CHP NO 12. LEFTY? OR LEFT DOMINATED?

"You should've woken me up!" I snapped, crossing my arms.

Master Sia barely spared me a glance, her expression as unreadable as ever.

Shortly after I dozed off, she had finished her side of the interrogation—except, instead of waking me like a normal person, she carried me home like a damn baby.

Completely unnecessary.

"I tried, you know," she replied, calmly strolling ahead of me. "But you're quite the deep sleeper. Besides, it made no difference. You were exhausted and would've dragged our walk out another thirty minutes at least."

…Okay, fair. She's mentioned that before.

Still. Not the point.

As we walked, she filled me in on what had happened after we were separated. Apparently, she hadn't been questioned at all. Our separation was meant to isolate me, to apply pressure, to make me crack. Precisely what happened—if not for Lady Jhansi's interference.

"I also know you met Lady Jhansi Raigath," Sia added, her tone unreadable. "Don't worry. She's a friend of mine and a close acquaintance of Captain Mercy."

That explained a lot. No wonder Jhansi had that hint of hostility toward me—I was the reason her friends had taken such a risk.

Wait.

"Raigath?" I frowned. "She never mentioned a surname."

Master Sia's steps slowed. Her gaze lifted toward the horizon, where the sun was dipping behind the massive Kalarth mountain range. The sky was bathed in gold and crimson, the wind cool against my skin. Her dark hair drifted with the breeze as she spoke,

"Because a few years ago, the noble House of Raigath—one of the strongest and most influential in the East—fell. Internal conflict within their ranks. The consequences were… severe for the survivors."

I frowned. "So she hides it?"

Sia simply nodded.

Then, she glanced at me. "You've noticed, haven't you? Of all the people you've met, only a handful have surnames."

Now that she mentioned it… she was right.

Besides her, I hadn't met anyone else who introduced themselves with a surname.

"Commoners don't have them," she explained. "Only nobles, royals, and those who have earned one—either through innovation, contribution, or sacrifice. I carry a surname because my husband was bestowed one after singlehandedly saving his battalion during an expedition in the Middle Rim."

That… explained a lot.

The way people respected her. The whispers in the streets.

Because of her husband?

I studied her face, but she had already moved on.

These nobles and royals she kept mentioning… I needed to understand them.

"The royal families," I started, "who are they exactly? I want to understand the power structure of the empire."

Information was everything. A game changer.

Sia gave a small hum of approval. "A good question."

She looked ahead, as if gathering her thoughts. Then, she began.

"The highest authority in our empire is the Imperial Family. Our ruler, Emperor Ashoka Verdun, is its current head. He is a descendant of the empire's founder—Emperor Verdun."

I raised a brow. "So the guy named the empire after himself?" What a simpleton.

Sia actually chuckled. "Yes. A simple approach, but an effective one."

Fair enough.

"The imperial family governs only the capital city, Arengard, which lies at the empire's center," she continued. "The rest of the empire is divided into four territories, each ruled by a Duke of Verdun. These dukes are the empire's second-highest authority."

"Four sides… so one duke per region?"

She nodded. "The Eastern Region—where we are now—has been ruled by the Dukedom of Dredagon since the empire's founding. The Dredagon family has always been the most loyal backer of the imperial family, unwavering in their support for thousands of years."

I frowned. "Thousands of years? That's… excessive loyalty."

"It is said," she mused, "that the Dredagon family swore eternal allegiance to Emperor Verdun even before the empire was formed."

That caught me off guard.

But something else bugged me.

"You called the Duke's family a royal family," I pointed out. "Isn't the emperor's family the only 'royal' one?"

Sia's lips curled into a knowing smile.

"That's where many get confused," she said. "The Imperial Family is also a Royal Family. But they are called Imperial because they rule the entire empire. Meanwhile, the four Duke Families are also Royal Families—because they are direct descendants of the first emperor. They govern their regions under the imperial rule."

I blinked.

…That was more complicated than I expected.

"So the empire is ruled only by Emperor Verdun's bloodline?" I clarified.

"Precisely," Sia said, "Only those of royal descent—meaning Verdun's bloodline—are allowed to govern."

I exhaled slowly, absorbing the information.

The emperor. Four dukes. One bloodline ruling everything.

This wasn't just a monarchy—it was a dynasty that had lasted for thousands of years.

"…I see," I murmured.

And now I understood something else.

If House Raigath was once one of the strongest in the East, but fell… then Lady Jhansi had once been a part of that world.

Now?

She was a soldier. A knight. No surname.

That fall must have been catastrophic.

As we continued walking, I glanced back at Master Sia.

This empire was more structured, more intricate than I had thought. If I was going to survive, thrive, and uncover my past, then I needed to learn far more than just names and titles.

I needed to understand the game itself.

