You know, there's a certain thrill in breaking things you're not supposed to touch.
Especially when you're a kid with untapped magical potential and a brother just as reckless as you.
It started on a boring afternoon. Akira and I were alone in the living room. Mother had gone out to gather herbs, Father was at the forge, and Lyra… well, she'd stormed off after losing a sparring match to Akira. Again.
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
"Let's try that spell again," Akira whispered, his eyes gleaming with mischief.
"You mean the big one?" I asked, hesitating.
He nodded. "The one from Mom's grimoire. Page 73. The one with the circles."
"The one labeled 'For advanced users'?" I blinked. "You sure?"
He grinned. "What's the worst that could happen?"
Famous last words.
We carved the circles into the wooden floor with a butter knife. I was the chant guy. Akira drew the glyphs. Together, we poured every ounce of mana we had into it.
And then—boom.
Not a regular boom. Not a bang or a crack. This was a house-shaking, window-shattering, ceiling-charring explosion of pure water and heat.
It was glorious.
…For about three seconds.
Then reality hit.
Mother screamed the moment she returned, soaking wet from the water explosion that had somehow formed inside the ceiling. Our house had indoor rain. A thundercloud. We made weather.
Mother stared at us like we were aliens. Or ticking bombs. Or ticking magical alien bombs.
"No intermediate mage should be able to do this," she muttered, eyes scanning the steaming wreckage. "This wasn't just magic. This was control. Shape. Structure."
I think that was the first time she looked at us not just as her sons, but as something more.
That evening, Father came home. He looked at the damage. Looked at us.
Laughed.
But then he said something that changed everything.
"We should call him."
Mother nodded.
"Yeah. It's time."
I had no idea what they meant by him, but it sounded… ominous.
Akira and I exchanged glances.
"We're not in trouble, are we?" I asked.
"Oh no," Father grinned. "You're in for something much worse."
The next week, a man arrived at our doorstep.
He had long silver hair tied into a loose ponytail, smelled vaguely of lavender and… something else, and spoke with a theatrical flair that made me uncomfortable.
But he was strong.
Like, really strong.
I could feel it. The way the air shifted around him. The way mana seemed to bend toward his fingers even when he yawned.
"Oh-ho~!" he said, stepping into our house with a dramatic twirl. "So these are the legendary brats I've heard about! The mana monsters! The chaos twins!"
"...Who are you?" I asked.
"Zeroth. Grand Sage. Mage of a thousand spells. Heartbreaker of a thousand women. Lover of—"
Mother cleared her throat loudly.
He coughed. "Right. Strictly business."
"From this day forward," he said, dramatically planting his staff into the ground with a theatrical thunk, "you two will address me as Sensei, Master, Or if you're feeling particularly respectful."
He grinned. "Sir Zeroth the magnificent works too, but I'll settle for Sensei."
I'd never met someone like him.
Father chuckled, stepping forward to clasp Zeroth's arm. "Still full of theatrics, I see."
"And you're still stiff as a board, Theo," Zeroth smirked, pulling him into a half-embrace. "But I suppose the years haven't completely dulled your edge."
Mother crossed her arms, one brow raised. "Try not to blow up the house this time."
"Elena, please. That was one incident. And it was barely a kitchen fire."
"That kitchen fire singed off Theo's eyebrows for two months."
"And it taught him humility," Zeroth shot back, grinning.
Their banter had the ease of old war comrades—sharp, familiar, and lined with half-forgotten scars. There was clearly more to our quiet parents than we knew.
Theo gestured toward the back room. "Your old spot's still intact. Mostly."
"Ah, the legendary broom closet under the stairs," Zeroth said with mock reverence. "Perfect place to commune with the arcane. Or to die of claustrophobia."
"You always said it had 'good mana pressure.'" Elena folded her arms with a smile.
"Still does," Zeroth replied, tossing his enchanted satchel inside. "Though the dreams are weirder now. Probably the mushrooms growing in the wall."
As he muttered a few wards under his breath—just enough to make the air shimmer faintly—Theo lingered by the door, his tone dropping.
"…You're sure about this?"
Zeroth didn't smile this time. He looked Theo in the eye, serious now.
"I've seen talent. I've seen potential. But what you wrote in that letter? That wasn't normal."
He folded his arms.
"If your boys are even half of what you described… then keeping them untrained would be the real danger."
A long pause.
"So yes. I'm sure."
Elena didn't speak, but her nod carried decades of understanding.
Zeroth clapped his hands. "Right then!
Training begins at sunrise!"
And so, the next day came.
The peaceful morning silence shattered.
"RISE AND SHINE, CHILDREN OF CHAOS!" he bellowed. "THE TIME FOR WEAKNESS IS OVER! THE PATH OF GLORY BEGINS NOW!"
Morning lessons with Zeroth were... chaotic, to say the least.
"Magic," he said, "is like seduction. You can't just force it. You gotta ease into it. Tease the mana. Whisper to it."
"Please stop talking," Akira groaned.
"You're doing it wrong!" Zeroth barked, slapping Akira's head with his staff. "Your chant is limp! Put some moan in it!"
"I'm five!"
I don't know what kind of past this man had, but the word "inappropriate" didn't exist in his vocabulary.
Still, he was a genius.
He broke down spellcasting into parts even I could understand—mana sensing, control, shaping, and release.
Under him, our spells stopped being crude blasts and became art.
I could conjure a steady stream of wind that sliced a leaf midair. Akira learned to solidify fire into shapes.
Lyra dropped by once or twice, watched our training,crossed her arms and scowled.
"I hate magic," she said. "It's stupid and boring."
The air went still.
Zeroth—who had been halfway through unpacking what I could only describe as a suitcase full of sparkly trash—froze. His fingers trembled mid-air like he was performing surgery, and then… he gasped. Loudly.
He didn't even look at her. He just dramatically stumbled backward like her words physically assaulted him.
"Ahem—hate… magic?" he wheezed, pressing a hand to his chest. "Boring, she says. Boring! Father above, give me strength."
He dropped to his knees like a dying poet, eyes cast dramatically to the heavens.
"I've crossed the Ashen Spine mountains with frostbite on my toes… I've bargained with river spirits who spoke in reverse riddles… I once taught a tree how to talk!"
He pointed vaguely at the air.
"And now… I come here, only to be told by a tomato-sized barbarian that magic is boring?"
Lyra blinked. "What's a tomato?"
"You are!" Zeroth barked. "A red-faced, loud-mouthed, vegetable of ignorance!"
Akira choked on his laughter. I bit my lip to keep from smiling.
Lyra looked ready to punch him. "Say that again, beardy!"
Father sighed. "Zeroth…"
Zeroth threw his hands in the air. "Fine, fine!" Zeroth huffed, throwing his hands in the air. "Just know," he said, wagging a finger at Lyra, "this will be remembered. Like a scar. On my soul."
"But I'm writing about this in my journal."
Evenings were for sword training.
Father didn't say much. His way of teaching was… brutal.
"Hold."
Whack.
Akira winced.
"Again."
Whack.
My turn.
"Wrong grip."
Whack.
We take turns getting smacked by the flat of his blade. Not enough to hurt, but enough to sting. Enough to remember.
My hands sting. My grip slips. Sweat gets in my eyes and blurs everything.
But I don't stop.
I bite my tongue, fix my footing, and raise the sword again.
He watches in silence. No correction. No scolding.
Just a slow nod.
"…Good," he mutters.
That one word feels heavier than the blade in my hands.
I think that means I'm getting better.