They called me a void. They called me nothing. In a city that measured worth by strength, a boy who could not awaken was a shame stacked thin as paper. I slept on the fourth floor of a block where smoke and old oil hid in the walls.
My name was Riley, the name people used when they had to speak politely. Most days they did not speak it at all. I learned the hush that follows a weak life. Doors closed faster when I passed. Laughter sharpened.
Morning light came in gray knives through the narrow window. Outside, the world walked like it owned the air. Posters hung with proud faces: A-rank champions, B-rank healers, C-rank hunters. Blue Star liked to shout about heroes and prizes. Power was currency and prayer.
At fourteen they held the Innate Talent Awakening. Families gathered tight as shells. The city counted its worth by that day. Talents were born with a child, but the rank woke at the ceremony. C and D became silver, A and B gold, S diamond, and SS or SSS named kings and gods. My parents were Valen blood—one of the five clans at the city's peak. They had lines of honor and scales of power. When my chest remained blank, the scales tipped.
School was a theater for rank. Teachers watched like guards. Students learned to hurt before they could be hurt. I learned to bend and let them think I would break. They called me failed seed. Boys shoved me in halls and teachers looked the other way. Girls pretended not to see. At the Awakening I had stood with my heart loud as a drum. When nothing happened, the drum stopped. The room measured me in silence. That silence cut deeper than any hand.
Home was worse. My parents' faces folded away when they saw the blank on my chest. The Valens kept honor in ledgers and strength at table. They told me, in slow final words, that they could not raise a burden. They left me at the school with three heavy bags and a closed door. They did not look back. The clan served the strong and fed on the weak. That was law where they lived.
I learned to vanish. I slept where I could find shelter—alleys first, then a thin mattress a stranger offered. I took small jobs that scarred my hands and eased hunger. I still went to class. Going felt like pressing a coin into a machine that rarely gave back. I listened to stories about the Tower of Trials, the rifts and dungeons, and the hunters who rose with new names. If you passed, you climbed. If you failed, you fell to the floors of teeth.
Bullying had a grammar: a shove, a name dropped like a stone, a neighbor who spat, "Just die, you useless." Store owners refused service unless someone showed a spark. Once a boy who could lift a car threw me into refuse and laughed about the day I would melt away. Each cut was a measure.
I kept a crumpled photograph folded in my pocket. A boy smiled under a tree. On the back, a handwriting once warm said, "For one day, be brave." The paper proved someone had believed in me once. It kept my hands busy and my thoughts steady when the city tried to empty me out.
The clans shaped life. Five houses held the world top tables and markets. They taught their heirs to hurt first and ask later. The Sovereign sat above them all—SSS, a rank so high the world called him a god. People bowed as if to sun. Rank bought rooms and names and quiet. In the alleys rank decided if a body woke the next morning.
I tried to force a spark. I read old guides and watched burnt tapes of forced awakenings. I drank bitter roots sold by men who promised light. I performed small rituals and whispered names that meant nothing. Nothing answered. The city kept its teeth.
The roof called me one wet night. Rain washed the tiles clean and the air smelled like iron. I climbed because the city needed a small place to end. Wind tore my hoodie and tugged loose hair across my face. Below, hunters laughed with bright suits. The lights of the city blurred like knives.
I thought of my parents packing and leaving—how their eyes had gone empty, like a part of them bankrupted. I thought of the boy who spat the worst words. The sting in my throat burned.
I held the photograph and traced the faded letters. Rituals made motion for the mind. They kept me counting while the world closed in. I took from beneath the mattress a small bottle. The label had long since become suggestion. I did not want courage. I wanted the silence without knives.
The medicine smelled of lemon. I uncapped it and breathed deep. The room narrowed to the small job breathing. For a moment I felt the city loosen its pull. I lay back and let the quiet come.
From the street below a victory cheer rose—hunters with new trophies. The bell of the city sounded like a verdict. I hugged the photograph and whispered, "Be brave, for me." The words were an apology and a promise to nowhere.
In the thin space where thought thinned, something touched me that was not human—cold and clean. It slid into the hollow like water into a cracked cup. I did not think of ranks. I did not think of revenge. I thought only of the word on the photograph and how I had failed.
My breath stilled. The city kept moving. A pigeon fluffed and stepped to the next tile. People argued at corners. Life carved itself by force.
But hollows can be filled when least expected. A shadow slipped into the space I left. The story tilted.
Somewhere far, another breath took in. A stranger's eyes would open in a room smelling of lemon and blood. The rules of Blue Star would learn a new name.
The Valens held their house like a promise. As a child I learned to bow with measured respect and to hold a knife with the thumb so it looked practiced. Their name opened doors. Their heirs were taught to hunt before they could read. I expected safety in being born to them, but safety was only for the strong.
At the Awakening I watched other children change. One girl's hand caught flame and the crowd cheered. A boy folded wind around his fist and stamped the ground and people cried out like it was a miracle. The air tasted like new metal. When my chest stayed blank the heat left. My parents' faces closed like books. The Valen line could not afford a weak page.
The city had rules like law. People were born with talents—fire, healing, shadows—small things that hinted at future power. At fourteen the Innate Talent Ceremony decided how much each child mattered. C and D were silver class. A and B were gold—heroes on posters. S was diamond; families made offerings for one. Above all sat the SSS Sovereign, a name taught like scripture. The class change at eighteen would later sort Warriors and Mages and rarer titles.
I tried to wake a spark. I read guides, chased rituals that tasted like smoke, swallowed bitter roots sold by men with greedy hands. Nothing answered. Hunger hollowed me and the city kept its teeth. People mocked failures so often many chose to end their stories early. Not only monsters killed—shame did too.
The Academy stood like a needle in town. It promised a path: pass tests, win trials, earn a license to clear rifts and enter dungeons, climb the Tower of Trials. Hunters returned with trophies and money. The Tower took the brave and left silence for the foolish. Without a rank at fourteen the path felt locked.
That is why the roof mattered. I had tried to live like a shadow, to not draw knives, but shadow thins when heat presses. On that roof I held my photograph and read the small note: be brave. Rain made the city raw. I opened the bottle and let sleep press close.
Then something cold slid into me. It felt like an answer and not mercy. It was a key turning in a lock no one knew existed. My breath stopped. The world did not end; it shifted. Below, people argued and tiles were stepped on by a pigeon. Life did not pause for me.
A shadow took the hollow I left. A different breath would wake in a room smelling of lemon and blood. The rules of Blue Star would meet a name that was not theirs.
I had a small list of dreams scribbled in the back of a torn page: pass a school test, earn a simple badge, enter a trial, maybe find a guild that would not look away. They were small things, but each had a shape that kept me breathing. I thought of the future ceremonies—how class and rank would carve a life—and I let the list go, trusting the quiet to take me. Soon.
The rooftop light blinked once. The rain slowed. For a single beat the world waited. The key had turned. The door would open soon.
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