The world that hates me

The wind whispered.Not like a person. Not like a beast. But like something forgotten—something ancient.
High above the world, where clouds tangled with the jagged mountain peaks and the trees dared not grow, a boy sat alone at the edge of a cliff. His legs dangled freely over the side, where a thousand-meter drop greeted him with the promise of peace, or maybe just silence.
Saikyou Enma didn’t move.He just… stared.
The horizon stretched endlessly before him—an ocean of grey and blue, mist and distance. Below, he could faintly see the village rooftops, the training grounds of swordmasters slicing air and stone with blinding grace, and the temples that had once praised his name with pride.
That was before.Before they realized he would never hold a blade.Before his name became a stain.
“Still alive,” he muttered, voice barely above the wind.
No one responded.Of course not.There never was anyone else.
A small fire flickered behind him, weak and pale. The spell had taken nearly all his mana. Not because it was powerful—it wasn’t. It was the weakest flame he could conjure, a simple Ignis Flare used by children in their first year of magic. But for Enma, even that had cost him.
He was sixteen now.Still unable to cut the air.Still unable to wield a sword.Still unable to die.
He laughed softly, and it felt bitter in his throat.
“Hey, mountain,” he said, tilting his head upward, speaking as if the jagged rock might answer. “Do you ever wonder why people are born weak? Or is that just me being stupid again?”
He didn’t expect an answer. He didn’t want one.
He pulled out the worn leather-bound journal from his coat—its pages filled with incantations, symbols, observations, things no one cared about. Each spell he wrote was one he had learned alone, far from the Enma clan's brutal sword training. His fingers trembled as he flipped to a page with cracked edges. A water spell. Useless in combat. But pretty.
He began the chant.
"Vitae unda, lenis motus, dona pacem."(Flowing life, gentle motion, bring peace.)
A small sphere of water floated between his fingers, pulsing faintly with light. He held it in his palm like it was precious—like it was real magic. Not power, not violence… but creation.
“Beautiful,” he whispered.
And then he crushed it in his hand.
“Useless,” he said.
The wind carried his voice away, as if embarrassed for him.
The truth was cruel.In the Enma clan, if your sword couldn't slice through rock before you turned twelve, you were considered dead weight. If you used magic? You were scum.
He remembered his father's words.The way he looked at him—no, through him."You're not my son. You're a mistake."
He didn't cry that day. He just smiled.He always smiled. That’s what broken geniuses do. They smile so no one sees the cracks.
Below, a bird soared past the cliff’s edge, its wings catching the wind effortlessly. It circled once before diving downward, toward the land where strong people lived. Enma watched it disappear, then closed his eyes.
“I wonder what it’s like,” he murmured. “To matter.”
The fire behind him sputtered. He hadn’t noticed the sky dimming—the sun bleeding orange across the mountains, shadows stretching like arms ready to drag the world into night. He stood slowly, knees aching from sitting too long, and brushed the dust from his coat.
His body was thin. His limbs bruised. His mana low. But his mind? Still sharp. Still screaming.
He turned back toward the trail—narrow, rough, half-swallowed by roots. It led down the mountain, back to the forgotten village where he had buried his name.
But he didn’t move.
Not yet.
Instead, he looked back at the view one more time. The world was quiet. Beautiful. Indifferent.
And then, for reasons he couldn’t name, he said aloud:“I’m not going to die up here.”
A lie?Maybe.
But it felt good to say.It felt alive.
From somewhere deeper in the forest, he heard a clang. Steel on stone. A training exercise, probably. Sword disciples proving themselves for the clan elders. They’d never know he was here. They’d never care.
But maybe… one day…
He held up his hand and cast the Ignis Flare again. The flame sputtered, then sparked to life—small and warm.
“That’s enough for today,” he told himself. “The mountain didn’t kill me. That means I win.”
He smiled. A little too wide.
And started walking.
The walk back from the mountain was long.Longer than usual, or maybe it just felt that way.
