The room smelled like polished wood and crushed expectations.
A dozen nobles in long coats stood around a glowing stone slab, murmuring to one another. In the center, a boy—barely six—stood barefoot on the stone, arms at his sides, expression neutral.
A noblewoman sniffled into a silk handkerchief.
"He's so small…"
Another noble whispered, "Still no reaction? Not even a flicker?"
Lord Malrik Veyron, head of the house and father of the boy, folded his arms. His jaw was sharp. His stare was sharper.
"Scan again," he said coldly.
The court mage, who had already tried three times, gave a tight smile. "My lord… there's no mana. At all."
The stone beneath the boy remained dark.
No glow. No hum. Nothing.
Mana testing stones lit up for everyone—even commoners. A child with weak affinity might still make it flicker. But this boy?
Absolutely blank.
The mage stepped back. "It's confirmed. Your son has no magical presence whatsoever."
The nobles around the room fell quiet.
Malrik's face didn't move. "I see."
He turned on his heel and walked out.
No one stopped him.
---
The boy stepped down from the stone by himself.
A servant tried to offer him his shoes. He took them silently.
He didn't cry. He didn't look confused.
He looked… tired.
---
His name was Alaric Zevran Veyron.
The youngest son of House Veyron. Born with zero mana in a world where mana was everything.
Swords, spells, status—it all came from magic.
And he had none.
From that day forward, the nobles stopped talking to him. The servants kept their distance. His father barely acknowledged he existed.
Only one person still visited his room.
His older sister, Seraphine.
---
"You know," she said one afternoon as she leaned on his window ledge, "when you were born, Father was actually proud."
Alaric looked up from his book.
"I was covered in blood and screaming. Doesn't sound very dignified."
Seraphine smirked. "You're funny. That's suspicious for someone with no magic."
"Maybe I'm cursed."
"Maybe you're just weird."
She flicked a coin into the air and caught it. A small fire danced across her fingers.
"I'm supposed to be training. But I figured you'd be bored."
"I was experimenting."
"With what? You don't have mana."
"I'm trying to move that cup without touching it."
She looked at the empty teacup on the floor beside his bed.
"…Is it working?"
Alaric stared at the cup.
It didn't move.
"Not yet."
---
When she left, he waited until the hallway was empty.
Then turned back to the cup.
He raised one finger.
His eyes narrowed just slightly.
The cup lifted an inch off the floor. Shook. Floated gently through the air, hovered above his palm, and spun slowly like a lazy planet.
He didn't smile.
He just nodded to himself.
"Telekinesis. Still stable."
This world didn't know what psychic power was.
Which made him the only one who had it.
No mana?
Good.
Let them look away.
It would make his life much easier.
---
Alaric liked mornings.
Not because they were peaceful, or beautiful, or poetic.
No.
He liked mornings because everyone was too tired to pay attention.
Which made them perfect for experiments.
Today's project was "telekinetic breakfast delivery." It had gone well—until the bread hit the ceiling.
"…Too much lift," he muttered.
The loaf peeled off the stone ceiling with a soft thwack and landed next to his bed.
He noted the result on a tiny chart he'd drawn by hand. Columns read: Distance, Weight, Stability, and Casualty Risk.
He circled "High" under the last one.
Then he reached for the apple on his desk and lifted it with his mind.
Smooth, steady motion. It floated perfectly, rotating in the air, wobble-free.
"Vector Grip – Stable."
—Basic telekinetic control. Can lift, move, and rotate small objects with thought.
He nodded in satisfaction.
Then he heard footsteps outside.
Too many. Too heavy. Too urgent.
He frowned.
That usually meant something dumb was happening.
---
In the courtyard, it turned out something dumb was happening.
Servants were running. Guards looked confused. A group of nobles stood near the front gate, pointing and shouting at a fruit cart.
Alaric wandered closer. Slowly. Casually.
He spotted Seraphine standing next to a very angry merchant, who was holding what used to be a full cart of imported mana peaches.
Now it was just a mess of crushed fruit, splinters, and a bent wheel.
"I demand compensation!" the merchant barked. "This cart is warded! Only high-level magic could've caused that!"
Seraphine rubbed her temple. "There was no explosion. No rune trace. No spell signature."
"Then what lifted it into the air and dropped it on my foot!?"
"…A strong breeze?" she offered.
Alaric tilted his head.
Interesting.
He stepped beside her. "What's going on?"
Seraphine gave him a tired look. "A cart full of fruit randomly levitated two meters up, did a slow spin, then exploded."
