Surgeon Reincarnated into a Magic World as a nobel's bastered son

The training yard was quiet, save for the rhythmic thud of wooden swords colliding. A month without training had been a torture, but we started training back with a condition of no mana usage at all so i was suppressing all the mana in my body not to react it was like trying to run with chains around my ankles. But now, even without enhancements, my body moved with a precision that left Gerro panting.

"Again," he barked, wiping sweat from his brow.

I lunged, my movements sharp and economical. Gerro parried, but I feinted left, then struck his ribs with a dull thwack. He staggered back, his chest heaving.

"Enough," he said, his voice heavy with something I couldn't place—pride, frustration, maybe both.

I lowered my sword, my own breath steady despite the exertion. "You're holding back."

He sheathed his blade, his eyes avoiding mine. "I've got nothing left to teach you, Alex. Not without..." He trailed off, glancing at the scarred training dummies. Not without mana.

That evening, we sat by the hearth, the fire casting flickering shadows on the walls. Metha was absent, her loom silent in the corner. She'd been spending more time in the village square lately, her laughter strained whenever nobles' carriages passed by our village.

Gerro poked the embers, his face grim. "Sir Krow agreed to train you. But he's got conditions."

That was shock for me, i was so excited

"Conditions?" I asked,can't keep my excitement.

"Impress him. Prove you're worth the risk."

"What risk?"

Gerro's jaw tightened. "Your eyes, Alex. They're not just gold. They're noble."

The word hung in the air, heavy and poisonous.

I stared at him, my pulse pounding in my ears. Noble?, as I thought about it, the weight of something unspoken settled in my chest. The way the villagers looked at me—some with pity, some with barely masked envy. The hushed whispers, the averted gazes. Was this why? The glances when i went to the market and what Jol told me "Your eyes don't belong here"

The truth came in fragments, like shards of broken glass:

When I asked my father to clarify, he explained it to me.

Golden Eyes: A mark of noble blood, glowing brighter with magic use.

Red Hair: The Zodek dynasty's signature, a beacon of power—and a death sentence if paired with commoner clothes.

Genetics: In this world, nobles bred true. A child without golden eyes was exiled, erased.because the golden eyes were the same eyes the founder magician "Palestone" had so it was like an undeniable mark of your nobility.

I swallowed hard. "But I'm not noble."

Gerro's laugh was bitter. "Tell that to your mother's old mistress. Lady Varosa doesn't forget a face—or a bastard."

Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. My fists clenched against my knees. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"To protect you." His voice was quiet, but firm. "We thought... we thought if we kept you hidden, no one would notice."

I let out a harsh laugh. "Hiding me? In a village where everyone already knew? That's why they always looked at me like that, isn't it? They knew."

Gerro exhaled sharply. "Some knew, yes. Others suspected. But none dared say it aloud. Not when a single word could bring soldiers to our doorstep."