Zeroth learned early that silence hurt less than hope.
The training yard was cold that morning, the dirt packed hard beneath his bare feet. His fingers ached as they closed around the wooden sword—too large for his hands, too familiar to his shame. He raised it, adjusted his stance the way he had been taught, and swung.
The blade cut the air awkwardly. Off-balance. Wrong.
Again.
The echo of wood against nothing sounded like laughter.
He tried to correct himself. Slower this time. Careful. The way his instructors demanded, the way his father watched—arms crossed, eyes sharp, already disappointed before Zeroth ever failed.
Again, the swing collapsed halfway through.
A mistake.
Always a mistake.
In a clan where children learned to breathe with a sword in hand, Zeroth Zukiro could not even make the weapon listen to him.
He was not cursed. No one could accuse fate. His body was healthy, his mind clear. There was simply nothing there—no resonance, no unity, no answer when steel called to blood.
And so the clan answered for it.
They did not shout anymore. Shouting required effort. They had moved past that, into something quieter and far crueler. Disdain. Indifference. The kind that settled into the bones and stayed.
His father never corrected him now. Never raised his voice. He merely turned away.
That hurt more.
Zeroth lowered the sword, breathing hard, chest tight. He knew better than to stop early. Stopping meant weakness, and weakness was already his crime. So he raised the blade again.
That was when the footsteps came.
He froze.
Two sets. Heavy. Unhurried.
He didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
"Still pretending?"
The voice belonged to Zayn, his eldest brother. Calm. Almost bored. Zeroth felt his shoulders tense as a shadow fell over him.
"I— I'm training," Zeroth said, forcing the words out. "I didn't stop."
A hand shoved him from behind.
The world tilted. The sword slipped from his grip as he hit the ground hard, dirt filling his mouth. Pain flared across his palms.
Before he could push himself up, a sharp crack split the air.
His wooden sword snapped in half.
Zeroth stared at it, stunned. For a moment, he forgot to breathe.
"Pathetic," Zayn said.
Another footstep. Lighter. Crueler.
Zack laughed and pressed his boot down on Zeroth's wrist. Not hard enough to break it. Just enough to remind him.
"You know," Zayn continued, crouching down, "Father used to talk about you."
Zeroth flinched.
"He really believed it," Zayn said softly. "That you'd be something special. That's why he named you Zeroth. Beyond order. Beyond creation."
Zack leaned closer, his voice dropping.
"And look at you."
Zeroth's vision blurred. "Please," he whispered. "Big brother… stop."
Zayn's expression twisted—not with anger, but disgust.
"Even the lowest swordsmen in this world have worth," he said. "They serve. They fight. They matter."
He straightened.
"You don't."
Zayn tilted his head, studying Zeroth like a cracked tool.
"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."
Zack's boot came down again, this time on Zeroth's cheek. The impact rattled his teeth.
"Get up," Zack said. "Oh—right. You can't."
They left him there.
They always did.
Zeroth didn't know how long he lay on the ground. Long enough for the yard to empty. Long enough for the cold to sink in. Long enough for the tears to come without sound.
It wasn't the pain that broke him.
It was the thought he couldn't push away.
Mother cries because of me.
That night, he lay beside her on the thin bedding, pretending to sleep. He could hear the way her breathing changed when she thought he was unconscious. Slow. Controlled. Careful, like she was afraid of breaking.
Her hand 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 didn't answer right away. She never did.
Instead, she told him a story.
"Long ago," she said, "there was a time before clans ruled everything. Before names meant cages. People created power with their own hands. Not to dominate—but to protect."
Zeroth listened, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
"They learned swords. They learned magic. They learned truths the world has forgotten."
"Where are they now?" he asked.
Her fingers paused.
"Gone," she said. "Scattered."
"Why?"
Another pause.
Then, softly: "Because they angered something they should not have."
Zeroth turned to look at 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 a borrowed warmth. Zeroth trained because it was expected. He endured because there was no other choice.
On his tenth birthday, he 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.
A line of them, armored and pristine, moving through the district like it belonged to them. People pressed themselves against walls, heads bowed low. No one spoke.
Zeroth stayed where he was, sitting in the dirt, broken sword beside him, quietly crying.
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, he thought. I'll take it.
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 dark, worn. His gaze was sharp but not cruel.
"Why are you crying?" the man asked.
The words hit something raw.
"Go away!" Zeroth shouted, rage bursting free. "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. They use magic like breathing. I can't."
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," he said.
"I don't care."
Kaelor looked at him for a long time.
"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.