep down, beneath the quiet acceptance, something buried itself in his heart.
A seed of defiance, waiting to bloom.
A part of him, small but real, whispered:
"If I am a king, then one day… the world will know it."
But that day would not come for a long time.
For now, he was just Ren—the Cowardly King.
And that was enough.