Many mouths repeat, “Only effort brings success,” like a motto carved on a schoolyard stone, rain-polished and unquestioned.

I don’t deny it, not for broad cases; it’s a net cast wide like a fisher’s sweep, logically tight as a knot on wet rope.

Yet isn’t it a silk veil over thorns, a clever twist shining like ice while cutting like glass?

It praises the ladder between effort and triumph, a staircase lit by lanterns. But for the many who climb and never crest the ridge, it whispers blame like night wind, and they march a gravel road toward the plain, clutching a lantern of hope that burns low.

Cruel words, as raw as winter stripping a tree to bone.

Know this: effort-born success is rarer than a white raven crossing a dusk sky; chance-born success is a coin that sometimes lands on its edge.

The successful seldom grasp why others can’t step where they stepped; perched on the hill, they judge like crows on a fence, and offer lines that look fair like straight brushstrokes, yet carry mist and mirage.

I’m not saying true effort never wins; it does, like a clear bell in fog. But the ratio is so thin, you’d rather not hang your heart on it.

Success doesn’t repeat. Every path up the mountain is a narrow goat trail, allowing only a few to pass before the slope crumbles.

When someone stumbles on a new route, nearby climbers surge like a spring flood. The path clogs, turns to mud, and becomes a joke told by those already warm by the summit fire.

Back then, I sat beneath a paper lantern with Daviya, Son of the Demon King, whose Authority bears the name “Dispute.” He mocked mortals with a smile like a blade’s edge.

Of course, by “success” we mean the blazing kind, the peak lit by sunrise. If we redefine it as personal contentment, then our debate dissolves like ink in water; it’s just words nodding to themselves, he said.

I agreed then, and now the feeling has sunk deeper, like dye into silk.

I drift. My focus fogs like breath on glass. My movements slow by a hair, but only by standards of top-tier warriors; ordinary eyes can’t catch my flickering gaps, swift as a sparrow’s wing.

I level Valor—my man-high Greatsword—like lifting a thundercloud. At the Tower of Final Stars, against Anna, the sword’s very concept was slain.

After I returned, Raven gathered lost arcane relics from the Sorcerer Emperor’s age, like pearls from the sea floor, and wove Valor a new idea.

Stini sought master smiths and enchanters she trusted, and they reforged it in a furnace that roared like a dragon’s throat. Now it’s Valor, Reforged.

Sharper. Harder. Gilded with Golden Age magic, warm as sunlight on bronze. It weighs the same in my grip, yet to those who take my strikes it doubles, like a storm’s pressure bearing down.

I sweep the blade flat. The beastkin knight braces, shield up like a cliff face.

He stops the first wave, but the tide shifts his footing. Before his weight finds his heel, the second cut drops aslant, like a falling crescent, biting his shoulder.

Steel bursts like ripe pods. His right arm slips from the socket with a wet jolt. His wolf ears twitch like cold reeds, and he falls, groaning, to the ground.

And this is me holding back, like rain held behind a dam.

He’s my classmate, walking the knight’s path. When I plan dates with Raven, I scout the city at dawn, like a cat on rooftops, and often see him up earlier, drilling sword and shield into targets in the practice yard, steady as a millstone’s grind.

But it’s not enough. My speed cuts like a hawk’s stoop; my strength drops like a landslide; my tricks coil like a snake in grass. He can’t beat me, not once, not a hundred times.

He’s not the kind of lead stamped Hero or Demon King, not the axis the tale spins around. He’s a supporting reel, a stepping stone for a Hero’s ascent, a grain of sand when the Demon King burns the world.

No one turns a lantern toward him. Even if he loves or is loved, those faces are painted into the grand backdrop, like houses in a distant landscape.

If my life plays as a legend, if I stand center stage, then he’s a passerby without readers or fans, a figure sketched in the margin.

If he dies, a small tragedy will ripple like rain rings in a gutter. If he lives, his name might pass in a single brushstroke.

In the end, even he admits he’s not vital to the story. And yet he can’t change it by sheer will, like a moth pushing against a windowpane.

Readers adore tales where effort buys glory. They imagine themselves into the armor, bright as dawn on steel.

They say, “Every drop of sweat counts.” True enough. Training hard turns sap to hardwood. But for those without talent, a thousand drops might not equal one cut from a gifted wrist, clean as a swan’s glide.

