8. Tristan: Magicless

  When Tristan returned from his first Inner Eye experience magicless, all hell broke loose.

  Flaghern immediately ran checkups on him, his face contorted with disbelief.

  “B-but that doesn’t make any sense!” He exclaimed, hovering his glowing hands over Tristan’s body. “I saw your mana pool – I can still see it! It's incredible! Why did it deny you?!”

  Tristan had no definite answer.

  But he had a guess.

  Gartan.

  That was somehow his fault.

  And Tristan feared that this was only the beginning.

  His promised “harsh life of struggles” was starting now.

  He didn’t tell Flaghern exactly what the golden ring told him – just that it told him it denied him access to magic.

  Two days later, Flaghern was found dead in one of Dalina’s slums.

  Murdered. Brutally.

  High-ranking officer or not, Kain Vortalis had no patience for failure.

  Now, Tristan feared for his own life.

  Because if his father disposed of an elite mage so easily, what would he do to his useless son, the one who had proven himself incapable of wielding magic?

  The answer was surprising – a conversation.

  The first time Kain Vortalis ever actually spoke to his son was going to be this – a conversation about his first – and perhaps last – failure.

  And now, the day of the dreaded conversation had arrived.

  Tristan stood outside the door to his father’s chambers, shaking in his boots.

  He didn’t know what to do.

  He had come into this new world expecting to take it by storm – to use his past life's knowledge, his father’s power, his influence, his resources to climb to the top.

  Now? That seemed impossible.

  He was nothing.

  Once again…

  Rosalina was there with him, leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, one boot propped up against the stone.

  She was trying to calm him down, but failed miserably.

  She sighed, then crouched in front of him, lowering her voice to something softer. “It’s okay, Little Devil, don’t worry.”

  Tristan didn’t feel okay.

  “I’m sure it’s just a status meeting.” She continued. “Ifrit has high hopes for you. Surely, he just wants to see how you both can progress from this situation.”

  She gave him a lopsided grin, tilting her head slightly. “Besides, it’s okay to be magicless. Look at me – I don’t have magic, and I’m cool enough, right?”

  Tristan appreciated her rare attempt at humor, but his mind was elsewhere.

  His father’s presence was like a storm waiting on the other side. Even through the heavy door, Tristan could feel it – an aura so sharp it pierced through the walls like knives.

  He tried to calm himself down.

  ‘Dude. You’re not actually a kid. Why are you so afraid?!’ He scolded himself, inhaling sharply. ‘Get a hold of yourself!’

  But just when an ounce of courage returned to him, the doors creaked open on their own.

  A slow, deliberate invitation.

  “Come.”

  Ifrit’s voice was unmistakable. Calm and piercing, all at once.

  Rosalina placed a reassuring hand on Tristan’s back, prompting him to step forward.

  He did – empowered by the fact that she was with him.

  They both stepped inside, but…the room was empty.

  Completely bare.

  No furniture. No windows. No light.

  Then, from nowhere and everywhere, Ifrit spoke again.

  “Not you, Rose.” He commanded. “Wait outside.”

  “As you wish, Ifrit.” She said, giving a small bow. Then, she turned to Tristan, offering a supportive smile in one last attempt to lift his spirits.

  And then she was gone.

  The doors closed behind her on their own.

  And the entire room became pitch black.

  Tristan wanted to call after her – to ask her to stay – but he knew that would only show more weakness.

  And he couldn’t allow that. Not after what happened with the Inner Eye.

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  He forced his breathing to steady, his finger twitching at his sides. And then – without thinking – he slapped himself across the face.

  A sharp crack echoed in the emptiness.

  Silence followed

  “…Did you just slap yourself?” Ifrit’s voice sounded genuinely confused.

  Tristan froze.

  “Y-yes.” He replied, turning his head slightly, instinctively trying to pinpoint where the voice was coming from. But he couldn’t find it.

  “Why?”

