The scent of soil mingled with the first light of dawn, as quiet serenity still lingered behind the stone windows of the village houses. A gentle breeze rustled the tree branches, and from afar, a shepherd's whistle floated into the sky.
Yet in that moment, at the heart of the village square, a boy knelt amid the dust.
With tiny hands, he traced symbols across the cracked earth.
A circle.
Chaotic lines within it.
And at the center, a small triangle.
"This is going to be a protection circle. But… not quite right. It won't work. Again…"
Zeoth muttered to himself.
He found himself here every morning. As if kneeling in the muddy square and drawing magical sigils filled something within—some hollow space he could never explain.
Then, footsteps approached from behind. Soft. Graceful.
"Drawing circles again, Zeoth?" came a familiar voice.
Zeoth turned his head—and smiled.
Elizabeth.
Her silver hair spilled like silk over her shoulders. Her eyes sparkled brighter than the morning sun.
Or perhaps, they only seemed that way to Zeoth.
He didn't know.
He only knew that whenever he saw her, his heart beat a little faster.
Every time.
"This one's special," he said, rising to his feet. "It's just for you. It'll protect only you."
Elizabeth tilted her head, eyes glistening as if holding back emotion. Then, with a subtle smile, she whispered,
"For me?"
"Yes. Only you. If anyone tries to hurt you… BOOM! A ring of fire will explode. The enemies will burn to ash!"
"Zeoth… your magic doesn't work."
Zeoth's smile faltered.
"Well… not yet. But one day, it will. And when that day comes, no one will even dare look at you the wrong way."
Just then, Elizabeth looked away.
As if she wanted to say something…
But stayed silent.
Another voice broke the moment.
Rougher. Mocking.
"Heey! Look, Zeoth's marrying dirt again!"
The village boys had come again.
Five of them. Harold in front, naturally—the village's proud fool. A frame too large for his brain, and a mouth far too active.
Zeoth stepped in front of Elizabeth. "Mind your own damn business."
Harold snatched the stick from Zeoth's hand. "Magic, huh? Look at this guy—Zeoth thinks he's gonna be a wizard!"
The others laughed behind him.
Elizabeth spoke this time. "Leave. Now."
But Harold sneered. "Stay out of it, silver-head. This little twig can't protect you anyway."
Zeoth's heart pounded. His vision blurred.
Just hearing her name from Harold's mouth lit a fire inside him.
But that fire had yet to become power.
So instead, he would use his body.
The first punch landed on his left cheek.
His balance wavered.
But he didn't fall.
He forced himself to stand.
The second punch struck his gut.
His breath caught. Yet still…
Still, he stood before Elizabeth.
Because something inside whispered:
"Break... but do not move. Die... but do not step aside. Not while she is here."
The boys kept hitting him until they were tired.
Then they left.
Only two remained.
A boy collapsed in the dust.
And a girl, crying.
"Zeoth… why did you do that? Why is it always you who suffers?"
Zeoth smiled.
His lips were bloodied, but his eyes still held light.
"If it means you don't get hurt… then let them beat me. I'd rather it be me."
Elizabeth dropped to her knees and held him in her arms.
She gripped his hands tightly.
And there, for the first time in her life, a little girl cried from the heart.
But no one saw it.
No one noticed the mark glowing faintly beneath Zeoth's chest.
Just for a moment, it shimmered under his skin.
The core of the universe… had taken its first breath.