What does it mean to be ordinary?

  Jake had asked himself that question countless times. It lurked in the back of his mind, quiet yet persistent, gnawing at him in moments of stillness. He had always seen himself as just another face in the crowd—someone who existed on the edges, unnoticed, unremarkable.

  So when someone like him—someone ordinary—managed to achieve something slightly extraordinary, what was the harm in letting himself believe, just for a moment, that he could shine among the talented? That he deserved a place on that vast canvas in the sky?

  But maybe he had reached too far.

  ‘Sorry, Cole,’ Jake thought as his vision darkened. ‘It seems like I forgot my place for a bit there.’

  ***

  How did it come to this?

  They had escaped. They had outsmarted the soldiers. So where had they gone wrong?

  Cole’s breath came in sharp, uneven bursts, his heartbeat fast. His mind raced, desperately retracing their steps. They had done everything right. They had—

  “The footprints by the stream.”

  The cold voice cut through the silence, dragging Cole back to reality. His eyes snapped up, locking onto the man standing before him. His piercing blue eyes gleamed through the slits of his white helmet, unreadable yet calculating.

  “They were facing downstream,” the man continued, his tone almost amused. “Not upstream.”

  Realization crashed into Cole like a wave. The mistake was so small, so insignificant—and yet, it had cost them everything.

  ‘How did he even get Jake? This guy…can I beat him?’

  “Anyway, let’s get this over with.” The man’s voice was casual, almost indifferent, as he tightened his grip on his spear—its tip still slick with blood, most likely Jake’s.

  Cole’s eyes flickered to him one last time. Jake laid still, unmoving. Just moments ago, they had been laughing, celebrating their escape. Now, the warmth of that moment felt distant, like a memory slipping through his fingers.

  His jaw tightened. His fingers curled around the handle of his scythe as he pulled it from his back.

  The man stepped forward, his movements unhurried, confident. With a simple motion, flames erupted along the length of his spear, casting flickering light onto his white and golden armour.

  ‘Valour user,’ Cole noted, his mind sharpening. ‘No more room for mistakes.’

  The moment the flames ignited along the man’s spear, he lunged. The heat seared the air, embracing the space around him as he thrust forward, aiming straight for Cole’s chest.

  Cole barely had time to react. He twisted his body, the burning tip of the spear slicing past his ribs, narrowly missing. His scythe came down in a deadly arc, aiming for the man’s exposed side—but his opponent was fast. He spun away, using the momentum to slam the blunt end of his spear toward Cole’s head.

  Cole ducked. The spear whistled past his ear, and before the man could recover, Cole charged forward, dragging the blade of his scythe low, aiming for his legs. Sparks flew as metal clashed against armor, but the man didn’t falter. With a burst of strength, he stomped down, pinning the scythe to the ground for a split second—just long enough to drive his knee into Cole’s stomach.

  The impact stole the air from Cole’s lungs. He staggered back, barely managing to rip his weapon free before another fiery thrust came at him. He parried at the last second, but the sheer force of the strike sent him skidding across the dirt, his boots digging trenches into the ground.

  ‘He's strong, but not as strong as Rhea.’

  Cole didn't have time to process the thought. The man was relentless, closing the distance with terrifying speed. Another thrust came for Cole’s chest—he dodged, but the heat scorched his skin. Another strike followed, then another. Each blow forced him back, his arms aching from the strain of deflecting attack after attack.

  Then he saw an opening.

  The man overextended slightly on his last thrust, and Cole didn’t hesitate. He pivoted, creating an angle and using the motion to bring his scythe upward in a vicious counterattack. The blade carved through the air, aimed right for the man’s throat

  However, in a blur of motion, the spear twisted mid-air, knocking the scythe off-course.

  Before Cole could recover, a burning fist slammed into his jaw. His vision blurred as he stumbled backwards. The man capitalized on the opening, spinning his spear and driving the shaft straight into Cole’s ribs. A sharp crack rang out, pain flaring through his side as he was launched off his feet.

  He crashed into the dirt, eventually rolling to a stop, his body screaming in protest.

  His scythe lay just out of reach, propped against a tree stump.

  Cole gritted his teeth, trying to push himself up, but his body wouldn't listen, the metallic taste of blood thick on his tongue.

  Bootsteps approached.

  The man slowly walked over to him in the distance, his spear still coated in flames, casting a glow over his cold blue eyes.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  "You put up a good fight," he said. "But this is over."

  Cole forced his eyes to remain open, even though they threatened to narrow. ‘Is it really over?’ He asked himself. ‘These past years… I’ve done enough, right?’

  “You’ve done enough?” A young voice broke out, breaking the silence. “Don’t make me laugh.”

  Cole slightly tilted his head up, looking into the reflection of his scythe. He saw his own face, his reflection stared back at him, tired but determined. His pale yellow eyes, flecked with a bit of gold, were glinting with a mix of fatigue and determination. His black lip-length hair, tied into a bun, was slightly disheveled, and his features—sharp jawline, high cheekbones—seemed slightly older than he remembered. The clawed scar dripped down across his neck, a relic of a long-ago scuffle, stood out against his pale skin

  But it wasn’t just his reflection.

  Behind him stood a boy—small, barely ten years old. His face was blurred, indistinct, as if time had eroded Cole’s memory of him. But Cole didn’t need a clear image to know who he was.

