The Wicked Warrior in Greek Mythology

[Age of the Gods, Greece.

Chiron's Training Island.]

The wise centaur, Chiron, galloped across his training grounds. Young aspiring heroes played and sparred in their training, while birds could be seen flitting among the tall trees under the gentle morning sunlight.

Chiron couldn't feel prouder of the sight before him.

Jason.

Alcides.

Asclepius.

Telamon.

Peleus.

And Meleager.

Each one a fine example of a future hero.

Yet among all of them, one caught Chiron's attention. As he reached the farthest field, he saw him.

A child—different from the others, though for reasons unclear. He appeared to be around six or seven years old, dressed in tattered gray clothing with a gray cloth sack over his head that he never removed.

The child before him showed no outward reaction. He simply stood there. No—it was more like he was watching him from the corner of his eye… At that moment, an inexplicable chill ran down Chiron's spine.

He wasn't doing anything. He remained there, chin raised, stubbornly unmoving.

For a moment, Chiron recalled his interactions with this particular student.

An old conversation surfaced in his mind—about a boy who refused to communicate with those around him for no apparent reason.

In fact, why did this boy hide his face? Why did he so carefully keep his head concealed beneath that sack? He had been doing it since the beginning.

"Come to think of it… I realize I've never seen his face under that sack…"

His name came to Chiron's lips effortlessly—

"Magsarion…"

Within his line of sight, Magsarion tirelessly swung his sword in that secluded corner of the forest.

As Chiron watched the relentless repetition of Magsarion's vertical strikes—lacking refinement and elegance—he couldn't help but marvel at the boy's singular focus.

His movements had no precision, none of the artistic beauty that often accompanied mastery.

Instead, he displayed reckless intensity—a relentless determination to cut down anything in his way.

Magsarion's unyielding grip caused sweat and blood to splatter around him as flesh and bone strained under the immense pressure of his small, childlike hands.

The air itself trembled, seemingly screaming under the weight of his merciless attacks.

It felt like a form of self-flagellation, driven by an uncompromising mindset to eliminate anything that stood in his path. His goal was simple:

"Kill, without caring about anything or anyone that obstructs him."

It was a raw, relentless pursuit. And yet, it was undeniable—he possessed great strength.

It was an exhibition of unrestrained violence, devoid of grace or delicacy.

Yet within that violence, a distinct darkness could be felt—a resolute determination.

He was unconcerned with being correct or honorable; his actions transcended such matters.

Chiron couldn't deny it—

Magsarion was a diligent worker.

His relentless strikes lacked grace or skill, but they exuded an unshakable tenacity that defied any conventional definition of beauty.

For some, talent is an elusive thing. And now, as Chiron observed him swing his sword again and again, he saw it once more.

Magsarion had no talent.

His vertical strikes continued—rough, fierce—threatening to tear through the very air that separated them.

Yet there was no precision in his movements, no trace of the elegance often found in mastery.

In other words, they were defined by recklessness, even clumsiness.

His swordplay lacked not only refinement but also the raw brilliance that beauty might bestow upon it.

Magsarion simply did not fit within the conventional framework of what could be considered "beautiful."

If someone were to say he lacked talent, they wouldn't be entirely wrong.

And yet, he remained strong.

Compared to Chiron's other students—like Alcides or Asclepius—Magsarion possessed no natural gifts or talents. Even Jason, a "jack-of-all-trades" among his students, was superior to Magsarion in that regard.

But there was one thing in which the furious young boy surpassed them all.

"Determination."

None of his students were more determined than Magsarion.

Be it under the scorching sun or the pouring rain, whether his bones creaked or broke, Magsarion never ceased swinging his sword.

It was truly a pursuit of limitless strength.

Yet, amidst it all, a thought crossed Chiron's mind about his student.

"Why does he push himself so hard?"

Well… perhaps one day, the boy himself would reveal the answer.

Chiron was a patient centaur. He would wait for his student to tell him.

After all, even without talent, Magsarion had more than proven that he possessed just as much potential as any of them.