Another half a year passed. New Year again.

  The children returned from the Academy, filling the house with noise, the smell of textbooks, and stories of their successes. I sat at the table, methodically consuming food—plate after plate. Eating was the only way to drown out the hum of a thousand voices in my head, which were still arguing about their unfulfilled dreams.

  "There's this kid again..." Erol sighed, picking at his salad with a fork. "He has a real talent for magic. Everything works out for him on the first try. Why aren't we that strong, Greg? Why are we always second?"

  Those words hit me harder than the Fire Demon's mana.

  "Talent?" I slowly set my spoon down. "Are you starting this broken record about talent again?"

  I looked at them. Gray hair, gray eyes—little predators who suddenly decided to play the victims.

  "What is talent, in your opinion? Is it when someone has an advantage from birth? Do you seriously think he came straight out of his mother's womb as a master? Just immediately strong and cool?"

  I felt irritation boiling up inside me. How many times over hundreds of cycles had I heard this whining from people too lazy to get off the couch.

  "Maybe this boy studies harder than you? Didn't think about that? Maybe he trains until he sweats blood, while you sit around discussing how gifted he is? Talent... damn it. It's just a word losers use to justify their own laziness."

  I trailed off, feeling my opinion suddenly pull a one-eighty. My brain, stuffed with centuries of experience, obligingly offered up a different truth.

  "Although..." I sighed, looking into my empty plate. "Who am I kidding. Talented kids do exist. There are those who command mana like it's their own mother. And if that talented person starts working just as hard as an ordinary one... he will grind the ordinary one into dust. No matter how hard you try, no matter how you exhaust yourself with training—there will always be someone born with a spark who also works like a dog. And against someone like that, you have no chance."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  I froze, realizing the sheer absurdity of my own speech.

  Damn it, I thought to myself. Look who's talking about hard work.

  I never actually trained. I didn't memorize formulas, didn't practice sword lunges for years. I was just always like this. Strong. Too strong. And here I am, sitting and giving them lectures about effort?

  The kids looked at me strangely.

  "Never mind, forget it," I picked up my spoon again. "Just eat."

  Mira arrived unexpectedly.

  She was covered in scars again. Deep, jagged marks on her shoulders and arms. I didn't ask questions. I just walked over and pressed my palms to her skin. The green light soaked into the wounds, erasing the pain, but my sister's gaze remained heavy.

  She stayed for a month.

  It was a strange month. The silence on the farm turned somewhat rotten. The ground beneath our feet began to slowly die: the grass yellowed in patches, and the livestock acted as if something had taken up residence in the shadows of the barn. Cows bellowed at night, sheep huddled in tight clumps, trembling at every rustle. Maybe I was just nitpicking. It felt as if the world around us had started to fade.

  One evening, Mira spoke up. We were sitting on the porch, looking out at the withered fields.

  "Zenhald..." she began, staring off into the void. "I didn't become a hero for this world. And I never wanted to be one. But you..."

  She turned to me, and her eyes reflected the entire abyss of years we had lived through.

  "You've done so much for this world. So many great things and so many terrible things, historians' brains are probably exploding. It's impossible to call you a hero. But you aren't a villain, either. You just... exist."

  She placed a hand on my shoulder, squeezing it until it hurt.

  "But you are still my brother, Zenhald. Do you hear me?"

  I stayed silent. It seemed to me that she was saying this not to me, but to herself. As if trying to convince herself of something very important.

  Author's note: A hero will sacrifice his brother to save the world. A villain will sacrifice the world for his brother.

  I looked at the sunset.