Why is Background Character the Strongest Now?

Etherlight School of Awakeners – Classroom D

"…and that is why magic redirection is one of the most valuable techniques in real combat," Kael Arkzen's voice cut across the room, steady and deliberate. "You will never know what spell is stored in your opponent's memory. It could be a harmless light spell… or a killing technique. If you hesitate, you're finished. Keep redirection prepared at all times."

He paced slowly before the blackboard, gloved hands clasped behind his back. The sunlight through the tall windows caught in his neatly tied black hair, glinting off the fine stitching of his overcoat.

This wasn't the Kael they remembered. A week and a half ago, he was the disheveled, half-bored professor who strolled in late, shirt untucked. Now… his posture was military, his expression unreadable, his voice carrying the weight of someone who had stood on the edge of death and returned.

A hand went up hesitantly in the back row.

"Professor… we haven't learned memory magic yet. Isn't it… something from the third semester?"

Kael stopped pacing. His gaze moved to the student like a blade turning toward its mark.

"Yes. But I'll teach it to you now. The schedule is irrelevant. Survival isn't bound to semesters."

A faint, nervous ripple moved through the class.

"For the rest of this month, you will perfect five non-elemental spells: Mana Reinforcement, Spatial Anchor, Mana Veil, Spell Disruption, and Chain Binding. Master them, and you might live long enough to learn the rest."

His tone wasn't encouraging. It was a sentence of fact—cold, inevitable.

"Class dismissed."

Kael turned sharply, coat brushing the doorway as he left.

Silence lingered for a moment before the murmurs started.

"Is it just me, or… he's completely different?"

"He even scolded those who were sleeping."

"And he's giving us material from next semester…"

By the window, Xavier's gaze lingered on the door Kael had just exited. "Why has he changed so much?"

Ezra's eyes stayed fixed on the courtyard outside. His tone was calm, almost reflective.

"When your past begins to chain your future… you must treat that past as a mistake and leave it behind. Otherwise, tension and self-guilt will root you in place forever."

Xavier frowned slightly. "What do you mean by that—"

But Ezra was already shifting the topic. "Speaking of moving forward, have you prepared for the dungeon raid exam?"

Xavier blinked, then straightened. "Not entirely. But I know the basics… sealed dungeon, time limit, ranked clear rewards."

Ezra gave a faint nod. "It's not as simple as 'clear and collect.' The examiners choose a dungeon above your comfort zone. Traps, unpredictable monster types, resource scarcity—everything designed to break the weakest link in the party. Fail, and your license tier drops for the year."

"And pass?" Xavier asked.

"Higher-tier dungeon access, guild contracts, better pay," Ezra replied. "But we're not doing this for the Federation's paperwork."

Xavier's eyes narrowed. "Then for what?"

Ezra didn't answer directly. "We need two more members. Dravis and Renji are the first options. Meet me in the training hall once you've spoken to them."

"Yes, my lord."

The afternoon light caught Ezra's reflection in the glass—expression unreadable, eyes like a still lake hiding depths no one could see.

——————————-

The year he turned ten, the rains came early.

The old people in the market said it was a blessing—good for the crops, good for the wells.

He never thought rain could be cruel until that year.

His home was a small, one-floor house on the western edge of Harrick Town, the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else's business. His father worked at the armory repair shop, fixing dented armor and bent blades for the Federation Guard. His mother kept the house tidy and grew flowers in mismatched pots along the window. And his little sister, barely six, thought he was the smartest boy in the world simply because he could whistle the tune their mother hummed while cooking.

They weren't rich. But they were together. That had been enough.

⸻

One night, when the rain was pounding on the roof, his father came home late—much later than usual. His coat was soaked, his hands shaking. He told them to stay quiet, to not open the door for anyone.

"They're looking for someone," he whispered, eyes darting toward the window.

He never got to say who "they" were.

The pounding on the door came moments later. Then the lock snapped, and strangers flooded the room—men in black uniforms, the kind worn by special operations units, but without insignia.

His father tried to stand between them and his family.

It didn't matter.

They dragged him out into the rain, beat him until his ribs cracked, then tied him to the post in the yard. They didn't hide what they were doing—they wanted them to watch. The boy's mother screamed until one of the men struck her across the face.