***

Sia's Pov

"Out with it," I said, barely glancing at Lucius. "Whatever's on your mind."

He's an open book to me. Even when he doesn't say anything, I can tell when he wants to ask about something-or—or someone—he saw earlier.

Though my mind was elsewhere, I didn't ignore him. Not his annoying little questions.

"Classes," he answered, his voice laced with curiosity.

I sighed. Of course.

Dargan must have mentioned something—maybe about Dawn or June—to remind him. Otherwise, Lucius had almost forgotten about the Class system. I had hoped to delay this topic for as long as possible.

Seems I failed at that too.

"A class is like an affinity," I started. "They have similarities, but they're different at the same time. Just like affinities, classes come in different types, and like affinities, they can't be earned. You're either born with one or you're not."

Lucius's expression tightened slightly, but he said nothing.

I continued, "Unlike affinities, Classes don't have detailed descriptions or histories. In fact, we only discovered this power system a thousand years ago, during the Great War."

"They have types, don't they?" he said. "Like healers."

Sharp. He figured that much out on his own. That made my job a little easier.

"Correct. There are different types of Classes, and their purposes vary greatly—even contradicting each other at times. You already know about healers. Their special ability allows them to restore their comrades' health, making them invaluable in battle."

Lucius nodded. "June… she was a healer."

"Yes. A childish girl, no attack or defensive capabilities—yet her class made her indispensable. Then there was Dawn. She was a Spellcaster, an uncommon class."

"Spellcaster?" Lucius's brows furrowed.

"This class allows mages to cast spells more efficiently. The difference between me and Dawn, despite us both having a fire affinity, was simple—she could cast spells naturally, while I had to work for it. Her class allowed her to learn, control, and adapt spells far more easily than I ever could."

Lucius frowned. "But… you still made your own spells, like that huge mana arc of yours."

I almost laughed. "That?" I shook my head. "That's a basic spell, Lucius. Limited in power. But that's a discussion for another day."

I shifted gears. "Then there are Berserkers. Their class allows them to push their attack and defense to the absolute limit—sometimes beyond it—for a short time. After that, there's a backlash."

Lucius was listening intently now.

"Next is the Assassin Class."

I didn't miss how he stiffened slightly.

"Assassins gain the ability to stealth their presence," I continued. "When Ragnar and his team first saw you, they assumed you were an assassin—because assassins are the best at hiding their mana presence and signature. They can blend into their surroundings and strike when you least expect it."

Silence.

Lucius didn't say a word.

I knew where his mind had gone.

I sighed. "…I'm sorry, Lucius."

"Don't be," he muttered. His voice was quiet but steady. "You saved me. And for that, I'll always be grateful."

But then, his voice wavered.

"It's just… not fair, you know? I—I…"

He cut himself off, shaking his head. "Never mind. Goodnight, Sia."

He turned to leave, but before slamming the door, he caught himself—hesitated. Then, slowly, carefully, he closed it behind him.

I exhaled.

My gaze drifted upward, to the darkened ceiling of my home.

It has never been fair. Nor will it ever be.

That is the will of mana, little one.

***

 The days passed in relative peace, though there was a lingering tension in the air—one Lucius carried with him after our previous discussions. He wasn't the type to voice his frustrations outright, but his silence spoke volumes. The way he trained, the way he studied my movements, the way he absorbed every detail—he was preparing for something.

At first, I assumed giving him a wooden sword would be a simple distraction, a way to lighten his mood. A child his age would typically run around, swinging the thing at imaginary enemies, pretending to be a great hero. But not Lucius.

He didn't just play with the sword; he studied it. He studied me.

Whenever I trained, he'd be watching—his sharp brown eyes tracking every motion, every angle, every weight shift. He didn't just observe either; he memorized, analyzed, and experimented.

The first few days were amusing—his stances were all wrong, his swings awkward, his grip unbalanced. I expected him to get frustrated, to throw the wooden weapon aside like any other child. But no.

Each failure only sharpened his focus.

By the end of the first week, his footwork had steadied. His grip adjusted. His swings lost their wildness and became controlled. He wasn't just mimicking anymore—he was refining. His mind was a forge, and every misstep only made his blade sharper.

That speed... That adaptability... Could it be?

One evening, as the sun painted the sky in hues of crimson and violet, I put down my sword after my session. But Lucius remained where he was, frozen in the middle of an imaginary battle, muttering to himself.

I watched, intrigued.

'One step back before thrusting forward—no, that leaves a two-second window for counterattack. Unless... I throw something to create a distraction... but what? A projectile? No, not enough force… maybe if I—'

"Lucius."

He flinched, jolted out of his thoughts. He turned with a groan.

"What?"

I smirked, nudging my wooden sword with my foot. I caught it mid-air, flipping it effortlessly into my grasp.