As the saying goes, the childhood friend rarely beats the heaven-sent type; some are chosen, fated like stars already named, and effort can’t touch that sky.

I’m glad I’m one of the gifted, talent stacked high like steps to a terrace. I can afford a quiet tea and think philosophy.

And the result—nothing changes. The world keeps turning like a waterwheel. I can’t, and won’t, try to set new gears.

For now, I do nothing, like a leaf resting on still water.

I halt Valor’s fall and my wandering mind in the same breath, then draw the blade back and search for Elina, my teammate.

Found. She’s swinging a three-headed chain flail, whirling like three small moons, chasing their archer in wide loops.

The beastkin archer is faster, lighter, her movement a swallow under eaves. But every arrow thuds against Elina’s high-tier Divine Art, “Unbroken Circle,” gold light splashing like coins in sunlight before the shafts clatter down.

About Elina… She’s a Divine Healer. Don’t tell me you think “healer” means glass, pure support, low combat, a lily behind a wall.

She wasn’t good at fighting before, yes. Note the words: not skilled, not unable.

Her big-picture sense is foggy, her combat instincts soft as wet clay, and her reactions lag like a late bell. But the temple runs melee courses for the clergy; she’s trained, not a doll. She won’t match top warriors, but her close combat is solid, laid like bricks.

At the Hero Academy, mythic-track students can pick martial electives: long whip, staff-sword, chain flail, morningstar, Black Keys. If you fancy something stranger, you find a master and earn your certificate.

Elina chose the chain flail, the most violent weapon a priest can pick, a meteor hammer masked as devotion. It hits like thunder.

And—was she sent by a Divine Being to watch me? The Twin Gods of Strength are two glorious fools; I doubt they plan surveillance with their drumbeats.

Now she’s asked me to give her special training. Her reason is simple as a cut: “I refuse to fail my companions again.” It eats a fat slice of my dates with Raven.

Hard to refuse. We share the road, and courtesy is a bridge you don’t burn.

After the bout with Anna, the High Divine Healer Saint Mire noticed us. Anna marked us with her Authority, a crimson seal. Until we take her down, we walk under the risk of a sniper’s moon.

Elina transferred into the Academy’s mythic track, became my classmate. We see each other every day, familiar as morning bread. Saying no gets stuck in the throat.

Set all that aside. Help her first. A chain flail hits forest-wide, but the wind-up is broad; agile fighters skip past like deer.

I step between the two, into the center like a stone in a stream. The archer glares, eyes sharp as flint, then looses the few arrows she has left.

Sensible choice, but useless, like rain on varnish.

She’s a girl and wears no armor. I flip Valor and use the blade’s flat as a shield, tilting it like a bronze wall to catch each arrow.

Before she can draw again, I run up, boots drumming like hooves, and sweep the sword horizontal.

A clean cut would’ve been unavoidable; a blade-body slap is worse. She flies from the practice arena like a sparrow startled, and beastkin don’t have any air-step tricks here.

She hits the ground. Defeat calls like a bell.

The fight ends. Echoes fade like smoke.

Elina’s a little gloomy, staring into the dirt like looking for answers. She minds that her special training isn’t growing her power fast enough. That’s normal.

Power that blooms in a week is a Hero template. Ordinary growth is a seed sprouting under patient rain.

It’s not my place to say more. Out of courtesy, I shake hands with the beastkin pair.

The archer is all stiff shoulders and sour mouth, the taste of loss like bitter tea. But no malice. She squeezes my hand hard, testing bone like a craftsman tests wood.

The knight grins, big and bright as a hearth, and booms with beastkin straightforwardness.

“You’re too strong, man. No way training alone does that. Are you a monster?”

Close. One step from the mark. I’m Demonfolk—top-tier monster, inked on the old maps.

“Everyone carries a monster inside,” I say, playing it cool like a breeze through bamboo. “I just face mine.”

“Hah! If facing your monster makes you this strong, then that monster must be terrifying.”

“That monster’s name is ‘Keep Working.’”

“Really? Then I face mine every day,” he laughs. “Doesn’t feel terrifying.”

He snaps his shoulder back in with a grimace, face set like carved wood, yet he still smiles—clear, stainless water.

“I’m not you, but I move forward a little every day. Progress is joy, like spring budding. What’s scary about that?”

He pats my shoulder hard, as if measuring the density of a mountain, then pats his own to compare. He smirks and walks off with his partner.

