The city of Eldridge sprawled like a forgotten dream under the perpetual haze of autumn fog. Towering spires of glass and steel pierced the sky, their reflections shimmering in the puddles that dotted the cracked sidewalks. Ethan Hale trudged through the morning mist, his worn sneakers splashing in the shallow pools, each step a reminder of the monotony that had become his life. At twenty-five, he was a ghost in his own story—unseen, unremarkable, and utterly worthless in the eyes of a world obsessed with ascension.
In Eldridge, cultivation wasn't just a practice; it was the pulse of society. From the cradle, children were tested for their affinity to the ethereal energies that flowed through the veins of the earth. Those blessed with talent rose like stars—merchants who could infuse goods with vitality, healers who mended flesh with a whisper of qi, artisans who sculpted wonders from raw essence. The elite, the true cultivators, lived in the gleaming enclaves atop the hills, their auras glowing faintly even in daylight, a testament to their inner power.
Ethan had none of it. Born to a family of middling clerks, his affinity test at age seven had been a farce. The crystal orb, meant to ignite with the colors of potential, remained dull and lifeless in his palms. "Null," the examiner had declared, his voice laced with pity. Null—a word that branded him forever. No spark, no flow, no path to improvement. In a world where cultivation meant everything, Ethan was nothing.
He adjusted the strap of his backpack, heavy with the day's deliveries. His job at the corner courier service was a lifeline, barely. Pedaling a rickety bike through traffic, dropping off parcels to those who could afford luxuries he could only dream of. The air hummed with the subtle vibrations of cultivated energy—street lamps powered by infused crystals, vehicles gliding silently on levitation runes. Ethan felt it all around him, a constant tease, like warmth from a fire he could never approach.
As he turned onto Maple Avenue, the fog thickened, swirling around his legs like curious spirits. The street was lined with old brownstones, their facades etched with faint wards against misfortune. Ethan's apartment was in the basement of one such building, a damp hole shared with two roommates who tolerated him out of necessity. Rent was due soon, and his savings were a joke. He paused at a crosswalk, watching a group of young cultivators practice in the park across the street. Their movements were fluid, graceful—hands weaving patterns that drew faint trails of light from the air. Laughter echoed as one summoned a gentle breeze, lifting leaves in a playful dance.
Envy twisted in Ethan's gut, but he pushed it down. What good was bitterness? He'd tried everything in his youth: elixirs peddled by shady alchemists, meditation guides from dusty libraries, even experimental rituals whispered in back alleys. Nothing. His body rejected it all, like oil repelling water. Doctors called it a rare anomaly—a "void constitution." Poets might romanticize it, but to Ethan, it was a curse.
The light changed, and he crossed, his mind wandering to the evening ahead. Maybe he'd read one of those old novels from the pre-cultivation era, tales of ordinary heroes who triumphed through wit and will. Or perhaps he'd just stare at the ceiling, counting cracks until sleep claimed him. Improvement seemed a distant myth.
But as he reached the park's edge, something shifted. A faint prickling at the back of his neck, like static before a storm. He glanced around, but the cultivators had moved on, their session ended. The fog seemed denser here, coiling unnaturally around a lone bench beneath a gnarled oak tree. On the bench sat an old book, its leather cover cracked and faded, as if it had been waiting for him.
Curiosity overrode caution. Ethan approached, his heart quickening for no reason he could name. The book was unmarked, no title on the spine. He picked it up, feeling a strange warmth seep into his fingers—not the burning heat of qi, but something softer, more insidious. Like recognition.
He flipped it open. The pages were yellowed, filled with elegant script that seemed to shift under his gaze. Not words, exactly—symbols that danced at the edge of comprehension. A whisper brushed his mind, not audible, but felt: You who are empty, seek the unseen.
Ethan blinked, the world tilting slightly. The fog lifted abruptly, revealing the park in crisp detail—the dew-kissed grass, the distant hum of the city. He shoved the book into his backpack, a shiver running down his spine. Superstition, he told himself. Just an old relic someone discarded.
But as he continued home, the warmth lingered in his hands, a promise of something beyond the void.
That night, Ethan couldn't sleep. The basement apartment was stifling, his roommates' snores a rhythmic annoyance. He sat on his narrow bed, the book open on his lap under the dim glow of a desk lamp. The symbols had resolved into words now, or perhaps his mind had adjusted. It wasn't a cultivation manual; those were straightforward, filled with diagrams of meridians and breathing techniques. This was different—a treatise on the "supernatural veil," the hidden layers of reality that existed parallel to the cultivated world.
The author, unnamed, spoke of powers not drawn from qi, but from the essence of the mundane. The worthless are the purest vessels, it read. For they carry no burden of expectation, no taint of ambition. In emptiness lies potential unbound.
