"Instructions are for people who trust the system. I don't even trust my toast."
******
I stared at the door.
It stared back.
Well, not literally. But it felt like it was watching me, judging me, daring me to knock.
"Lab Twelve," I muttered, eyeing the small brass plate nailed to the ancient wood like a warning sign.
Below it, in elegant glowing script, someone had scrawled:
"DO NOT KNOCK MORE THAN THREE TIMES."
Simple. Clear. Reasonable.
I knocked four times.
One. Two. Three.
Pause.
"…Screw it."
Four.
Because I'm a genius.
The moment my knuckles hit the wood the fourth time, the air rippled.
A pulse of heat slammed into me like I'd slapped the sun across the face. The entire hallway groaned like it was reconsidering its structural integrity.
Then the door exploded.
I was flung backward—probably twelve feet, maybe more, my sketchbook spinning out of my hands in a beautiful arc before smacking me in the face mid-flight.
I hit the wall like a discount action hero, slumped to the ground, and groaned.
A second passed. Then two.
My left eyebrow was singed.
Smoke curled from my sleeves.
Somewhere above me, a soot-covered gargoyle statue tilted slightly. Judging me.
A raspy voice called out from inside the room:
"Oh. Must've missed the sign."
No. No, I very much did not.
The smoke cleared.
A figure leaned out of the scorched doorway.
He was tall, thin, wearing a stained lab coat covered in chalk runes and what suspiciously looked like ketchup. Or blood. Hard to tell. His hair was a mass of white frizz that made him look like he'd lost a fight with lightning. Twice.
"Student Caleb?" he asked, adjusting his cracked spectacles.
"That's me," I croaked from the floor, "and this is my impression of grilled regret."
The man clapped his hands.
"Fantastic. You survived. Come in."
*****
Welcome to Lab Twelve.
If Hell and a magical thrift store had a baby, it'd look like this room.
Crystals floated in midair, humming off-key. Runes scrawled themselves on chalkboards without being asked. A small golem ran in circles with a pair of pants on its head screaming, "I HAVE CONSCIOUSNESS!"
I felt right at home.
"You may call me Professor Venn," the man said, pouring two cups of something that smelled like arcane battery acid. "I'm the Academy's foremost expert on Chaotic Theory and Improvised Casting."
He offered me a cup.
I stared into it. It stared back.
"I'll pass."
He nodded approvingly. "Wise. I've melted at least one tongue today."
Professor Venn strutted toward a large whiteboard filled with diagrams that looked like cursed sudoku.
"Now, young Caleb, I've read your aptitude reports. Your affinity for light and lightning is above average, but your application is—how do I put this—"
"Garbage?"
"I was going to say 'wildly undisciplined.' But yes, that works too."
He flipped the board.
On the other side was a drawing of… me. Charcoal sketch. Messy hair. Glowing eyes. Holding a brush instead of a wand.
"…Did you draw this?"
He shook his head. "No. You did."
I blinked. "I've never seen that before in my life."
"Exactly," he said, tapping the board. "This was found on your first rune assignment. Hidden under the enchantment layers. You didn't write it. But your mana did."
I didn't know what to say. So I said the most reasonable thing I could think of:
"Are you saying my magic doodles on its own?"
"Precisely! You're an artistic caster, Caleb. The first of your kind- an anomaly. Your spells aren't formed through memorized chants or rigid structure. They respond to imagery. Emotion. Expression. Mood. Possibly snacks."
He was pacing now.
"Most mages treat spellwork like math. You treat it like… interpretive dance with lightning."
"So, I'm not broken."
"You're not normal."
"…I'll take that."
Professor Venn snapped his fingers. A floating slate hovered over.
"Your first assignment. Draw your next spell."
I frowned. "I can barely cast a basic bolt. You want me to draw one?"
"Exactly. No verbal casting. No gesture runes. Just… draw."
He handed me a glowing charcoal pencil.
I sat at a desk, trying to ignore the sound of the golem in the corner singing sea shanties.
Took a breath.
Closed my eyes.
Then, slowly, began to sketch.
Lines. Sparks. A stormcloud coiled around a single bolt, thin and sharp like a needle of justice. I gave it movement, motion. Added weight behind the descent. Angled it like a predator falling from heaven.
When I was done, the page shimmered.
And then—
CRACK—BOOM!
A lightning bolt shot out of the page, obliterating a poor broom in the corner.
The golem paused its song.
Then nodded. "Respect."
Professor Venn looked giddy.
"I knew it. You're a chaos conduit!"
"…That sounds fake."
"It is! And that's the beauty of it!"
*****
As I left the lab—covered in soot, ink, and what might've been pickle juice—I felt something I hadn't felt in days.
Not happiness. That's too ambitious.
But maybe… a flicker of possibility.
A tiny light.
A spark.
Maybe this version of Caleb didn't have to suck at everything.
Maybe… this could be his story after all.