I never believed that before death your life will flash before your eyes, but here I am, stabbed through the heart by the family I am bound to serve.
I was born to a blacksmith’s family, and have been learning the trade as long as I could remember. During my 10th birthday, I had my magical aptitude checked by the town magic user. Found with an abnormally high mana capacity, I was taken from my family to train as a magic user at the capital. Devastated at being ripped from my family, I put my all into the one aspect of magic that was similar to home, magic smithing. I was allowed to forgo combat as the number of magic smiths was low due to requiring mastery over smithing and enchanting, as well as a surplus of mana to complete a task. I even took up alchemy so that my swords would be more receptive to common coatings and the second tier enhancements those coatings tend to temporarily give. I even spent time improving beginner tier practice magic, heat, cool, shape earth, and control water to help, even though my colleagues laughed at how I could’ve spent that time learning more advanced magic. The kind that demands respect from the manaless. The kind the shows power. Now I wish I had listened.
I spent years constantly improving, delving into my craft with the fervor of an addict to distract me from my loneliness. I hated the kingdom that enslaves magic users to the crown, and I hated the magic users who look down upon the manaless, so it is no surprise I spent my days in solitude. My works were the only thing I was proud of, and through the years higher and higher ranked nobles would take notice and request gear crafted and enchanted by me. As time went by, I was appointed the Royal Craftsman, and worked exclusively for the king and his heirs, though from time to time I would craft a reward for a retainer. With more and more attention gathering on me, the King had me move to a secret workshop hidden in the mountains.
It was there, in my secluded prison that one of the princes, I don’t even remember his name, came up to me requesting to look at my completed works. With my back turned, he ran a dagger through my heart. A blast of lightning later, courtesy of one of my contracted spirits, disintegrated the prince a moment later, but the deed was done. It hurts. The last thing I sense is the rest of my contracted spirits rushing to me.
This is where my life flashed before my eyes. I wish I could have lived without ever being taken by the country. I wonder, does anyone remember me, not as a magic blacksmith, but as Robin?