  Tristan swallowed hard. He needed to keep his cool – to regain his confidence

  This was different from anything he had ever faced before, but he had been in dangerous situations in the past. This one was just…slightly scarier.

  He took a deep breath before responding. “To drop my fears.”

  Silence.

  “Are you afraid of me?”

  “Yes.” Tristan admitted.

  Silence.

  “Then it didn’t work?”

  “It did.” Tristan disagreed. “I’m less scared now.”

  Silence.

  “Good.” Ifrit’s voice was measured. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me. You are my son, after all.”

  Tristan swallowed again, his stomach twisting.

  He didn’t believe it.

  He didn’t know where the man was, but his presence was too suffocating – too heavy – for those words to be genuine.

  Then, suddenly, the floor caught fire.

  Low flames exploded out of nowhere, rushing across the entire ground – except for one spot. A small, untouched circle, right where Tristan stood.

  With the room now alight, he raised his head and saw a man. His father. Ifrit.

  Kain Vortalis looked exactly the same as the day Tristan was born.

  The same young man. He hadn’t aged a day.

  His face, though, still carried the same cruelty Tristan recognized back then, and every day since then. He was a hunter, and the entire world was his prey. No exceptions.

  His ashen hair was thick and full, the strands carrying richness that was hard to describe. He wore a simple black tunic, paired with matching trousers.

  And – oddly enough – he was barefoot, standing on the flames of his creation, unbothered.

  Tristan’s gaze met his father’s, and Ifrit smiled.

  But the smile was cold, and it sent a shiver down Tristan’s spine.

  “Flaghern is to blame.” Ifrit said as he walked around the room, arms crossed behind his back. He stepped on the fire like it wasn’t even there, and the fire responded by not burning him. “He sent you there when you weren’t ready, and we paid the price.”

  Tristan’s heart raced. He couldn’t believe Ifrit was blaming Flaghern for this. But at the same time…he was relieved.

  ‘You were the one who pressured him, though…’ The thought had barely settled in Tristan’s mind, when Ifrit suddenly turned, piercing him with his gaze.

  “I did.”

  Tristan stiffened as his father pressed two fingers lightly against his temple, his expression calm.

  Tristan’s eyes widened, realization dawning on him that his father could read his thoughts.

  “Speak freely.” Ifrit said. “Don’t hide things from me. You can’t. You shouldn’t.”

  Tristan swallowed hard. His father wasn’t just extremely powerful – he was inescapable. It was no surprise his influence was so great when he could do something as amazing as reading other people’s minds.

  Still, if lying wasn’t an option, then he had to be careful about what he thought, specifically the real reason he was denied magic.

  “I felt like Flaghern was forced to start teaching me early because you ordered it.” Tristan admitted.

  Ifrit nodded, his expression unreadable. “I did pressure him, Tristan. But tell me, my brilliant child, why have advisors if they’re only going to be your yes-men?”

  He shook his head and let out a slow breath. “I have no use for such people. They’ll only bring me more harm than good.”

  Rolling his shoulders, he released a sharp crack from his neck, as if discussing a man’s execution was nothing more than a casual topic.

  “When Flaghern insisted we wait until your sixth birthday before starting your magical education, did I kill him then for disobeying my orders? For going against my whims?”

  Tristan remained silent as his father continued.

  “No. Of course not. I respected his knowledge. I respected his ability to stand up for what he believed in.” Ifrit shook his head. “But now, he had failed me.”

  He paused for a short moment, letting the words sink.

  “If he felt more time was needed, he should have told me that. But he was afraid…”

  A brief silence fell between them, only broken by the crackling of flames.

  “Now,” Ifrit finally said, “we must deal with this situation. And rest assured, we will, Tristan.”

  Tristan’s eyes widened.

  He had expected this conversation to end with him in the same slum Flaghern’s body was found in. But no…his father seemed to still have plans for him.

