Born Without Magic, Destined to Rule All

Chapter 006 – You Have Magic?

It began just after noon — a knock, but not the kind one answered.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Each strike landed like a war drum on the thin wooden door, echoing through the cottage and rattling the bones of the place. Dust spilled from the rafters in lazy streams, stirred by the tremble of the brittle beams overhead. The crooked table — barely held together by rusted nails and desperation — gave a groan, its legs shifting with the tension coiling in the room.

Zarek sat in the far corner, half-shadowed, his bowl of stew untouched and congealed, a silver film crusted over the broth. His spoon slipped from his fingers and clinked against the bowl’s rim with a brittle, accusing sound.

Outside, gravel crunched under boots. Low voices muttered — casual, amused, ugly men who came often, and never alone.

Joren Vonn flinched.

The old man was halfway to rising, his hands gripping the table so hard the knuckles turned pale, almost translucent. His face — creased by sun and sorrow — was ashen. He looked older than he had the night before, older than he should’ve been. Zarek saw the weight on his father’s back — not just the debt, but the years it had stolen from him.

Zarek’s hands curled into fists beneath the table. His pulse thudded in his throat, but he didn’t move. 

“Dad…”

Joren raised one shaking hand, silencing him. “I’ll handle it,” he said softly. His voice, normally low and even, cracked like dried parchment. It wasn’t confidence, it was duty. He stepped toward the door, each footfall like a step closer to gallows. Then—

CRACK.

The door burst inward, exploding in a storm of splinters. The lock clattered somewhere under the table. The door swung crooked on one hinge, the other twisted free, hanging like a snapped arm. Cold light flooded the entry as three men stormed inside like they owned the place — and in their minds, they probably did. Their boots gleamed. Their tunics were the color of old blood. And on each of their chests, pinned in polished silver, curled the sigil of the Malrik Finance Syndicate — a serpent wrapped around a coin, fangs bared in eternal warning.

The leader was a mountain. Broad, clean-shaven head, thick neck, and a sneer that never left his lips. He cracked his knuckles lazily, letting his gaze roam over the small room like a butcher sizing up meat.

“You’re late, Vonn,” he said, his tone the kind that didn’t care about excuses. “Again.”

Joren didn’t meet his eyes. “We had frost last week. The southern fields failed. I just—just need until—”

THWACK.

The fist came so fast it was a blur. Joren staggered. Blood sprayed. He crumpled without a sound, folding to the floor like a scarecrow, his head striking the boards with a dull thud.

“Dad!” Zarek stood up, the chair toppling behind him.

The tall man glanced over. His smile widened slightly, like he’d just found dessert waiting. “Oh. The boy speaks.”

Zarek’s fists clenched at his sides, trembling. He couldn’t feel his fingers, only heat, pressure and the boiling weight of something trying to escape. The smaller thug, narrow-eyed with a hooked nose, reached down and yanked Bren up by the collar, lifting him like a sack of turnips.

“Shame, really,” the thug said, eyeing Zarek. “The Syndicate doesn’t usually bother with brats. But I’ve heard things. Rumors. The black markets pay well for youngblood mages. Especially ones who don’t know how to scream yet.”

Zarek’s whole body went rigid.

“You don’t touch him,” Joren said, voice in a low voice. “Let. Him. Go.”

The room stilled. Even the wind outside seemed to hush. The third thug, thickset with a scar jagged across his cheek, barked a laugh. “Going to fight us with your feelings, boy? That it?”

Zarek said nothing. But the house moved. A faint tremor rippled through the floorboards. It was subtle — like someone had exhaled deep beneath the ground. But it was there. The thugs froze. Their smiles faltered. “What was that?” Hook-Nose said, voice sharp.

Another tremor, stronger this time. The wooden beams overhead groaned. Plates on the shelf began to rattle, one tipping, spinning — and then smashing on the ground.

“Who’d you hire to save your pathetic lives from us?” Scar growled.

“No one, actually…” Zarek said quietly, stepping forward, his feet steady on the trembling ground.

BOOM!

The ground exploded beneath them. A jagged pillar of stone burst from the floor like a cannon blast, sending two of the men airborne. They hit the ceiling hard, one spinning mid-air before collapsing in a heap against the table. Bones cracked. Groans spilled. Blood splashed the walls. The leader landed on one knee, dazed but not out.

Zarek’s eyes glowed faintly now — dull and earthen, like the embers of a buried forge. He breathed heavy, shoulders square. The ground trembled around him. Dust danced in the air.

“You want your payment?” he snarled. “Then go dig it from the dirt.”

The scarred thug roared and charged, dagger drawn. Zarek dropped low. He slammed his palms into the floor.

CRACK!

A spike of stone erupted beneath Scar, slamming into his chest and launching him into the doorframe before he vanished into the yard with a strangled cry, and as he failed to rise, shrieks and shouts echoed through the village—doors flying open, children crying, and someone screaming Zarek’s name as panic spread like a brushfire.

“Vonn’s boy!”

“He threw them!”

“Magic!”

“He’s elementless! He’s—he’s nothing!”

But Zarek stood tall, his chest rising and falling like a storm-swollen tide. The ground beneath him still throbbed with power — raw and ancient and angry. He didn’t feel afraid. Instead he felt awake. Behind him, Joren groaned and sat up, blood running down his chin. He stared at Zarek like he was seeing a ghost. “You…” his voice cracked. “Zarek… you have magic?”

Zarek didn’t look at him.

“I didn’t want anyone to know,” he said quietly. “At least not like this. But I’m not letting them take you...EVER...AGAIN.”

Across the street, in the alley’s edge, a figure stood half-wrapped in shadows. Gray cloak, hood low. In his hand, a small crystal pulsed — slow and steady. He brought it to his lips.

He murmured, “Target confirmed: Element Earth—latent, stable, possibly hybrid.”

The crystal flickered, then a cold voice responded. “Track and observe. But no contact. Dr. Malrik wants him alive.”

The figure lowered the crystal. A beat passed. Then he turned — and was gone, melting into the crowd like smoke in wind. Back inside the cottage, Zarek helped his father up. Joren clutched his ribs, breathing hard. “This won’t end here,” he said, voice hoarse. “You’ve lit a fuse, son. You can’t put this back in the bottle.”

Zarek didn’t answer. He looked around the ruined room — the shattered wood, the unconscious men, the stunned crowd outside. Then he looked down at his hands. His fingers trembled, still laced with dirt. His knuckles were raw, bloodied. “I don’t care,” he said flatly.

He turned toward the door. The breeze brushed past him, curling into the house like a whisper from something buried deep. “If they want war…”

His voice was calm now, “…then they’ll get one.”