Nearly ten minutes had passed since Zeroth's magic had awakened.
Ten minutes—yet to Kaelor, it felt like an eternity that refused to settle. He stood a short distance away, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the boy as if looking away for even a second might allow something irreversible to happen. The air had already returned to normal, the ground no longer cracked, the pressure no longer crushing—but the feeling lingered. That wrongness. That quiet distortion that clung to Zeroth's presence like a shadow that refused to detach.
This wasn't normal.
A child. From a swordsman clan. From the weakest clan in its category. From a bloodline that had never produced anything noteworthy—let alone something like this.
Kaelor exhaled slowly, forcing his breathing to steady.
"Hey," he said at last, breaking the silence. "You must be hungry. Let's go eat. My treat."
Zeroth's head snapped up instantly, the heaviness in his expression cracking just a little.
"Yes!" he said, a bit too quickly. Then, as if realizing himself, he straightened. "Thank you… master."
For all the unsettling things about him, moments like this were a reminder: Zeroth was still only ten years old. No matter how sharp his gaze became during moments of pressure, no matter how unnatural his presence felt, there were still fragments of a child clinging stubbornly to the surface.
It was already late by the time they reached the bar.
Warm light spilled from the entrance, accompanied by the low murmur of voices, laughter, and clinking glasses. The moment Zeroth stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted—not dramatically, not in a way most could explain. Conversations faltered for half a breath. A few people glanced up, then away, then back again.
Unease.
Zeroth felt it too. Eyes lingered on him longer than they should have. Not curious. Not hostile. Just… uncomfortable.
His clothes were still dirty. His hair unkempt. He smelled faintly of sweat and dust. He looked like exactly what he was—a child dragged out of poverty and dropped somewhere he didn't belong.
"We don't accept homeless here," the bartender barked the moment they approached.
Kaelor didn't argue. He merely shifted his coat aside, revealing the insignia stitched along its inner lining—the emblem of the Vitral Clan.
The bartender's expression froze.
"I—my apologies," he said quickly. "Please, take a seat."
They sat at the front.
"Give us the best food you have," Kaelor said calmly, placing a generous amount of coin on the counter where it was impossible to ignore.
"Yes, sir. Right away."
As the bartender hurried off, Kaelor leaned back slightly, eyes still on Zeroth.
"Tell me," he said, voice low. "Earlier—when that black colored magic appeared. Was it something you used deliberately? Or did it… happen?"
Zeroth frowned, trying to recall the moment. The feeling was blurry. Heavy. Like remembering something through water.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I just felt… strong. And weak. Both at the same time. I don't even know what kind of magic it was."
Kaelor nodded slowly.
"Your next step is control," he said. "And I'll be honest with you—I can't teach you that directly. I told you already. My own magic is unstable. I can activate it. I can stop it. But control?" He shook his head. "That's not something I possess."
Zeroth listened intently.
"So instead," Kaelor continued, "we'll learn the hard way. Missions. Combat situations. Children's tournaments, if necessary. Places where hesitation gets punished."
Zeroth swallowed.
"And one more thing," Kaelor added after a pause. "What you showed earlier… shouldn't exist. A magician is bound to a single nature. Fire cannot become water. Wind cannot become stone. Yet you—" He stopped himself, lips curling into that familiar sharp smirk. "You broke that rule."
Zeroth stiffened.
"Remember when I said something drew me to you?" Kaelor went on. "Maybe that God of Fate I mentioned… maybe it wasn't just a myth after all."
Zeroth didn't respond. The words sank into him quietly, mixing with memories of whispers, voices, pressure he couldn't name.
The food arrived.
Zeroth stared at it as if it might disappear. The aroma alone was overwhelming. He ate slowly at first, then faster, tears slipping down his cheeks without him realizing.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Master."
Kaelor didn't comment. "Eat," was all he said.
They didn't notice the men approaching until they were already too close.
"Hey," one of them said, leaning in. "Kid. Who are you?"
Zeroth hesitated. His name felt like a curse more than an identity.
"Just a random kid," he said. "Why?"
"Because you feel strange," the man replied. "Not strong. Just… wrong. And looking at you, you're clearly not from a good clan."
Kaelor remained silent, watching.
"…Zukiro," Zeroth said after a pause. "Zukiro Zeroth."
Laughter exploded.
"Zukiro?" one man wheezed. "You're joking."
"The weakest bloodline in history," another said. "Being born there is rarer than being born talented."
They laughed harder.
Zeroth lowered his gaze. "I know," he said quietly. "I'm the weakest swordsman of all time."
That only made it worse.
"I think I saw your father once," one man said between laughs. "All pride. No strength. And your mother—" He sneered. "She's strange. Filthy. You can feel it from far away. Same feeling you give off, actually."
Something snapped.
Zeroth moved before he thought.
His fist connected.
The man collapsed instantly.
The other lunged—but Kaelor intercepted him effortlessly.
They left before anyone could react.
Outside, Kaelor stopped and turned.
"When you punched him," he asked, "did you use magic intentionally?"
Zeroth shook his head. "I just… punched him."
Kaelor nodded. "Then remember this. Without magic, you are weak. Think before you act."
Zeroth clenched his fists.
"I know your mother matters to you," Kaelor continued. "But she wouldn't be proud of that."
Silence followed them all the way back.
That night, alone in his room, Zeroth stared at his reflection in a cracked mirror.
Small. Weak. Ordinary.
He hated it.
So he trained. Bad form. Shaking arms. Burning muscles.
Outside, Kaelor watched through the narrow window.
Something was moving.
Something unavoidable.
And he didn't know whether to be proud—or afraid.