His legs were sore. His mana was almost drained. His coat was torn near the sleeve—caught on a branch that didn’t bother to let go. But he didn’t complain. Saikyou Enma had learned long ago that complaints didn’t do much for someone like him.
The Enma Clan’s estate stood tall like a fortress carved into the hillside—stone walls, towers, cherry blossom trees that never seemed to lose their petals even in winter. It was beautiful… and cold.
He passed the front gate unnoticed. The guards didn’t even glance his way.They were trained not to.Trained to ignore the one who had no sword. No talent. No pride.
The training grounds were full, as always. Disciples his age sliced through wooden dummies, sparring partners, even the wind itself. Sparks flew from enchanted blades. Yells of power, precision, and pride echoed through the air.
Enma kept walking. Quiet. Head down. Just a shadow.
“Hey,” someone sneered as he passed. “The magician returns.”
He didn’t stop.
“Got any fireworks for us, Enma-sama?” the voice continued with mock reverence. Laughter followed.
He didn’t answer.He didn’t need to.
He'd learned how to wear silence like armor.
At the end of the estate, far from the noise and steel, stood a small wooden house with a slanted roof and ivy creeping up its sides. Not part of the main manor. Not where the warriors lived. This house didn’t even have a sword rack by the door.
This was where the shame lived.And where love still did, too.
He pushed open the door slowly. It creaked. The smell of herbs and warm soup greeted him like an old friend.
“Saikyou?” a voice called from within. “Is that you?”
He closed the door behind him. “…Yeah.”
The woman who stepped into view had soft eyes, lined by age but filled with something the rest of the clan had lost long ago: kindness. Her black hair was tied into a loose braid, her hands were stained with ink and medicine, and her smile—tired but real—bloomed the moment she saw him.
“Welcome home,” she said.
He looked away. “You don’t have to say that every time.”
“I want to,” she replied gently. “Because I mean it. Come, sit down. You’re pale.”
“I was on the mountain.”
“I figured. You always go there when you’re hurting.”
“…I’m always hurting.”
She didn’t reply right away. Instead, she took his hand and guided him to the small table in the center of the room. There were only two cushions. There had only ever been two.
A bowl of soup waited for him—hot, fragrant, filled with soft vegetables and bits of meat. He stared at it. It looked better than anything he deserved.
“I’m not hungry,” he muttered.
“Eat,” she said, not unkindly. “Even broken geniuses need to eat.”
He twitched slightly. That word again. Broken.But from her lips, it didn’t feel like an insult.
He picked up the bowl slowly and sipped the broth. Warmth spread through him, real warmth—not from a spell, not from a flame, but from home. The taste almost brought tears to his eyes.
“How’s the training going?” she asked.
He laughed quietly. “You know I don’t train.”
“I meant your kind of training. The one no one sees.”
He didn’t answer.
She reached over and brushed a leaf out of his hair. “I wish they could see what I see,” she whispered. “You’re more than a sword.”
“No,” he said. “I’m less.”
She shook her head. “You’re not weak, Saikyou. You’re different.”
“In this family, that’s the same thing.”
She didn’t argue. Not today.
They sat in silence for a while. The only sound was the soft clinking of the spoon against the bowl, and the faint wind tapping at the windows. Eventually, she stood and walked over to a small chest in the corner of the room. She opened it and pulled out something wrapped in black cloth.
“I kept this for you,” she said.
He looked up. “What is it?”
“A grimoire. Your father's old one.”
He blinked. “He had a grimoire?”
“Before he picked up the sword,” she said softly. “He tried to use magic once. Before the clan beat it out of him.”
She placed it on the table. “Maybe it’ll help.”
He stared at it—uncertain. His fingers hovered over the cloth, then pulled away.
“I’m not him.”
“I know,” she said. “You’re you. And that’s more than enough.”
He didn’t believe her.Not yet.But maybe… one day.
