My Angel Can't Level Up

"Magic was supposed to be a gift. For me, it's a curse."

At least, that's what it's felt like since the day my father first placed a spellbook in my hands. I was five—years younger than most kids start their mana training. My father, Rial, a court mage of the royal capital, believed early training would give me an edge. Instead, it became a weight I've carried ever since.

"Focus, Ryven. Faster this time," his voice echoed through the stone courtyard behind our home.

Sweat dripped down my face as I extended my hand toward the practice target—a wooden post scorched black from countless failed attempts. Mana surged within me, raw and ready, but as always, the spell clung stubbornly to my fingertips.

"Fireball."

A small orb of flame sparked to life, wobbling unsteadily before streaking toward the target. It struck with a dull thud, barely leaving a scorch mark.

"Too slow," Father said, his sharp eyes like twin daggers of disappointment. "Speed is everything in battle. A slow mage is a dead mage."

I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms. It wasn't that I lacked power—I could conjure fire, lightning, wind—any element I tried. But no matter how hard I pushed, the time between focusing my mana and casting the spell dragged longer than it should.

Training with Father became my life. Day after day, night after night. While other children played in the village square or learned crafts from their families, I stood in that courtyard, repeating spells until my mana reserves ran dry. Failure was met with more training. Success was met with higher expectations.

The only warmth in those years came from my mother, Lilia, and my little sister, Rin.

"Ryven, come inside. You'll catch cold," Mother called from the kitchen window, her violet eyes soft with concern.

I lowered my hands, smoke still rising from my fingertips. Father had already left for the castle, leaving me to practice alone. Wiping my brow, I turned toward the house.

Inside, the air smelled of freshly baked bread and honeyed tea. Rin sat cross-legged by the fire place, as she arranged wooden blocks into a wobbly tower.

"Ryven! Look what I made!" she called, her face lighting up with a toothy grin.

I crouched beside her, patting her head. "Nice job, Rin. Think you can make it taller?"

She giggled and added another block, only for the entire tower to collapse. Her gasp of surprise quickly turned into laughter, and I couldn't help but smile.

"Come, sit and eat," Mother said, setting a bowl of stew on the table. She placed a hand on my shoulder, her touch gentle and reassuring. "You're working too hard again."

"I have to," I replied, stirring the stew with my spoon. "If I don't improve, Father will—"

"Your father only wants the best for you," she said softly, though her eyes held a shadow of sadness.

I wanted to believe her. But each time I returned to that courtyard, the weight of expectation settled heavy on my chest.

Years passed. By the time I turned ten, I could cast basic spells with relative ease—fireballs, gusts of wind, arcs of lightning. But the delay remained, a constant reminder of my inadequacy. Other apprentices in the capital began surpassing me in fast spellcasting despite starting years later. Some days, I wondered if I should give up magic altogether.

But Father never allowed that thought to take root. Well if I am to be honest then I also didn't want to quit magic. My firepower is as good as it can be even compared to father.

"Again, Ryven. Faster."

"Again."

"Again."

By twelve, my mornings began before dawn. Mana exercises to expand my reserves. Casting drills until my arms ached. Meditation to sharpen my focus. And still, the fireball took seconds too long to form.

When exhaustion weighed too heavily, I'd sneak away to the hillside beyond the city walls. Lying beneath the open sky, I could almost forget the world pressing down on my shoulders.

Rin often found me there. At nine years old, she had learned flying magic using wind elemental but she could only do it for like 40 seconds. Well it only took her 40 seconds to find me so there's that.

"Ryven! Race me to the oak tree!" she'd shout, already halfway there.

"No fair! You started early!" I'd laugh and chase after her, my boots kicking up grass as we sprinted through the field. For those fleeting moments, I felt like a normal kid.

We'd collapse beneath the tree, breathless and laughing. Rin would trace shapes in the clouds with her finger, and I'd tell her stories of knights, dragons, and kingdoms beyond the horizon.

"Do you think I can be a knight one day?" she asked once, her violet eyes wide with wonder.

"Of course," I replied without hesitation. "You'll be the bravest knight in the whole kingdom."

"What about you?"

I paused, staring at the distant city spires. "I don't know... maybe I'll be a mage. A strong one. Just... slower than most."

"You're still strong, Ryven," she said, hugging my arm. "Even if you're a little slow, you can do anything."

Her faith in me never wavered, even when mine did.

By the time I turned fifteen, Father's training had become a daily gauntlet of spells, dodging, and endurance. Failure was no longer an option.

"Fireball! Lightning bolt! Wind strike!" he barked, pacing the courtyard as I struggled to keep pace.

Sweat poured down my face, mana burning through my veins as I conjured each spell in turn. Fire seared the air, lightning cracked through the dusk, wind howled against stone walls. But each cast came a heartbeat too slow.

"Too slow! AGAIN!"

My breath hitched as mana drained from my core, but I pushed forward. Fireball—launch. Lightning bolt—strike. Wind strike—slash. Faster. Faster.

My vision blurred, knees threatening to buckle.

"AGAIN!"

"I CAN'T!" The words tore from my throat before I could stop them.

Silence fell over the courtyard. Father stopped pacing, his gaze heavy with disappointment.

"Then you'll never reach your potential."

He turned and walked inside, leaving me alone beneath the fading light. My legs gave out, and I sank to my knees, hands trembling from exhaustion.

Tears burned my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Not here. Not now.

A soft hand touched my shoulder. I looked up to see Rin standing beside me, her eyes drooping with worry.

"Don't listen to him," she whispered. "You're already strong. He just... doesn't know how to say it."

I swallowed hard, pulling her into a hug. Her warmth chased away the cold that had settled in my chest.

"Thanks, Rin."

That night, lying in my bed, I stared at the ceiling and traced faint patterns of mana between my fingers. Fire sparked at my fingertips, tiny and fleeting.

Why am I so slow? The question circled endlessly in my mind.

No answer came.

But one thought took root in my heart: I couldn't give up. Not now. Not ever.

Even if it took twice as long, I would become a mage strong enough to forge my own path. Not for Father. Not for anyone else.

But for myself to live a life of luxury and freedom.