The Failed Prodigy
The sun was nearly setting. After practical class ended, most students had already left the training grounds. Some laughed, some chatted, some wore wistful expressions as they promised to meet again. I didn’t join the flow.
One corner of the training grounds. The personal training zone. I stood alone in the half-lit space. The spot where I’d been hit earlier still throbbed strangely. Drawing a deep breath sent pain rising from my solar plexus. But what bothered me more than my body was my mind.
‘In the end… it’s the same.’
No matter how much I prepared. No matter how much I practiced. Everything collapsed before a single skill. I had only confirmed that fact once again.
I lowered my sword and sat on the training hall floor for a moment. An empty space. Quiet air. Places like this always dragged me back to the past.
It hadn’t always been like this. To be precise, I used to be a kid who did quite well. During my time at the elementary academy, I was called a “rising star.” Of course, the fact that both my parents were S-class hunters was a constant modifier attached to that label. Some people saw that first, and some saw only that. But it wasn’t just because of my family. I truly stood out.
Mana control. That was talent. While other children let their mana leak, spill, or shoot off in the wrong directions, I had been “holding” mine from the very beginning. The sensation of literally trapping mana that would otherwise scatter. The moment mana was released outside the body, most of it suffered loss. How much that loss could be reduced was the foundation of mana operation—and at the same time, the measure of skill.
“Did you see that just now?” I remembered the adults’ voices outside the training room. “His output is weak, but his control is incredibly stable.” “His mana capacity isn’t large, yet there’s almost no loss.”
My mana capacity had been far below the average for my age. Back then, I didn’t know why. I simply thought that was how it was. The mana inside me was small, but the way I used it was different. What other children needed ten units of mana to accomplish, I handled with one. Sometimes even less. And that showed immediately in training results.
Even in simple footwork drills among children, the difference was clear. Most poured in strength, layered on more mana, and pushed forward recklessly. They became faster for an instant. But it didn’t last. I was different. The angle at which I placed weight on the soles of my feet. The timing of my knees bending. The rhythm that kept my breathing unbroken. I added only the smallest amount of mana to that. And only at the tips of my toes. Only below the knees. Thanks to that, while the others tired after ten steps, I could maintain a similar speed for thirty.
“Why doesn’t that kid get tired?” “Look at how he conserves mana. That’s not something you can learn overnight.”
The teachers said things like that. I had only wanted to be less out of breath. That became talent in their evaluations.
The elementary academy was the starting point of the nation’s hunter training program. The classes themselves resembled regular school. We naturally studied general subjects like Korean, math, and science. But strange subjects were wedged between them: Mana Detection. Mana Control. Basic Combat. Dungeon Safety Education. Monster Ecology. Basic First Aid.
At first, everyone treated them like jokes. During Monster Ecology, the children giggled at the goblin illustrations in the textbook. I couldn’t laugh. Because the very first page of that textbook contained a photograph from the Dungeon Overflow incident. Charred streets. Collapsed apartments. Cracked roads. I had realized far too early that this wasn’t “old news footage,” but our actual reality. Because that was the day I lost a father I had never even seen.
Becoming a national support recipient happened suddenly. People in black suits came to the academy. After class, I was called to the principal’s office. I didn’t know why. I simply sat at the edge of a chair.
“Student Han Do-yoon.”
It was the first time I had heard such an excessively polite tone.
“You’ve been recommended for the special gifted education program run by the nation.”
I didn’t understand back then how heavy the word “recommendation” truly was. My mother, sitting beside me, didn’t answer immediately. A brief silence. Then her calm voice.
“Is that… something he has to accept?”
The man in the suit looked slightly flustered.
“It’s not mandatory, but considering the child’s talent, it’s a very rare opportunity.”
Mother nodded, yet her expression remained stiff.
“It’s the hunter training program led by the nation, correct?”
At those words, the air in the room shifted subtly. Mother glanced at me briefly. Then she looked back at the suited man and spoke.
“I know how the nation views hunters. They call them heroes when they’re needed, and quietly dispose of them when they’re no longer useful.”
The man in the suit couldn’t easily refute her.
“Still, in Student Do-yoon’s case—”
“That’s exactly why I’m more concerned.”
Mother cut him off.
“That child is already doing well enough.”
Until then, I hadn’t said a word. Unable to fully grasp what was being discussed, I had simply listened in silence. Then my mouth opened on its own.