"Let's spar."

His eyes widened. "What?"

"You heard me. Do you accept my challenge?" I pointed my sword at him, the same way I had to that ghost bear.

Lucius hesitated for only a second before his pride took over.

"But why? I've only been training for seven days."

"Why not? Are you scared?" I taunted, knowing full well how to push his buttons.

He bristled. "I'm not scared. Fine, I accept. Any rules?"

"You use all your strength. I'll restrict my mana use and regulate my strength. The match ends when you can no longer raise your sword."

"Fair enough." He raised his weapon.

"Whenever you're ready," I said, planting my feet.

Lucius narrowed his eyes, thinking about his first move.

That was his mistake.

ZOOP!

In the blink of an eye, I was in front of him. My sword cut through the air, descending fast.

Lucius barely reacted in time, pushing off the ground with his left leg, retreating with a forceful leap.

"What the hell, Sia?!" he shouted, startled.

I smirked. "Rule number one: never trust your enemy's words."

He gritted his teeth. Fine. If that's how I wanted to play it, then he would adapt.

Lucius' mana flared to life.

I sensed it immediately. The raw, unrefined energy ignited within him, his core roaring as if awakening from slumber.

He had been practicing.

His body reinforcement was still shaky, but it was there—more potent than before. His footwork, his reflexes, his speed—they had all improved.

Instead of retreating further, he surged forward, countering my advance.

CLANG!

Our weapons clashed, and a sharp vibration rang through the air. His small form was immediately overpowered—I barely put effort into my swing, yet he was already straining against the force.

He was sent skidding back. But instead of looking discouraged, he smiled.

He was learning.

Lucius adjusted, shifting his mana from his body into his weapon.

A bold move.

His wooden sword began to glow.

Mana coating.

It was unstable—cracks in his control were evident—but the fact that he even attempted it was astonishing. Children at the academy didn't achieve this level of mana manipulation until years into their training.

He was trying to use everything at once—raw reinforcement, heightened senses, speed bursts, and now weapon coating.

He wasn't just fighting me—he was experimenting in real time.

I switched to a defensive stance. Let's see what he can do.

Lucius struck.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

His pattern was erratic, unpredictable. One moment he was aiming for my left side, the next, he was coming from above. But he wasn't just swinging wildly—he was analyzing.

I dodged, parried, and countered—testing him.

With each exchange, he adapted.

And then he started pushing me back.

Impossible.

I was regulating my strength, but that wasn't the point. His movements were improving mid-fight, adjusting to every mistake, evolving with each second.

He gritted his teeth, poured more mana into his blade.

This is it. His final attack.

I prepared to counter.

The Breaking Point

CRACK!

Our weapons collided one last time. The sheer force was too much. Both wooden swords shattered.

The explosion of pressure sent Lucius flying.

I moved in an instant, catching his arm before he crashed into our neighbor's fence. His small body was limp, his mana reserves completely depleted.

I sighed, gently laying him on the ground.

"You overdid it, idiot," I muttered, kneeling beside him. He had passed out.

I placed a hand over him, channeling a small portion of my mana into his core. His eyelids twitched.

A few moments later, his golden eyes fluttered open.

Lucius groaned, rubbing his forehead. "What happened?"

I smirked. "Your sword broke under the pressure. You passed out from mana exhaustion."

He blinked. "Oh." He glanced around. "Then why am I lying on the ground?"

I rolled my eyes. "Because you nearly flew into the next district. I caught you, shared some mana to wake you up. You're welcome, by the way."

Lucius sat up, stretching his sore limbs. Then, with a cheeky grin, he asked, "So? How was my performance? Did I impress you?"

I scoffed. "What performance? Those little tricks of yours?"

Truth be told, I was very impressed. His intelligence, his instincts, his innovation—it was all leagues ahead of what I had expected. But I wouldn't let him know that just yet. If I praised him too soon, he'd either grow complacent or reckless.

"...At least give me a hint on how I did," he pressed.

I folded my arms, pretending to think. "Not bad."

He groaned, flopping back onto the grass. "That's it?"

I smirked but said nothing.

Instead, I thought about something that had caught my attention.

Lucius had used his left arm the entire fight. Not once did he switch to his right. Even when he moved, his dominant foot was always his left.

Most fighters, even left-handed ones, had a degree of ambidexterity—our training institutions encouraged it. But Lucius…

He wasn't just left-handed.

He was entirely left-dominated.

I wasn't sure if that was a blessing or a curse yet. Only time would tell.

I exhaled, glancing at him. "Lucius."

He turned his head. "Yeah?"

"...You're unique." I met his gaze. "I believe you're entirely left-dominated in combat. That's… rare."

Lucius sat up, intrigued. "I'm listening."