  His younger brother.

  “You took my life,” the boy said, his voice sharp with accusation. “And now you think you’ve done enough?”

  Cole let out a breathless laugh, yet it wasn’t out of happiness, it wasn’t out of satisfaction, it wasn’t out of joy. It was out of straight frustration. ‘When will you leave me be?’ he said inwardly, moving the scythe to prop himself up against the tree, whilst clutching his side.

  The boy’s gaze bore into him. “You tell me, you think I want to stand here face to face with you either. It’s not my psyche that’s messed up.” The boy said, his voice angry. “When will you learn?”

  Cole's head slowly turned towards his hands that were nestled in between his outstretched legs. ‘I had no choice. You just weren’t the victor. Get over it.’

  The boy’s expression darkened. “Exactly. I wasn’t the victor. So what right do you have, as the one who won, to sit here and give up?”

  Cole said nothing.

  The boy took a step closer. “Get up.”

  A bitter chuckle left Cole’s lips. He tilted his head back against the tree, eyes narrowing. “You know, I hate you,” he murmured. “Every single day, I’m forced to remember. It never stops. It never fades.” His grip on the scythe tightened. “But maybe that’s fine. Maybe I need it.”

  His lips curled into a frown, cold and sharp. “I’ll use you. I’ll defeat you. And when I’m the last one standing, I’ll laugh. I’ll prove to you that I finally won.”

  The boy’s face remained unreadable. Then, with quiet finality, he spoke.

  “What are you waiting for, then?”

  His voice was steady.

  “Get up.”

  Cole tightened his grip on his scythe, rolling to the side just as the man’s spear drove into the tree where his head had been moments before. Blood seeped through his clothes, dripping onto the dirt below. Each breath burned. Each movement sent pain screaming through his body.

  ‘I’m injured. He isn’t.’

  His mind raced. If he dragged this fight out any longer, he would lose. There was only one option—put everything into a single, decisive strike.

  The man yanked his spear free from the tree, its tip gleaming with embers. Flames coiled around the weapon, crackling in the cold air.

  At that moment, Cole felt it.

  A hunger.

  The essentia pathways in his body pulsed, aching to be used. It was as if his very spirit was demanding to be unleashed. His trembling fingers curled into a claw-like shape, his mind already crafting the construct. ‘He doesn’t know I can use essentia.’ That was his advantage.

  He focused.

  A flicker of yellow energy ignited beneath his fingertips, seeping through his skin as the construct took shape within his mind. He had to make this count.

  The man lunged, his spear aiming toward Cole’s neck.

  Cole stumbled backward, his foot catching on uneven ground. He fell, hitting the ground hard. His opponent rushed in for the kill.

  And then, in a single motion, Cole brought his construct to life.

  A rifle-spear.

  Its sleek frame materialized just in front of his hands, its design eerily familiar—just like Jake’s.

  The weapon shot off.

  The energy-propelled rifle-spear shot past the man’s shoulder, missing him due to his evasion. For a moment, his opponent hesitated, his advance halted by the unexpected attack.

  “I didn’t expect that final burst of energy,” the man admitted, adjusting his stance. “It’s a shame you’re not on our side. You would’ve made a fine soldier.”

  Cole smirked, his voice laced with exhaustion. “Thanks.”

  The man charged forward once more, spear heading straight to Cole’s skull.

  But before he could reach him, his body suddenly went rigid.

  His steps faltered. His spear slipped from his fingers.

  Cole watched as the man stumbled, his movements sluggish, before finally collapsing onto his knees. His helmeted head jerked slightly, as if trying to process what had just happened.

  Then, his body went still.

  A gaping hole had been torn through his neck, right between the crevices of his armour.

  The rifle-spear in the air dissipated into nothing.

  The bullet of energy had struck true.

  Cole exhaled, his chest rising and falling unsteadily. He tilted his head back, exhaustion weighing down on him.

  ‘Thank you, Jake.’

  Cole fumbled with the pack given to him by the faction, his hands shaking as he struggled to tear it open. He dug through the contents until he found bandages. He had never done this before—not properly—but he had no choice.

  With a sharp inhale, he pressed the bandages against his injury. A burning pain shot through him, stealing his breath. Gritting his teeth, he wrapped the cloth around his torso. The bandage was uneven, loose in some places and too tight in others, but it would have to do.

  His vision blurred for a moment, sweat slicking his skin as he fought to keep steady. The pain was anything but manageable—but at least the bleeding had slowed.

  Pushing himself to his feet, he turned toward Jake.

  He had to check. Had to see if there was still a chance.

  As he approached, his breath caught in his throat.

  Jake’s wound—had it partially healed?

  That shouldn’t have been possible.

  For a moment, Cole just stood there, staring. He didn’t understand how, or if he was remembering wrong, but right now, that didn’t matter. He’s alive. That was the only thing that mattered.

  A rare feeling swelled in his chest.

  Relief.

  Kneeling beside Jake, he carefully wrapped fresh bandages around the wound, pressing firmly to stop any remaining bleeding. When he was done, he shifted Jake’s weight onto his shoulder, steadying himself under the added burden.

  He let out a quiet breath.

  For a boy who had spent so much of his life isolated, keeping others at arm’s length, Cole finally realized something.

  ‘Maybe this isn’t so bad.’