“Mom.”
Both pairs of eyes turned to me at once.
“I want to try.”
Mother’s eyes widened slightly.
“Why?”
I lowered my head for a moment. Then I spoke.
“If I learn, I think I can do better.”
That wasn’t a lie.
“Maybe… I could awaken faster, too.”
Back then, I truly believed it. That if I tried, learned, and improved, awakening would naturally follow as a reward.
“And…”
I fiddled with my fingertips before continuing.
“I could earn money, too.”
Even as a child, I knew. That Mother was sick. That she needed mana stones.
“You could have it a little easier, too.”
The room fell completely silent. Mother didn’t speak for a long while. She looked at my face, then my hands, then my face again. Finally, she let out a slow breath.
“Do-yoon.”
Her voice was gentle.
“I don’t want you to push yourself.”
My chest sank a little at those words.
“I don’t want you getting hurt or injured just because you think you have to do well. There’s no need to create reasons you have to endure.”
Mother lightly took my hand. It was warm.
“But if you really want to do it…”
A brief silence.
“Do only as much as you can.”
Mother spoke very slowly.
“Don’t get hurt.”
That was the condition.
“It’s fine if your grades aren’t good. It’s fine if you’re slower than the others.”
Mother smiled faintly.
“Because you’re my son.”
Those words were everything that day.
The special gifted education wasn’t so much classes as a schedule. Three times a week after school. Weekend morning training. Once regular academy classes ended, I moved to another building. While the other students went home or went out to play, I descended into the underground training room. A card reader stood at the door. And inside, there was always the same smell. The scent of metal. The scent of disinfectant. And the alien sensation of mana lingering in the air.
There, I did “awakening preparation.” A nice way of putting it—really, I did everything. It started with mana control. At first, it was simple. Gathering mana in my palm. Maintaining it like a bead. Holding it so it wouldn’t scatter. For most children, a blue light would flash above their palm and end there. I was different. The light was faint. But the shape held.
“Good. You always maintain it.”
The instructor in charge said,
“Then let’s move to the next stage.”
Next was precision manipulation. Gathering mana only at the fingertips. Controlling each finger separately. Maintaining different shapes simultaneously in the left and right hands. The children hated this. It was too boring, too slow, too uninteresting. But I didn’t find it uninteresting. Because the results were clear. If I concentrated a little more, if I repeated a little more, it really did get better. When I put in effort, I improved immediately. I liked that.
Before I knew it, I kept extending my time.
“Do-yoon, you can rest.”
Even when the instructor said that, I shook my head.
“Just one more time.”
That one time always became ten, and ten always became a hundred.
Next came weapon training. We learned every type of weapon. Sword, spear, axe, dagger, dual blades, staff. The reasoning was that we had to find a weapon that suited us. Since we didn’t know what skills would appear after awakening, it was to keep every possibility open. So I held each one. Every time I switched weapons, my palms grew raw. The side of my palm split from the sword. My knuckles ached from the spear. My forearms became covered in bruises from the staff.
At first, they were all equally difficult. But at some point, I found a method. Where to place mana for each weapon. The wrist for the sword. The elbow for the spear. The shoulder for the staff. The fingertips for the dagger. When I layered mana only on those exact spots, the effort required decreased dramatically.
The instructor said,
“Everyone saw that just now, right?”
His voice carried a rare note of admiration.
“That’s efficiency.”
I liked that word. Efficiency. Because what I had was limited, I needed efficiency.
And then hand-to-hand combat. It wasn’t particularly flashy. No form, no spectacle. Just throwing, grabbing, getting up, grabbing again. Honestly, I hated it at first. Because I was on the smaller side. My strength was weak, and my mana capacity was small. But the combat instructor always said the same thing.
“Strength changes, but technique remains.”
“Instead of using raw power, you need to feel the rhythm.”
I gritted my teeth and did it. Fell, bruised, and did it again. When I returned home, Mother would apply medicine to my arms.
“Does it hurt?”
I shook my head.
“It doesn’t hurt.”
It was a lie. It hurt. But strangely, I slept better on those days. When my body was tired, my thoughts decreased.
Back then, I thought it was natural. That effort would be enough. That learning would be enough. That awakening would naturally follow at the end as a reward.
“At this rate, once he awakens, he’ll shoot straight to the top.”
That statement was praise, prophecy, and expectation all at once. And I believed that expectation. Far too young. Far too easily.