The wooden sword slipped from Zeroth's hands and struck the dirt with a dull thud.
He froze.
The training yard was silent—too silent. No laughter, no chatter, no encouragement. Just the scrape of his own breath and the weight of eyes pressed into his back.
Zeroth stared at the ground. His palms stung. The wood had been too heavy again. Or maybe his arms were just too weak. He wasn't sure anymore. He hadn't been sure for a long time.
"Pick it up."
His father's voice was calm.
That was worse.
Zeroth bent down and grabbed the sword. The handle felt wrong. It always did. Like it rejected him. Like it knew he didn't belong.
He lifted it, adjusted his stance the way he had been taught since he could walk, and swung.
The blade cut the air crookedly. Off-balance. Ugly.
A mistake.
Again.
The sound echoed through the yard like mockery.
Zeroth's shoulders trembled. He corrected his footing, clenched his teeth, and swung again.
Wrong.
Always wrong.
In a clan where children learned to breathe with steel in their hands, Zeroth Zukiro could not make a wooden sword obey him.
He was not sick. Not crippled. Not cursed.
There was simply nothing there.
No talent. No response. No answer when steel called to blood.
"Enough."
The word fell like a verdict.
Zeroth lowered the sword. His chest burned. He didn't look up.
His father didn't scold him. Didn't shout. Didn't strike.
He just turned away.
That hurt more than anything else.
Footsteps crunched behind Zeroth.
Two sets.
Heavy. Unhurried.
He knew who they were without turning.
"Still pretending?"
Zayn's voice carried amusement, thin and sharp. A shadow fell over Zeroth's back.
"I—I wasn't done," Zeroth said quickly. "I can keep going."
A hand shoved him forward.
The ground rushed up. Dirt filled his mouth. Pain exploded across his palms as the sword flew from his grip.
Before he could push himself up—
Crack.
The wooden blade snapped in half.
Zeroth stared at it.
For a moment, the world went quiet.
"Pathetic," Zayn said.
A boot pressed down on Zeroth's wrist—not hard enough to break it. Just enough to hurt.
Zack laughed. "Father really believed in you, you know."
Zeroth flinched.
"That's why he named you Zeroth," Zayn continued, crouching beside him. "Beyond order. Beyond creation."
Zayn leaned closer, his breath warm and cruel.
"And look at you."
Zeroth's vision blurred. "Please," he whispered. "Big brother… stop."
Zayn straightened.
"Even the lowest swordsmen have worth," he said. "They serve. They fight. They matter."
He turned away.
"You don't."
Zack's boot came down again—this time on Zeroth's cheek. The impact rattled his teeth.
"You know why Father drinks more lately?" he asked casually.
Zeroth's breath hitched.
"Because of you," Zayn continued. "Every time he looks at you, he's reminded of what he wasted his blood on."
Zack snorted. "And when Father gets angry, he doesn't hit us."
Zeroth's nails dug into the dirt.
Zayn's voice lowered, almost conversational. "You ever hear Mother cry at night?"
Zeroth froze.
"Of course you do," Zayn said. "Thin walls. Weak house."
Zack leaned closer, whispering with a grin. "Father says if she hadn't given birth to something so useless, he wouldn't lose his temper so easily."
Zeroth shook his head violently. "Stop," he whispered. "Please—stop."
Zayn stood, dusting off his hands.
"So remember this," he said. "Every bruise she hides? Every night she pretends not to hurt?"
He looked down at Zeroth one last time.
"That's on you."
"Get up," Zack said. "Oh—right. You can't."
They left him there.
They always did.
The yard emptied. The cold crept in. Zeroth lay still, staring at the broken sword beside him.
It wasn't the pain that broke him.
It was the thought that wouldn't leave.
Mother cries because of me.
That night, he lay beside her on the thin bedding. He pretended to sleep.
Her breathing changed when she thought he was unconscious—slow, careful, like she was afraid of breaking something fragile.
Her fingers brushed through his hair.
"My little Zeroth," she whispered.
Her voice was always gentle. Even when bruises darkened her arms. Even when the walls listened.
"Mother," he murmured.
"Yes?"
"Why was I born like this?"
The silence stretched.
She never answered questions like that directly.
Instead, she told him stories.
"Long ago," she said softly, "there was a time before clans ruled everything. Before names became cages."
Zeroth stared at the ceiling.
"People created power with their own hands. Not to dominate—but to protect."
"Where are they now?" he asked.
Her fingers paused.
"Gone," she said.
"Why?"
Another pause.
Then, quietly: "Because they angered something they should not have."
Zeroth turned toward her, but her face was half-hidden in shadow.
"Mother," he said. "Where are you from?"
She smiled—sad and distant.
"Another time," she said. "Another life."
He didn't understand.
But he remembered.
He always remembered.
Years passed like that—each day a quiet failure, each night borrowed warmth.
On his tenth birthday, Zeroth trained alone again.
No celebration. No acknowledgment.
Just the familiar weight of effort without progress.
That was when the street went silent.
Zeroth looked up.
Horses.
Armored. Pristine. Moving through the district like the world belonged to them.
People pressed themselves against walls. Heads bowed. No one spoke.
Zeroth remained seated in the dirt, broken sword beside him.
He watched.
The riders didn't look at the houses. Or the people.
Or him.
They didn't need to.
Something twisted in his chest—not envy. Not hatred.
Something sharper.
This is the top, he realized.
And he was nowhere near it.
His fingers clenched.
I want this.
Not for himself.
For her.
A shadow stopped in front of him.
Zeroth looked up.
One of the riders had dismounted.
The man's armor was worn. His gaze sharp—but tired.
"Why are you crying?" the man asked.
The words hit something raw.
"Go away!" Zeroth shouted. "All of you—get away! It's because of people like you that my mother suffers!"
The man didn't react. He studied Zeroth for a long moment.
Then he sighed.
"My name is Kaelor," he said. "I guard people who barely remember I exist."
Zeroth hesitated.
"I don't belong to them," Kaelor continued. "Not really."
He tapped his chest. "Mine doesn't listen either."
Zeroth swallowed.
"I'm Zeroth," he said quietly. "I can't use a sword."
Kaelor laughed—not mockingly. Bitterly.
"Then maybe," he said, "you're holding the wrong weapon."
Zeroth's heart pounded.
"My dream," he said suddenly, the words burning as they left him, "is to become strong enough that no one can hurt my mother ever again."
Kaelor's smile faded.
"That's a dangerous dream."
"I don't care."
Kaelor studied him.
"Very well," he said at last. "Then I'll teach you something broken."
Zeroth lifted his head.
"If you survive it," Kaelor added, "you'll never be able to go back."
Zeroth didn't hesitate.
"I am ready."
Far above them, unseen, something ancient stirred.
And somewhere beyond time, a voice waited.
Another time.
Another life.