The Rise of a Mock Hero

Sometimes, I wonder when my life started going so wrong.

I was born the 4th son to a Count, in one of the largest Empires in the world, yet my entire life, I’ve felt like a fraud.

Perhaps the feeling started at the age of 13, during my magical stamina test. I found out I had only an ounce of magic—the amount a mere frog would have—and I became a laughingstock, losing my friends. After that, I was a loner throughout the rest of middle school.

Or maybe it was at 16, when my girlfriend of two years left me for one of my older brothers, her reason being that I would never be able to support her. I probably should have known when the only one I trusted and formed a genuine connection with betrayed me.

No, the turning point came when my parents kicked me out at 17. “What’s the point of being a Count’s son when you can barely maintain the family honor? Especially when there are six other children capable of doing so?” Those were the words my father said before discarding me, but I couldn’t blame him.

When he showed signs of a deadly illness, my older brothers and sister --- already exceptional swordsmen and scholars--- came to his side to aid and support him. Even my younger siblings, who had already begun to surpass me, were able to contribute to Father when his company was on the verge of bankruptcy. And then there was me, just another mouth to feed, showing no worth to the family, was kicked out alongside a handful of servants because we had “no value to the family.”

I spent weeks travelling through multiple cities trying to find work, but in that state of recession, it was pointless. No one would want a Count’s ex-son who had no talent for magic, especially since most high-paying jobs required a specific level of magic, even most of the lower-paying ones. It didn’t take long for me to run out of money and become a beggar.

For weeks, I still had hope. Despite my weathered appearance and the strange looks people gave me, I still had hope that things would get a bit better.

The life of Soren Cambell had truly been an unlucky one.

But not anymore. 3 months ago, a blacksmith—Rai— whom I had often seen walking by my usual spot on the street, took pity on me after seeing me there for so long and gave me shelter and a job. I don’t make much, but I have free shelter and food every day.

Right now, I’m tasked with buying some materials for my boss, who apparently can’t be bothered to do it himself. The market is crowded, the air thick with the smell of spices and sweat. Passersby talk loudly over each other, and merchants shout to bring attention to their stands. While shopping, I overhear a young couple’s conversation.

“You’re really going to that competition tomorrow?” a young lady sighs, pouting at her boyfriend who seems to be paying her no mind.

“Why not? If I win, I get 100 gold pieces”, her boyfriend replied enthusiastically, eyes shining life he already had the money in his grasp

Rai mentioned something similar a few days ago while he was chatting with a customer. Apparently, a few weeks back, a comet crashed through a government building, blew the whole place apart. The guards called the mages to investigate, and they noticed the sword. They sensed it had great power, but none of them could pull it out, so they decided to hold a competition in a nearby town and give 100 pieces of gold to whoever could.

“These are just games of luck and chance. If anything, it’s a waste of time,” the girl says, rolling her eyes, annoyed, shooting her boyfriend a mean look. The boy quickly calms her down by promising to take her on an extravagant date if he won.

I know the odds aren’t in my favor if I decide to go, but tomorrow’s my day off, and I really don’t have anything better to do. Besides, something interesting might finally happen to me for once—and who knows, maybe I’ll surprise myself.

The next morning, I made my way to the town. The sun is barely up, but hundreds of people are already lined up, buzzing with excitement. Warriors in shiny armor, mages with multiple spells to give them strength, muscle-bound strongmen, and even a few beastmen standing nervously. People weren’t usually too fond of beastmen, so seeing them here is a surprise. I guess the mages must be really desperate to pull the sword out.

As I head up to the booth to sign up and join the line with everyone else in line, I spotted my boss in the distance. He gives me a shocked look and pushes through to meet me.

“I didn’t expect to see you here. Did you actually sign up?“, he said, eyes widening in surprise, then quickly smoothed back into a calm smile.

What’s that supposed to mean? And I thought you went out to run “important” errands? I shot back, a bit irritated

My boss is a huge pain —bossy, blunt, a huge prick—but he did take me in. It’s as the saying goes, “beggars can’t be choosers,” I remind myself.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. But don’t even try to sign up kid, unless you want to embarrass yourself,” he says, trying and failing to sound polite.

I ignore him and take my place in line with the other contestants.

Hours go by. One after another, people pull the sword with all their might, faces turning red, arms trembling, but it doesn’t budge a bit. It’s already late in the afternoon when I’m finally called up for my turn.

As I walk up to the sword, the crowd falls silent, then erupts in jeers and laughter. Some start booing, telling me to move aside for others or saying, “You’re wasting everyone’s time by trying!” someone shouts. Others just laugh or boo, telling me to leave.

My cheeks start to burn, but I grit my teeth and keep walking. I might not look like much, but I train with my boss some weekends. I lose every time, but at least it’s still training.

The guard glances at me and leans over. “Are you sure about this? It’s not too late to back out,” he whispers.

Looking at the sword nervously, I swallow hard, nod, and wrap my hands around the hilt of the sword.

As I start to pull on the slick, cold hilt, my palms start sweating, and voices of doubt creep in —maybe I should’ve stayed home. If nobody else could do it, why would I? I should’ve listened to the boss and gone home. Maybe I should just let go.

But just as I think about quitting, the sword budges. A tiny shift, but enough to make the crowd gasp.

“He’s actually pulling it!” the announcer shouts, surprised, into his microphone. The crowd stares in awe as the sword inches closer and closer to freedom, and the cheers grow louder and louder.

As I continue to pull, the sword inches out of the stone slowly—every muscle in my body straining. Sweat drips down my forehead, and the hilt trembles in my grip, but little by little, it slides out.

Maybe this is it — maybe my luck has finally turned around! If I can do this, then maybe, if I really put my mind to it, I can actually become someone.

As I force the last bit of the sword out and it comes free. I raise it breathless, waiting for the crowd to explode, but silence takes over instead. Confused, I look down and realize what I’m holding.

“It’s a stick—a fucking stick on a sword handle,” I blurt out, feeling a rush of emotions consume me at once. Something sour and heavy settles in my gut.

All I can do is stand there, frozen. The crowd doesn’t even laugh; they just stare at me with pity.

The announcer ends the competition, and everyone starts packing up to leave. The guard from before presses a pouch of coins into my hand. “Rules are rules,” he shrugs.

As the mages came to haul the comet away and study it further, two of them wander over, eyeing the “sword” in my hands. One mage in a deep red robe leans in, squinting at the piece of wood in my hands.

“Doesn’t look like much; there’s no magic left in it,” he mutters while still carefully observing it

The other mage shrugs, barely interested. “It’s not dangerous and certainly has no value. Just let him keep it.”

Even after everyone has finished packing up and left, I’m still standing there, frozen.

And in that moment, it hits me—maybe this is all my life is ever going to amount to.

As Soren walks away with his “prize” in hand, three mysterious entities stare down at him from above. Their forms flicker and shift with every passing moment, neither real nor entirely imagined.

“Things seem to be going according to plan,” one says, voice echoing somewhere above.

“Will this one truly not end up like the others?” another sighs.

“Patience. Let’s see how it plays out,” the third says, carefully observing Soren as he disappears from the town square