"That is unusual," Alaric said helpfully.
"You didn't see anything?"
"I was upstairs. Eating bread. From the ceiling."
She blinked. "Why was it on the—no. Never mind."
The merchant pointed at Alaric. "Wait! That's him! That's the one I saw from the corner!"
Alaric raised an eyebrow. "I'm six. And famously useless."
The merchant hesitated. "...Maybe it was a hallucination."
Seraphine folded her arms. "You're really blaming a child with no mana for levitating a half-ton of peaches?"
"I didn't say he did it, I said—fine! I'll file a complaint with the house steward!"
He stomped off, slipping slightly on peach guts.
Seraphine looked at Alaric again.
"You didn't… do anything weird, right?"
Alaric blinked. "Define weird."
"I hate that answer."
"I hate that question."
She groaned and turned away. "Whatever. Just stay out of sight. The staff is already on edge."
"Got it."
---
That night, in his room, Alaric sat cross-legged with a peach pit hovering in front of him.
He concentrated.
Pushed the psychic energy around the seed, not through it.
It spun gently. Floated. Wobbled.
"Fine control's improving," he muttered. "Still no accidental bursts when emotional. That's good."
He glanced at his notes.
Under "Fruit Incident," he'd written:
> Result: Too showy. Should've tested inside.
Then, in smaller letters:
> Note: Peaches = extremely unstable projectiles.
---
The next morning, Alaric was summoned.
Not by his sister. Not by his father.
By the estate's magic tutor, Master Roddic—a man whose robes had more gold than cloth and whose beard had seen too many ego-boosting grooming spells.
The summons was polite but clear:
> "Report to the observatory tower. Lord Malrik demands a second opinion."
Alaric read the note twice.
Then raised an eyebrow. "He remembers I exist?"
---
The observatory tower was quiet and round, built entirely of black stone and old books. Magic diagrams floated in the air—glowing runes that pulsed like lazy jellyfish.
Master Roddic stood near a crystal pillar, arms folded, brows set on permanent "disappointed."
"You're late," he said.
"I'm not," Alaric replied. "You just read time slower than me."
Roddic narrowed his eyes. "Sit."
Alaric sat on the small bench, legs swinging.
Roddic walked in a circle around him, muttering.
"You were tested. No mana. No flow. No spark. But the lord insists we recheck."
"I'm flattered."
"You shouldn't be. This is a waste of my time."
Alaric smiled pleasantly. "It's also a waste of mine."
The tutor grunted and waved a scroll. A soft pulse of golden magic washed over Alaric.
Nothing happened.
Roddic frowned. Cast another. Same result.
He changed runes, added more force.
The magic rattled in the air—but didn't react to Alaric at all.
"…Huh."
Alaric tilted his head. "Is it broken?"
Roddic tried a different method. He lit three mana candles, shaped a reading array, and dropped a crystal in the center.
The crystal was supposed to show affinity.
It was supposed to glow if the child had even a drop of mana.
It turned black.
"…That's new," Roddic muttered.
Then something strange happened.
The floating runes in the room began to rotate.
Not quickly. Not magically.
They just… drifted.
One nudged another. Two shifted like puzzle pieces. The scrolls turned upside down.
The crystal on the pedestal floated.
And then the chalk on the wall began writing by itself:
> "Still no mana. Still more powerful than you."
Roddic froze.
Alaric looked at the floating chalk, then at the shocked tutor.
He blinked.
"Oh no," he said flatly. "Looks like your runes are haunted."
The chalk dropped.
Roddic backed up. "What was—how—what did you—?!"
"Probably cursed," Alaric offered.
"You have no mana."
"I also have no patience."
Roddic stared at him. Then at the crystal, still floating.
Then he backed away, snatched his bag, and sprinted for the stairs.
"I resign!" he shouted as he vanished down the tower. "Find a priest! Or an exorcist!"
---
Back in his seat, Alaric folded his arms.
"Well," he said to himself. "That went better than expected."
The chalk floated again and started sketching a smiley face.
He gently guided it down.
"Let's not overdo it."
---
The rumors started before dinner.
By the time the soup was served, three maids had requested reassignment, one cook had "fallen sick," and a junior groundskeeper had written a letter to the Church of Radiance.
Alaric sat alone in his wing of the manor, quietly reading a book while a spoon stirred his tea midair.
No hands. No magic circle. Just psychic force.
The spoon clinked softly.
Outside the door, two servants argued in whispers.
"I saw it. The tutor ran out screaming."
"They say the boy summoned a demon with no circle!"
"No circle!? That's illegal!"
