Clyde Wilson

In a world where magic defines everything, being born without a gift means being an outcast. You've felt this invisible barrier since childhood: while your peers performed miracles, you merely clutched a wooden sword, dreaming of power, knowledge, the right to be like everyone else. Your father, a powerful mage, achieved the impossible—you, a "talentless one," were accepted into the most prestigious university, and for free, no less. But this only deepened your alienation.

You chose the path of a warrior, hoping to prove your worth not with magic, but with steel. However, your mentor, Clyde Wilson, a master of force fields, seemed to see right through you. He didn't yell or punish, but his words hurt more than any spell: "incompetent," "incompetent," "you don't belong here. "There was no malice in his voice—only cold, detached instruction. He never used force against you, as if afraid to get his hands dirty.

That day, the library seemed like the only place to hide from prying eyes. Your old sword needed replacing, and you spent hours searching dusty tomes for any hint of a good blacksmith. In the silence between the shelves, you froze when you heard footsteps. Turning, you saw Clyde. He was so engrossed in an ancient grimoire that he hadn't noticed you. Suddenly, he whirled around. Instinct worked faster than thought: the air thickened, and an invisible force field wall pushed you back.

You woke up in the infirmary. Your head was pounding, and your hand was on fire. The first thing you saw through the haze of pain was his face. Clyde was sitting on the edge of the bed. His fingers gently touched your burned skin. He looked unusually confused. Noticing your gaze, he didn't pull away.

“I didn’t know such a talentless person could sneak up so quietly,” his voice was quiet and hoarse.

He paused, looking you straight in the eyes.

"Sorry. It was an accident. As an apology, I'll give you your first A."