Riven was on his knees, blood dripping from his nose as he forced the broken bone back into place. Crimson stained his fingertips.
Behind him, two boys his age stood in pristine uniforms, whispering and chuckling under their breath.
He rose silently and headed for the exit, their eyes tracking his every move.
"Hey, I'm not done with you!" Nathan called after him. Riven didn't respond.
In a flash, Darren teleported in front of him, arm outstretched to block his path.
"Please," Riven said quietly, "just leave me alone."
Darren studied him for a moment, then slowly lowered his hand. "You're lucky today's a special day. I don't want to ruin the moment."
Nathan came up from behind and grabbed Riven's shoulder—roughly. "You better remember your place here. Want more bruises?" he hissed into Riven's ear.
Riven shoved his hand off and kept walking.
Nathan smirked. "You've got a lot of nerve for someone with no skills, no family—and let's not forget, statless."
The words hit like a hammer.
Riven turned, his eyes cold. "At least I wasn't rejected by my own family, Nathan."
Nathan's face twisted in rage. He charged forward, fists ablaze. Riven tried to dodge, but Nathan was too fast. A flaming punch drove into his gut, sending him flying through the door and crashing down a flight of stairs.
Gasps echoed from the students watching.
Riven lay there, burned and winded, his clothes scorched, hair disheveled.
Nathan stormed outside. "Never talk about my family again!"
He moved to strike again, but Darren held him back. "That's enough."
All around, students were busy saying their final goodbyes before leaving school for good. No one paid attention to Riven. No one ever had. He wasn't the type of person people cared about.
He dragged himself to the infirmary, where a nurse with healing abilities patched him up. The pain faded, but something deeper lingered—regret.
He never belonged here. Statless kids like him had their own schools—places for the powerless. But he'd endured the humiliation and cruelty of a normal academy. And for what? A D-tier certificate. Because in this world, being statless made you an underdog by default.
Riven made his way to the delivery sector, a dusty warehouse where he worked part-time. He grabbed a package, stowed it in his delivery pack, and sped off on his hoverbike.
For every delivery, he earned five credits. That was something.
His bike hovered a few inches off the ground—a testament to how far tech had advanced since the arrival of the Hollowborn.
Today's delivery was bound for Downtown Centropolis.
He took a shortcut through back alleys, but suddenly, the engine sputtered and died.
"What the—" Riven frowned and tried restarting the bike, but it was no use. Empty tank.
With a groan, he spotted a charging station a block away and pushed the bike there. He hooked it up to charge, then slumped onto a nearby bench, head in hands.
He needed a plan. A next step.
He'd always dreamed of getting into the Academy. That would mean status, a decent job—maybe even a future. But statless? And D-tier? Not a chance.
Across the street, a commotion caught his eye.
An old man was being shoved out of a store by an employee. "Crazy old man," someone muttered before slamming the door on him.
The man turned away, dejected.
As he crossed the road, a car hurtled toward him.
Riven's eyes widened. Without thinking, he leapt into action, tackling the old man and rolling both of them to safety at the curb.
The man looked dazed. Riven exhaled, then noticed something—his delivery bag. The package had slipped out and was now flattened in the street.
"No, no, no…" He sprinted to the package and picked it up. Crushed beyond repair.
He inspected the bag—it had a faulty zipper.
With a growl of frustration, he ripped it off and threw it down.
The old man slowly sat beside him. "Thank you… for saving my life."
Riven didn't respond, mind spinning.
The man glanced at the destroyed package. "Sorry for ruining your business."
A silence stretched between them. Then, the man reached into his pocket and slipped something into Riven's.
"Thank you again," he said, then walked away.
A few minutes later, Riven stood up.
One thing was certain—he was going to get fired.
**********
"You're fired," said Mr. Ross, a stocky man with a crew cut and chevron mustache, seated behind a desk in his cluttered office.
Riven stood frozen. "Please, sir—I need this job."
Ross glanced up. "Sorry, kid. You blew it."
"It was an accident—"
"Look, Kale, I don't hire accidents. I hire people who can do the job." He leaned forward. "Do you know what you just did?"
Riven didn't reply.
"You cost me a thousand-credit fine."
"I'll work to pay it back," Riven said weakly.
Ross leaned back. "This isn't the first time. That's the fifth package you've wrecked."
"The old man needed saving—"
"And you sacrificed your job to do it." Ross pointed to the door. "Now get out."
Riven clenched his fists but said nothing. He turned and left.
Outside, the city lights had dimmed. Night had fallen.
He pulled his hood up and began walking home, shoulders hunched.
First, he'd been humiliated on his last day of school. Now, he'd lost the only job he had.
Home was in the suburbs—a cheap, crumbling area on the edge of the city. That's where the statless lived. People like him. A powerless, forgotten race.
To Riven, being statless was more than a disadvantage. It was a curse.
"If it wasn't for that old man…" he muttered, his fists tightening.
He slipped into a narrow alley when a sharp click stopped him.
"Turn around. Hands up. Don't move," a voice barked.
Riven turned slowly. A masked man pointed a gun at him.
"Give me your money."
"I-I don't have anything," Riven stammered.
"Don't lie. Search yourself. Now."
Riven reached into his pocket cautiously.
Then he froze.
He felt something strange—thin, smooth, metallic.
He pulled it out.
The gun vanished from the robber's hand.
Riven stared in disbelief, now holding the weapon himself.
The thief's eyes widened. "Wait—I thought you were statless!"
Riven said nothing, a slow smirk forming on his lips.
"Okay, okay," the robber said nervously. "Put the gun down. Nobody gets hurt."
"Were you gonna do that to me?" Riven asked, voice cold. "Give me your money."
The thief raised his hands and slowly pulled out a credit chip. "It's a thirty."
"Drop it. And run."
The man dropped the chip and bolted.
Riven lowered the gun and picked up the card.
His thoughts spiraled. What had just happened?
Then, a whisper echoed in his mind:
"Card user?" Riven whispered.
He reached into his pocket again and pulled out a deck—black, sleek, shimmering with energy.
"Where did this come from?" Then it hit him.
The old man.
He'd given it to him—slipped it into his pocket, quietly.
Riven narrowed his eyes.
"What were you up to… old man?"