That night, long after his mother fell asleep beside the candlelight, Saikyou Enma sat with the grimoire in his lap. He hadn’t opened it yet. He just held it, as if waiting for something to change.
Outside, the wind howled.And somewhere in the estate, blades clashed like thunder.
But here, in this small forgotten room at the edge of the Enma world…Magic waited.And a boy who never stopped smiling… finally allowed himself to cry. 
The candle flickered, dancing shadows across the small room.
Saikyou Enma stared at the book in his hands. His fingers hesitated, as if the grimoire might vanish the moment he peeled back the black cloth. It felt heavier than it should have—like it carried centuries of disappointment inside.
He finally unwrapped it. Slowly. Quietly.
The cover was faded, dark leather cracked at the edges, almost soft with time. There was no title, no sigil, no signature of power or grandeur. Just a worn-out book that smelled faintly of dust and ink.
He opened it.
The first page… blank.Second page… torn, the corner missing.Third… blank again.And the fourth, and the fifth.
He flipped through all of them, faster now—faster, desperate.
Empty.All of it.
Not a single word. Not a single rune. No incantations. No secrets.
Just silence on paper.
“…What is this?” he whispered. “A joke?”
The book lay limp in his lap, offering him nothing. Like everything else.
His mother’s words echoed in his mind. “Your father's old one.”Was it just a keepsake? A memory wrapped in cloth? Or… had it once held magic that had been erased by time, by fear, by the clan?
He didn’t know. And it didn’t matter.
Saikyou let the book fall to the floor with a dull thump.
He buried his face in his hands, letting out a quiet, bitter laugh.
“So even the book’s forgotten what it was supposed to be,” he muttered. “Just like me.”
He lay back on the wooden floor, staring at the ceiling.No stars. No wind. Just the quiet hum of a home far from warmth.
The grimoire stayed open beside him, its torn pages fluttering slightly as the wind pushed through a small crack in the window. One page lifted… then settled again. No magic. No glow. Just the sound of a boy breathing quietly and the slow drip of time.
He didn't sleep that night.
Morning came slow and gray.
When he stepped outside, he carried the empty book with him. Not out of hope, but because it was the only thing that had been passed down to him. A legacy of nothing.
The training grounds were already alive. Metal clashing. Voices barking orders. Fire enchanted blades flashing under the cold sun. Saikyou walked past it all, unseen again. Just like always.
Until someone stepped in front of him.
“Didn’t see you yesterday,” said a tall boy with sharp eyes and a sneer. “Did the wind carry you away?”
Saikyou didn’t answer.
The boy looked down at the grimoire in his hand. “What’s that? A bedtime story? You planning to bore us to death with it?”
Saikyou clutched the book tighter. “It’s nothing.”
“Yeah,” the boy laughed. “Just like you.”
Another shove.
Saikyou staggered back, but didn’t fall. He didn’t flare up. He didn’t curse. Just… stood there.
Then he walked away.
Later, on the hill behind the estate, he sat alone again. The same cliff where he often came to think. The wind was colder today.
He opened the grimoire again. Looked at the empty pages. Touched one.
“…Why did he keep this?” he asked the wind. “Why give me something that doesn’t work?”
The wind didn’t answer. But something strange happened.
When his finger lingered too long on one of the torn pages, he felt something—heat. Faint. Deep within the paper.
He blinked. Looked closer.
Still blank. Still nothing.
But his finger burned faintly now. Not in pain… but like it was being read.
And on the page—slowly, like ink rising from beneath—the faint outline of a single symbol began to appear. Not glowing. Not sharp. Just barely there. A whisper of meaning.
A rune.
His heart skipped.
It vanished a moment later. Gone again. Like it had never existed.
But it had. Even if only for a second.
“…Did I imagine that?” he whispered.
He pressed his finger again. No reaction. The page stayed blank.
Still, he smiled. Just a little.
Not because he’d found power. But because maybe—just maybe—the book wasn’t empty.
Not completely.