Day after day, he admits his smallness and clumsiness, and still goes on, steady as a pilgrim’s steps. Is that truly not frightening?

Daviya once said, people can never fully understand each other; “Dispute” exists because we shout at our own self-made phantoms, rattling the air like tin drums.

Before, even understanding couldn’t become empathy, like seeing rain and not feeling wet. Now, I want to know where the weak place themselves beneath their sky.

Even that little knight—why does he still challenge a sky so far it looks painted? Maybe it isn’t courage. Maybe he just likes the road, step by step, like beads on a string. Why?

It’s not a question we can ask with only this thin paper of acquaintance between us.

Watching him laugh even in defeat, patting his friend’s back, I want to know more about this nameless, talentless knight. I’ll ask Vega to look into him.

Or at least, learn his name, like writing a character right.

“…Are you listening to me, Andor? Ignoring a girl carves a hurt, sharp as a pin.”

“Sorry. I drifted.”

My fault. Apologize first, like tea before words.

“Then, as compensation… could you… add more time to my special training?”

She starts strong, Raven-style steel, but softens when asking, like silk loosening. Elina can’t unlearn her gentleness.

It would complicate things. My route with Raven inches forward like ink lines; if Abigail jumps in to stir the pot, and I cut down dates, that rotten prince might steal Raven with peacock feathers and stolen verses.

And I truly don’t want to draw near Elina, lest some Divine Being’s faction points me out, like a hawk circling. That’s the real core.

But… Elina looks up with wet eyes, pleading like a kitten at the doorstep, bending slightly, gazing from below upward, hope trembling like lamp flame.

“Please… please, I practice so hard, but I still can’t grow strong. Please.”

She’s really crying now. Hey, we won this one. Don’t fold like a broken fan. Don’t clutch my sleeve as if I wronged you.

“I don’t want to lose anyone again!”

This is her truest feeling, loud as a temple bell. I watch Elina’s reddened eyes and keep quiet, because of her stance, and because of her ask.

When I’m trapped between stones, our advisor appears, moonlight in the doorway. A Lunarfolk, Alpha, steps in and saves me like pulling a thread from a knot.

“Elina, stop making it hard for Andor. He’s busy moving his investments like chess pieces, and chasing girls like fireflies. This winner in life has a full plate.”

“Teacher…”

Alpha squeezes through the crowd like a fish through reeds and pats her shoulder gently.

“How about I give you the special training? Teacher’s strong, oh yes—absolutely stronger than Andor.”

“Really? Strong enough that I can protect everyone?”

“Uh, this…” Alpha wavered, a reed bending in a gust.

The ask was too broad; even a Divine Being couldn’t meet its tallest peak.

He paused, then offered a steady flame: At least I can keep the people around you safe.

The Lunarfolk don’t weave lies; once spoken, truth settles like moonlit stone.

Elina brightened, her smile lifting like a paper lantern.

Alpha turned to me and asked, his glance flicking like a wary sparrow:

By the way, Andor, you won’t be mad I stole your chance to teach a girl hands-on, right?

I’ve got no bad intentions, you know.

Alpha looked uneasy, like a cat at the edge of rain.

I felt no alarm.

I knew Alpha’s swagger was theater, not rot.

In private he kept clean, like a blade oiled and sheathed.

He was a former Hero; his character held solid like mountain stone.

It’s fine; I don’t mind, as calm as rain on slate.

Please, Teacher, pass Elina your signature art.

Inside, I stayed calm, a lake under frost.

My face kept its usual stillness, a stone mask under Alpha’s puzzled look.

Vega’s dossier spelled it out, cold ink rippling like night water.

Alpha was the kind who tried, failed, then kept grinding until chance tilted, like a coin caught by wind, and he won.

Among the Lunarfolk, Alpha’s talent was ordinary; hard work brought ordinary harvest.

Lucky for him, this isn’t a cold material era with no warmth, no wonder.

It’s a Silver Age where concepts steer fate, like constellations pulling the tide.

Even a talent-poor man like Alpha can grow fierce on belief alone, like a spark fed into a forge.

Some people pour awareness and will into the work, soul as mold, spirit as fuel.

They shape miracles that surpass high-tier sorcery, like light woven from breath.

Not Divine miracles, not thunder from heaven, but worthy of the name: legendary magic.

His signature art fits Elina, whose gift for martial skill is thin as spring ice.