The officer in charge—a tall man with pale eyes—watched it all like he was judging a performance.

When his father's breathing was ragged and wet, the officer stepped forward. He spoke too quietly for the boy to hear, but whatever it was made his father's face twist—not in pain, but in fury. Then the officer nodded, and the soldiers finished it.

⸻

He thought it was over.

It wasn't.

The officer's gaze drifted to his mother. She clutched the boy and his sister, but they tore her away with practiced ease.

He tried to follow, to throw himself at them, but a soldier's boot pinned him to the floor.

They didn't take her far—just to the yard, where the rain drowned her screams. The boy's sister sobbed into his chest, and he could do nothing but hold her, wishing the world would end right there.

When they were done, the officer tossed her to the mud like garbage.

"Consider this mercy," he said before they left, boots crunching in the wet earth.

⸻

She never spoke again. Not a word. She simply… moved, as though her mind had gone somewhere else entirely.

The boy tried to care for her and his sister. They ate what they could steal or scavenge. For weeks, they avoided the market, afraid of the pale-eyed officer's men.

But Harrick Town wasn't kind to the weak.

One morning, his sister was gone. At first he thought she'd gone to the well, but she never came back. He searched for days, asking anyone who would listen. No one saw her. No one helped.

It was months later, in the backroom of a merchant's store, that he overheard the truth. A dungeon raid had been organized—official, sanctioned by the Federation. They needed expendable "runners" to carry supplies deeper inside. The recruiters took orphans. They promised pay, food, safety.

She never came back from that raid. No one did.

⸻

By the time he turned twelve, his mother was gone too—her body simply failed, as if life had been a weight she could no longer carry.

He buried her in the small patch of earth behind their home, marking the grave with one of her broken flower pots.

After that, he left Harrick Town. There was nothing there for him but ghosts.

⸻

The years blurred.

He worked where he could, slept where he could, fought when he had to. Sometimes he stole to survive. Sometimes he hurt people. He told himself it didn't matter—there was no one left to judge him.

But every night, when he closed his eyes, he saw them: his father tied to the post, his mother in the mud, his sister's small hands slipping from his own.

⸻

He was seventeen the first time someone tried to kill him. A back-alley brawl gone wrong—he'd taken a coin purse from the wrong man. The attacker came at him with a blade, but rage and desperation made him faster. He left the man bleeding out in the alley and didn't look back.

That was when he realized something.

It wasn't death he feared. It was living like this forever.

⸻

It was on a winter night, in a nameless city, that he met him.

The streets were quiet except for the crunch of frost underfoot. The boy—no, the young man now—was sitting on the steps of a shuttered shop, watching the streetlamps flicker.

That was when the stranger appeared.

Tall. Impossibly well-dressed, even in the cold. His coat was a deep, rich black, tailored to perfection. His hair was pale gold, almost silver in the lamplight, and his eyes… his eyes were like clear glass, reflecting nothing, revealing nothing.

He smiled as though they'd known each other for years.

"You've been carrying that weight a long time," the man said. His voice was smooth, without a trace of pity. "The faces. The screams. The rain."

The young man didn't answer.

"I can help you set it down," the stranger continued. "Not forget—no, forgetting would be an insult to the dead—but… replace it. With something better."

"Better?"

"Revenge," the man said simply.

The young man's hands tightened. "You don't even know what happened."

The man tilted his head slightly, that faint smile never fading. "I know enough. I know the name of the officer who tied your father to that post. I know where he sleeps. I know the dungeon ledger that listed your sister as 'expendable.' And I know the chains they wrapped around your mother's mind before they broke her body."

The young man's voice was hoarse. "And you… can get me to them?"

The stranger's smile widened—not with joy, but with something colder. "I can do more than that. I can teach you how to take everything from them, the way they took everything from you."

The street was silent but for the whisper of falling snow.

The young man swallowed. "…What do I have to do?"

The man stepped closer, close enough for him to see the faint glint of a silver ring on his finger.

"Work for me. Learn from me. And when the time comes… you'll have your chance."

He hesitated only a moment. "Yes."

The stranger nodded, as if this had been inevitable.

"What's your name?" the young man asked.

The man's smile returned, sharp as a blade.

"Vorthas Vel Azriel."

And that was the last time the young man belonged to himself.