I woke up the morning after Mom’s epic beatdown feeling like someone had used my ribcage as a xylophone. Not that I was compining—if I’m honest, part of me enjoyed the challenge (ssh torture). But as I shuffled out of my bedroom and down the stairs, I ran into Dad waiting by the front door, flipping through a small, leather-bound journal.

  “Morning, kiddo,” he said without looking up. “You’re te.”

  “…Late for what?” I mumbled, still rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

  He closed the journal with a snap. “Your first sorcery lesson. I promised your mother I’d get you started once you’d recovered enough not to topple over from bruised pride.”

  I grunted. “My ‘pride’ is currently on life support, but sure, I’m game.”

  Dad led me to the kitchen, where a simple breakfast was id out—toast, some egg tarts, and congee. (Mom must’ve realized I needed comfort food after her martial thrashing.)

  We sat down. He took a sip of tea and gave me a once-over. “Still stiff?”

  “Like a board,” I admitted, rolling my shoulders. “But I can move.”

  “Good. Because sorcery requires more mental acuity than physical. Although, let’s be honest…” He snorted. “If you’re too sore to focus, we’ll both suffer.”

  “Gee, thanks for the faith.”

  He tapped the journal’s cover. “First off, a quick recap: in China, cultivators rely heavily on Qi, meridians, and stages. Over in Europe—and, well, a handful of other pces—we have sorcery, which draws on the same energy but shapes it with runes, circles, and conceptual frameworks.”

  “Right,” I said through a mouthful of toast. “You’ve mentioned that. Are there big differences?”

  “Yes and no,” Dad replied. “Cultivators can cast techniques externally, especially past the Second Stage, but they often rely on rote memorization of sets—like martial forms or standard spells. Sorcery is a bit…freer. A sorcerer uses their understanding and intent to create custom spells, as if weaving energy into a pattern that reality recognizes. Sounds fancy?”

  I shrugged, swallowing my st bite. “A little. But it also sounds like formations, just on a smaller scale.”

  He nodded. “That’s not a bad analogy. Formation masters create rge-scale arrays; sorcerers basically do that on the fly, in their heads, or through runic inscriptions. The better your imagination, the more powerful you can be—but also the more likely you’ll blow yourself up if you do it wrong.”

  I stared. “Wait, blow…myself up?”

  Dad smiled, far too cheerily. “We’ll try to avoid that, obviously.”

  After breakfast, we walked to Dad’s study—really just an old library room that smelled faintly of musty books and incense. Shelves were lined with thick tomes in nguages I couldn’t read, plus some precarious stacks of parchment. A wide desk near the window held various quills, inks, and chalk.

  Dad set his journal down, gesturing for me to clear a spot on the desk. “We’ll start with basic runic shapes. In British circles, we call them ‘sigils’ sometimes, but ‘runes’ works too. The idea is to anchor your intent into a symbolic shape, then channel Qi—sorry, magic—through it.”

  “Gotcha,” I said, pushing aside a precarious tower of scrolls, half-expecting them to topple. “Intent plus shape equals an effect?”

  “Exactly. Here, try this.”

  He handed me a stub of chalk and pointed to a bnk sheet of parchment he’d pinned to the desktop. Then, referencing his journal, he showed me a simple runic shape—like a half spiral inside a rectangle. “This is the standard runic pattern for Light,” he expined. “Draw it carefully.”

  I gripped the chalk, trying to copy the symbol from memory. I’d never been much of an artist, but I gave it my best shot, focusing on each swirl and line. It looked…passable?

  Dad leaned in, squinting. “Hmm. Could be tidier, but let’s see if it works. Now, pce your hand over the rune and visualize a soft glow. Don’t forget to channel your Qi down your arm.”

  Soft glow, soft glow. I repeated in my mind, pressing my palm gently over the chalk lines. My Qi—true energy, for the fancy among us—started flowing from my dantian out to my hand. This part felt familiar, like using a cultivator’s technique. But the difference was focusing on the lines I’d drawn, not just a mental image.

  At first, nothing happened. Then, a faint shimmer appeared around my fingertips. Encouraged, I pushed more energy in. Suddenly, the spiral fred with pale yellow light, making me yelp.

  “Too much, too quickly,” Dad warned. “Steady, or you’ll overload it.”

  I released a fraction of Qi, and the glow dimmed to a soft ntern-like brightness. The chalk lines themselves glowed faintly along the curve. I grinned, oddly proud. “It’s… working!”

  Dad nodded. “Yes, not bad for a first try. But keep it stable.” My hand trembled. The glow flickered, then snuffed out with a small pop. A tiny wisp of smoke rose from the parchment.

  “Well, that was short-lived,” I sighed.

  “Duration improves with practice,” Dad said. “At least you didn’t blow a hole in the table. I’ve seen novices do worse.” He patted me on the shoulder. “We’ll keep practicing until you can maintain the light for a full minute.”

  We spent the next hour drawing and redrawing runes. My hand cramped from gripping the chalk, and there was a mini armada of half-burned parchment strewn across the desk. One attempt spontaneously combusted—just a small fme, but enough to make me shriek and knock over an inkwell.

  Dad calmly snuffed the fme between his fingers. “You’re pouring Qi unevenly. Remember: gentle, steady, and controlled.”

  “R-right,” I panted. My heart thudded like I’d run a marathon. “Sorry.”

  He shrugged. “It’s normal. Sorcery’s about finesse. That said, your mother’s unstoppable sparring sessions might help. You learn to keep calm under pressure.”

  “Sure,” I drawled, flicking droplets of spilled ink off my sleeve, “if I don’t end up with more bruises than brain cells.”

  Dad smirked. “I’d say you already proved you can think on your feet—like when you used that gravel trick on your mom. That was quick-witted, even if it earned you a face-first sm. Now you just have to apply the same creativity to runes.”

  I nodded, inhaling slowly, giving my best shot at the “zen of sorcery.” Another piece of parchment, another chalk swirl. Steady breath in, Qi out…

  Finally, near midday, I held a softly glowing runic pattern for a good thirty seconds. It lit up a cozy circle of light around the desk, reminiscent of a dim ntern.

  “Brilliant,” Dad said, genuinely pleased. “That’s the trick, kiddo. Keep practicing that. Once you’ve mastered stable output, we’ll expand to more complex sigils—like illusions or simple telekinesis. Then, eventually, you can try spells without drawing the full rune physically.”

  I let the glow fade, feeling a surge of pride repce my earlier frustration. “So that’s how it is, huh? This is just the foundation.”

  “Indeed,” Dad answered. “Basic Light is the easiest. Trust me, once we get into elemental conjuration or advanced illusions, you’ll be longing for these simpler days.”

  A knock came from the open doorway—Mom, leaning casually against the frame. “It’s lunchtime,” she announced. “Also, is that burn mark on the floor your doing?”

  I coughed, gncing guiltily at the bckened patch near the desk. “I, uh—maybe?”

  She gave a long suffering sigh. “Thank goodness we have a stone floor and not wood. Come on, you two. Eat before everything gets cold.”

  Dad grinned, cpping the journal shut. “Lesson concluded for now. Clean up and let’s grab food, then you can spend the afternoon reading if you want. Or practice more Light runes until dinner.”

  “Food first,” I said, rubbing my growling stomach. The repeated attempts at runic circles had drained my Qi—and apparently my appetite soared right alongside my energy usage.

  As we made our way out of the study, I couldn’t help but feel a thrill of possibility humming through me. This was just the beginning: a tiny chalk rune, a spark of Qi, and a flicker of light. But in time, maybe I could create illusions, teleportation arrays, or even conjure storms—assuming I didn’t blow myself up first.