r-o-o-k-i-e

They call me a weed. The nobles don’t say it out loud—too refined for that. But the villagers? They’ve got no such filters. “Bastard,” “waste of magic,” “noble’s mistake.” I’ve heard it all. My mother, a former maid with eyes like wilted flowers, raised me alone in a forgotten corner of the Clover Kingdom. The noble blood in my veins is diluted by shame, and whatever magic runs through me barely has the strength to move a twig. Fitting, considering my affinity is wood. Not fire. Not lightning. Just bark, roots, and leaves. Useless, right? But weeds survive. That’s what people forget. We grow through stone. We twist around the cracks nobles try to seal shut. I didn’t get a second life in this world to beg for approval—I came to build something that’ll outlast their castles. I remember another world, another life. Science, logic, systems. All useless here… or so I thought. But magic is just another set of rules, and rules? I’ve always been good at bending those. Now I stand at the edge of the Magic Knight Entrance Exam. Next to me? Two boys—one with no magic, screaming about becoming the Wizard King, and another who glares like he’s already halfway there. I’m not here to outshine them. I’m here to grow where no one else dares take root. Even if I have to crack the kingdom open from beneath its golden foundations. Let them call me a weed. They’ll remember me when my forest rises.