  “We…will?” He echoed cautiously.

  Ifrit nodded, that cold smile returning. “Of course.”

  He began to approach, and with each step, Tristan felt himself growing smaller.

  “You’re a brilliant child. A genius in the making. A six-year-old with the learning capability of a young adult.” Ifrit’s tone was smooth, almost complimentary, but there was no warmth behind it. “All seven of your tutors had told me that.”

  He continued as he got closer. “You are special. I expected nothing less from my own blood.” He sighed. “This magicless state of yours is…temporary, at worst.”

  His father finally reached him and placed a hand on top of his head.

  The touch was not gentle. It was firm, heavy, controlling – not an embrace, but a claim. And Tristan felt it all too well.

  Yet, the words that followed sounded almost…fatherly. “You are my son, Tristan.”

  Tristan couldn’t wrap his head around the man. He was terrifying, and he never even spoke to him properly for six years despite living under the same roof. It weirded him out how suddenly Ifrit was trying to become father of the year.

  He didn’t trust him. He had no reason to either.

  “What do we do now?” Tristan asked, his voice growing steady as he felt more confident.

  He wanted to hear what Ifrit would suggest.

  Ifrit turned his back to him, slowly pacing away, his hands crossed behind him once more.

  “There are a few options.” He said, then tilted his head slightly. “First, we will consult a Vitalis. They are specialists who deal with unblocking mana outputs in the body.”

  Tristan frowned, but Ifrit continued before he could ask further.

  “Mana outputs get blocked sometimes. The reasons can be psychological, sometimes physical. Stress, trauma, injuries – even improper breathing techniques can interfere with the natural flow of mana. If the issue is with your mana outputs - a skilled Vitalis can assess your condition and attempt to restore the natural balance of your mana circulation.”

  Tristan absorbed the information. It made a degree of sense to him.

  “And if that is not the issue?” Tristan asked, knowing it wasn’t.

  Ifrit nodded slightly, as if expecting the question. “Then we turn to a Mind Shaper. They specialize in restoring access to the Inner Eye.” Ifrit explained. “A mage’s cognition is everything. It shapes our magic. But minds are fragile, Tristan. It is not uncommon for mages to ‘lose’ Threads they’ve already woven due to a mental illness.”

  Tristan’s stomach tightened, and he fought his hardest to keep his mind free of thoughts.

  Ifrit continued. “A Mind Shaper guides a mage, through meditation, to fix their Inner Eye. If the issue lies within your mind, they will correct it.”

  Tristan’s mouth felt dry as he asked. “And if that doesn’t work?”

  Ifrit exhaled through his nose, almost as if amused by the question. “Then, we will turn to an alchemist.”

  That was the first one that made sense instantly to Tristan. He already knew about alchemists from all the fantasy fictions he had read in his previous life.

  “There’s a specific one I know from Ostia. Zacharia is his name.” Ifrit’s tone became lighter, but it was an unsettling kind of ease. “A brilliant man, though he speaks too much. But he will brew and brew until something works for you.”

  Tristan’s stomach churned. That was the opposite of reassuring in his ears.

  And yet, Ifrit wasn’t done.

  “Of course,” he continued, his smirk fading. “These are all solutions we will pursue – but I refuse to waste time. Your magic might be blocked, but that doesn’t mean you can’t learn how to control magic.”

  Tristan’s breath caught. “But I can’t even – “

  “That’s why we will turn to a Thread Reaver.”

  A chill ran down Tristan’s spine.

  He had never heard of this term before either, but this one, compared to the previous two, sounded terrifying for some reason.

  “A what?” He dared to ask.

  Ifrit stopped walking, turning around to face him fully now, an unsettling grin spreading across his face.

  “Thread Reavers are those who deal in the acquisition of magic through forceful means.”

  Tristan didn’t like the sound of that.

  Ifrit continued, finishing their conversation. “They steal mages’ Cognition Threads.”