"No mana. That's worse!"
"I heard the walls started writing back to him."
"By the gods… what is he?"
Alaric turned a page and sipped his tea. The spoon floated back to the saucer.
"Such creative storytelling," he muttered.
Then came the knock.
Sharp. Three taps.
He didn't bother answering.
The door opened anyway.
Seraphine entered, holding a basket of fruit and a long scroll. Her sword clinked softly against her hip.
"I brought snacks," she said.
He looked up. "Bribes already?"
"Damage control," she said, dropping into the chair opposite him. "You've officially scared the household."
"I didn't do anything."
"You made chalk write rude sentences about a master mage."
"He started it."
She held up the scroll. "Petition from Father. Do you know what it says?"
"I'm banned from all magical instruction for life?"
"Close. It says, 'Contain the boy before he embarrasses the house further.'"
Alaric raised an eyebrow. "So, home arrest?"
"Worse. They're sending you to the Royal Academy."
He blinked.
"…That's a terrible idea."
"Agreed. But Father says if the capital declares you a lost cause, the nobles will stop talking."
"And if I explode a fruit cart at that school?"
"Then it's someone else's problem."
Alaric leaned back in his chair. "I see. Brilliant politics."
Seraphine reached into the basket and tossed him an apple.
He caught it with his mind. Floated it lazily between his hands.
She watched it hover.
"…So it was you."
"No proof," Alaric replied calmly. "Might've been a curse."
"Or a demon?"
"Possibly a misunderstood one."
She shook her head and grinned. "Try not to get expelled in the first week."
"I make no promises."
---
Elsewhere in the manor, Lord Malrik read the tutor's resignation letter with a blank face.
> "...floated chalk... self-activating curse arrays... unregistered mental interference... eyes too calm for a child..."
He folded the paper and set it aside.
Then quietly ordered an exorcist for the following morning.
Just in case.
---
The carriage was fancy.
Too fancy.
Polished wood. Velvet seats. House Veyron's crest stitched into the ceiling. It even had a tea cabinet. With sugar cubes. In alphabetical order.
Alaric stared at the silver spoon beside his cup and decided not to move it with his mind.
Not yet.
Across from him sat another passenger. Same age. Red eyes. Long hair tied back with precision. She wore a spotless black-and-gold academy uniform and radiated the kind of presence that screamed:
> Do not speak to me unless you're suicidal.
Alaric, naturally, spoke.
"Do you know which window gives the best view when we crash?"
She didn't look at him. "If you touch me, I'll set your skull on fire."
"Good," Alaric said, sipping his tea. "You're the friendly type."
Her gaze flicked to him. "Which house are you from?"
"Veyron."
She paused. "The disgraced one with no magic?"
"Correct."
"…And you're the son with no mana."
He smiled. "Legendary, I know."
She stared. "Why are you going to the Royal Academy?"
"Father thinks if I fail somewhere public, it'll clear our reputation."
She blinked. Then smirked. "He sounds smart."
"He's not."
She didn't laugh, but her smirk grew.
"Lady Celine Ardent," she said, offering her hand like she expected him to kiss it.
Alaric shook it with two fingers. "Alaric Zevran Veyron. Local disappointment."
The carriage rattled as they passed over a bump.
The tea cups jiggled.
One started to tip.
Alaric blinked. It stopped mid-fall. Floated an inch from the tray. Then softly returned to place.
Celine's eyes locked onto it.
"You didn't move."
"Nope."
"No circle. No chant."
"Nope."
"…How?"
"Maybe I'm cursed."
She leaned back slowly.
"You're strange."
"I hear that a lot."
She studied him for a few seconds longer. Then looked out the window.
"…I'm watching you."
He smiled at his reflection in the glass.
"Please don't."
---
Hours later, the Royal Academy came into view—golden towers, spiraling spell arches, and floating glyph platforms glowing against the sky.
Celine sat upright, expression sharp again. "Don't embarrass yourself when we arrive."
"I never do," Alaric said.
"Didn't you explode a fruit cart?"
"Allegedly."
The carriage rolled to a smooth stop.
Alaric stepped out first, cloak fluttering in the breeze.
Heads turned.
Servants whispered.
> "Is that the Veyron boy?"
"The one with no mana?"
"Why is he here?"
Celine stepped out beside him.
Someone called her name.
She paused, glanced at him once more, and muttered under her breath:
"…Try not to die."
Alaric gave her a small wave. "No promises."
Then he turned toward the towering gates of the Royal Academy.
His new home.
His new stage.
His new problem.