His magic-fueled life

[Lavi, nine years ago...]

It was another ordinary day for the small, five-year-old Laviathan. Or as his friends called him, Lavi.

The sun was out, shining brightly upon the palace grounds—his second favorite place to practice his magic.

Nothing could beat the Dryad Tower's perfect training rooms.

But he was only allowed there whenever his father, the duke of the Northwestern region, was there to watch him.

He couldn't quite understand what it meant, but the wizards had long called him "a walking magical disaster".

It was only until five years later, when he'd learned to control his magic that he was able to come and go to the guild's tower without asking for his father's permission.

As youngest son, Lavi would receive little to no pressure. Things were handed out to him before he could even say he needed something.

He was grateful, of course. But it had become boring. Not having to work hard for something.