The Nameless Extra: I Proofread This World-Chapter 50: What The World Won’t Give (2)

To ask ’why he was not born talented’ was to interrogate fate, for why distributes gifts and burdens with no regard for justice. It was less a question of fact, but an attempt to reconcile the unbearable truth that ability, like beauty, was unevenly dealt with.

That one’s life may be defined less by effort than by the absence of innate brilliance.

Talent, after all, was not merely a skill; it was a kind of preordained permission. Those born with it were permitted entry into worlds that others can only stand outside of looking in.

Corwin knew that better.

To be talented was to begin life already closer to the summit; to be untalented was to begin in the valley, where even the highest climb might never reach the foothills of another’s effortless ascent.

It was a disparity that cannot be corrected by fairness.

So, if talent was denied, what then defines a life?

If brilliance was absent, must one settle for endurance as the highest form of dignity? And if so, was endurance alone truly enough?

Then, the silence of his thoughts returned.

It neither comforts nor explains, but only confirms what was already known: that life was unfair, that gifts were not earned but given, and that some were condemned to live in the shadows of others’ effortless light.

Although there were other paths....

Fields like mana engineering, magical research, or enchantment—all roads carved out for those without natural aptitude, but they were steep, brutal, and ruthless.

And while the academy claimed it welcomed all who worked hard enough, the truth was simpler: it welcomed those who could survive the climb without slipping.

He didn’t know if someone like him would be accepted in such paths, or if the doors would shut the moment he tried to knock.

But either way, he knew that no matter what, he couldn’t go back.

He couldn’t face the look in his mother’s eyes if he failed.

He couldn’t let his siblings grow up believing that magic belonged only to those born lucky.

And he surely, he couldn’t make his father’s sacrifice meaningless.

Then, there is also the tuition fees...

The thought alone was enough to break something loose in his chest. He lowered his head, eyes unfocused, and the world began to blur again.

A warm dampness, unbidden and unwanted, slipped from the corners of his eyes and slid soundlessly down his cheeks.

His hands were shaking. The piece of bread crumbled under the pressure of his fists. His throat tightened.

The knot that had taken root somewhere deep inside his chest, swelling upward until it pressed against his windpipe.

He wasn’t supposed to break here. Not now, and not where anyone could see. But his body didn’t care. It shuddered beneath the weight of the unsaid.

And then, suddenly, a violent cough ripped through his throat—

Cough!

His hand shot to his neck in panic, instinctively trying to pry the air back into his lungs.

’Darn it.’

He had forgotten that he hadn’t bought any water.

The coughing worsened his vision and spinning with heat. His cheeks redden not just from the lack of air, but from the sheer, suffocating humiliation of it all.

’...I am so hopeless. Is this how I’m going to die?’

If so, then it was such a pathetic death.

’Why the hell am I being born?’

But then... just as the edges of his vision began to darken, a shadow of a person fell over him.

A pale hand entered his blurred line of sight, extended toward him with a crystal flask held in between his fingers.

Then came the voice, cool like a calm raindrops.

"Here. Drink."

Corwin’s gaze, still fogged by tears, lifted hesitantly.

And through the haze, he saw the outline of a young man now standing in front of him.

The dark-haired boy watched him without judgment, as though waiting for Corwin to stop crying and take his offer.

Corwin immediately reached out with shaking fingers and took the flask, feeling the cool glass against his skin, and without a word, brought it to his lips.

The water was cold. It slipped down his throat and carved away the pain, the roughness, and the tightness. Leaving behind only the ache that had nowhere else to go.

’Thank goodness. I almost died there.’ Corwin thought.

Lowering the flask, he froze, torn between wanting to apologize, to express some broken version of gratitude, or to pretend this never happened at all.

But Ruvian spoke again before he could decide. His tone hadn’t changed, still calm, still dispassionate, but this time there was something more to it.

"Don’t waste your time feeling sorry for yourself, Corwin." Ruvian said. A brief pause followed, as if he were deciding whether to continue.

"The world won’t care. Nor will it slow down for you. If you sit here, sulking and clinging to something that was never yours, you’ll definitely be trampled underfoot."

Corwin’s hands clenched tightly in his lap, the sting of the words cutting sharper than anything cruel ever could, because they weren’t cruel.

They were honest, not spoken to wound him, but to strip away the lies he had been feeding himself.

Ruvian’s gaze remained impassive, unreadable, but his next words were sharper.

"So what if you didn’t have any affinity?"

"Widen your view. You already came this far. It’s not easy to be accepted into this academy. There were some who failed. Maybe more."

"Try to remember it again, how did someone like you pass the admission test, when there aren’t many spells you can demonstrate to them? You must have exceeded in some department that made you pass the admission test."

"This academy is not just about producing a great mage, after all. There are many more pathways than just that. So, if you’re not destined to be a mage, then let go of that hope."

The words struck Corwin harder than he expected with a force that came without hesitation.

’Huh?’

Corwin’s eyes lifted, searching Ruvian’s face for scorn, for pity. But he found neither. Only a burning certainty that refused to waver in his dark eyes.

And in those unnerving eyes, Corwin understood what Ruvian was trying to tell him by ’letting it go’.

It was simple, but at the same time, contrary to what it sounds like.

Basically, he was telling him to let go of the path that was never meant for him and walk forward anyway. Released the weight of what he wasn’t, so he could finally rise as what he could be.

That was what the messages behind Ruvian’s harsh words were.

Corwin’s throat tightened.

A part of him wanted to argue, to say that being a capable mage was all he had ever wanted, all he had ever known.

But another part... another part whispered that Ruvian was right.

He doesn’t really want to be a mage.

It wasn’t his bigger dream, just something he thought might solve his family’s financial problem.

Ruvian turned away, ascending the stairs. But before disappearing, he left behind one final thought.

"Calm your mind first. Once you do so, you can decide what to do next. If you have no answer, seek guidance."

Then, without a backward glance, he was gone.

Leaving Corwin alone with his thoughts. Alone with a choice he wasn’t ready to make.

A bitter laugh caught in his throat, barely more than a whisper.

"That’s... easy for you to say..."

The words tasted like rust on his tongue, thick with resentment.

His fingers curled into a fist, nails pressing into his palm as if the pain could anchor him, could hold back the tide of helplessness threatening to swallow him whole.

Ruvian’s words still echoed in his mind.

Corwin wanted to reject them. Wanted to throw them aside and bury himself in the comfort of denial.

He wanted to hate Ruvian for saying them so easily, so carelessly, like it was as simple as exhaling a breath.

’...Even so, he’s right.’

But deep down, beneath the anger and the hurt...

He wanted to believe that Ruvian wasn’t just tearing him down, but giving him something to grasp onto.

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[Chapter 50: What The World Won’t Give (2)]