Ethan's pulse raced. Was this a joke? A scam? Yet as he read on, descriptions unfolded like scenes from a film: a man awakening to see auras not of energy, but of emotions—ripples of color revealing hidden truths. Another harnessing shadows to mend broken objects, not through force, but through understanding their "stories." No battles, no conquests—just quiet improvement, layer by layer.
He tried the first exercise, skeptical. Close your eyes. Breathe not to draw in, but to release. Let go of the self you know.
Nothing happened at first. Minutes stretched into an hour. Then, a subtle shift—a tingling in his fingertips, spreading like ink in water. When he opened his eyes, the room looked... different. The lamp's light cast shadows that seemed alive, whispering faint memories: his roommate's argument with a lover, etched into the wall like a faint echo.
Ethan gasped, pulling back. Hallucination? Exhaustion? But the sensation persisted, a new awareness blooming in his mind. He focused on a cracked mug on his desk, a relic from better days. The book instructed: See not the break, but the wholeness it once held. Mend through memory.
He concentrated, not forcing, but remembering—hot coffee on cold mornings, laughter shared. The crack shimmered, then faded, the mug whole again.
His hands trembled. This wasn't cultivation. This was something else—supernatural, raw, humane in its gentleness. No explosions of power, no dominance over others. Just improvement, starting from within.
For the first time in years, Ethan felt a spark of hope. The worthless could rise, not through battles, but through quiet revelation.
The days that followed blurred into a montage of discovery. Ethan woke early, the book his constant companion. He experimented in secret, away from prying eyes. The supernatural powers it unlocked were subtle, cinematic in their unfolding—like slow-motion reveals in a film, where the ordinary became profound.
One morning, as dawn painted the city in soft pinks, Ethan sat in the park where he'd found the book. He focused on a wilted flower bed, its petals drooping under neglect. Drawing from the veil, he didn't infuse it with qi; instead, he listened to its essence—the soil's quiet complaints, the roots' yearning for nourishment. With a gentle touch, he coaxed life back, watching as colors deepened, stems straightened. No fanfare, just quiet growth.
Passersby noticed, attributing it to some hidden cultivator's whim. Ethan smiled inwardly, the first real smile in ages. He was improving—not for glory, but for the sake of it.
At work, the changes were incremental. Deliveries that once exhausted him now flowed easier; he sensed shortcuts through traffic, not by magic, but by reading the city's "rhythms"—subtle patterns in the chaos, revealed through his newfound sight. His boss, a gruff man with a faint aura of earth-affinity cultivation, raised an eyebrow at his efficiency. "Hale, you're not slacking off anymore. Keep it up."
Ethan nodded, humility his shield. No need to boast; the improvement was its own reward.
Evenings brought deeper dives into the book. It spoke of the veil as a living entity, responsive to those who approached with empathy. Power without harm, it emphasized. Heal the fractures in the world, and you heal yourself.
He mended more than objects now. In the basement, he sensed his roommates' hidden pains—Jon's lingering grief over a lost job, Mia's anxiety about her stalled cultivation. Without words, he wove subtle influences: a shared meal that sparked conversation, a forgotten photo album that evoked fond memories. Bonds strengthened, the apartment warming from a mere shelter to a home.
Yet doubts crept in, shadows in his mind. Was this real? Sustainable? The book warned of overreach: The veil demands balance. Take too much, and it recoils.
Ethan heeded it, pacing his growth. He explored the city anew, cinematic vistas unfolding. The riverfront at dusk, where water spirits danced in mist—visible only to him, teaching lessons in fluidity. The old library, its shelves humming with forgotten knowledge, where he absorbed histories not through reading, but through empathic resonance.
Relationships blossomed subtly. At a local café, he met Lila, a barista with a null affinity like his own. Her eyes held the same quiet resignation. Over coffee, he shared fragments of his journey—not the powers, but the philosophy. "We're not worthless," he said. "Just... different."
She smiled, a spark igniting. Their conversations became rituals, humane connections in a power-driven world.
Months passed, Ethan's improvements compounding. Physically, he grew stronger—not through muscle, but resilience; illnesses that once plagued him faded, his body attuned to natural harmonies. Mentally, clarity sharpened; problems at work dissolved under intuitive solutions.
The book revealed more layers: abilities to glimpse potential futures in dreams, to harmonize environments for peace. Always gentle, always improving.
One evening, as rain pattered against his window, Ethan reflected on his path. From worthless to worthy, not through conquest, but cultivation of the soul. The supernatural veil had chosen him, or perhaps he'd chosen it.
And in that quiet revelation, he knew this was only the beginning.