I used to believe the world was fair in the way a blade is fair.
A blade doesn't care who you are. Swing it wrong, it bites. Sharpen it, it shines. Simple. Honest. Clean.
The System wasn't like that.
The System had favorites—bloodlines it rewarded, temples it listened to, academies it fed with talent like a patient god. And when you turned eighteen—when you stood beneath the Awakened Crystal and received your "path"—it decided whether you were worth anything at all.
In the courtyard of Veylan Academy, statues of ancient Awakened watched with carved, merciless eyes. Incense and polished stone filled the air. Crimson banners snapped overhead—silver branches stitched into cloth, the World Tree symbol the System borrowed to look holy.
On the stage sat the people who mattered.
High Priest Caldris in white-and-gold. Headmaster Orvain in black so severe it looked like mourning. Instructors behind them, each wearing their class sigils—flames, shields, leaves, daggers, runes.
They didn't look at us like students.
They looked at us like lottery tickets.
"Name?" the clerk barked.
The boy ahead of me swallowed. "R—Roderic Valen."
Caldris lifted a hand. The crystal—taller than a man, clear as frozen water—hummed. Light crawled through it like veins.
"Roderic Valen," Caldris announced, his voice carrying beyond human volume, "step forward and receive your Tree."
Roderic stepped up like the ground might crack beneath him.
Caldris placed his palm on the crystal.
The courtyard went silent in the way a room goes silent before a verdict.
Light flared. Glowing lines sketched themselves into the air above Roderic's head—roots first, then branches—until a radiant tree solidified, paths and nodes blooming into existence.
Text appeared, crisp and cold:
[Class: Iron Ward]
Tree: Bastion-Lineage (Fixed)
Core Skill Unlocked: Bulwark Stance]
Applause exploded.
Iron Ward. Defensive. Durable. Not glamorous, but safe. Safe meant everything.
Caldris smiled thinly. "May your roots be strong."
One by one, more trees bloomed. [Storm Dancer], crackling violet. [Rift Archer], nodes shaped like arrowheads. [Verdant Caller], air scented with rain and crushed leaves.
I watched them, and I hated how relieved they looked.
The System gave you ten skills. Ten doors. Ten steps.
Born into a weak class, your ceiling stayed low. Born into a rare one, the world opened. It pretended that was destiny—that your Tree was who you were.
And people believed it.
My turn crept closer. Names snapped. Trees bloomed. Bright. Inevitable.
Behind me, someone whispered, "Han."
I didn't need to turn to know the voice.
Mira Sellen stood a few places back, hands folded so tightly her knuckles had gone pale. My seatmate for two years—quiet, sharp-eyed, always watching like the world might confess if stared at long enough.
"Don't let them get to you," she murmured.
"I'm fine," I lied.
Her eyes flicked to my throat. "Your heart's loud."
"I'm just excited."
"Liar."
A few steps ahead, Joren Kael stood like he'd already won life. Sponsored family. Perfect scores. The kind of boy instructors smiled at. He glanced back at me and smirked—predatory, not friendly.
Then the clerk called, "Han."
I stepped forward.
Stone underfoot. Sun overhead. A hundred eyes on my back. I climbed the stage and faced the crystal.
Up close, it wasn't just clear—it was deep, like a frozen lake you didn't know the bottom of.
Caldris met my gaze. Pale eyes. Nearly colorless. No warmth.
"Han," he said, tasting the name like it bored him. "No family name?"
"My mother didn't have one."
A twitch—disgust, not sympathy.
"Of course. Proceed."
I inhaled once, slow, and Caldris pressed his palm to the crystal.
For everyone else, the Awakening was a bloom.
For me, it was a fracture.
At first the crystal hummed as it had for the others. Light rose inside it—then stuttered. The hum sharpened into a strained whine. The air felt suddenly tight, like the world holding its breath.
Above my head, nothing formed.
No roots. No branches.
Just emptiness.
The courtyard didn't go reverent.
It went alarmed.
Caldris narrowed his eyes and pressed harder.
The crystal screamed.
Cracks spiderwebbed from beneath his hand, racing across perfect clarity like shattered ice. A collective gasp ripped through the crowd as Caldris jerked away.
Text appeared in the air.
Not glowing. Not elegant.
Glitched—jittering, warping, barely holding shape:
[Class: … … …]
[Tree: ———]
[ERROR]
[STATUS: NULL]
A wave of whispers rolled through the courtyard.
"Null…?"
"That's not possible—"
Caldris stared at the flicker like it insulted him.
Then he looked at me.
And smiled.
Not warm. Not dramatic. The smile of someone seeing garbage and feeling satisfied it had finally been labeled.
"A Null," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "A waste of oxygen."
My throat went dry. "There has to be—"
Caldris cut me off with a glance. "Headmaster Orvain. Your academy continues to lower its standards."
Orvain didn't flinch. "The System does not make mistakes."
He didn't say it like comfort.
He said it like a sentence.
Laughter broke out—thin, nervous, cruel.
From below, Joren called, "Maybe he can train as a broom."
More laughter.
Caldris stepped closer, incense clinging to him like a lie. "A Null cannot cultivate. A Null cannot grow. A Null cannot contribute. A parasite the System failed to remove."
Orvain's voice stayed flat. "By academy statute and temple decree, Han is disqualified from all advanced training."
Mira's voice rose from the crowd. "Headmaster—!"
"Enough," Orvain cut in without looking at her.
Two guards stepped forward.
I didn't move. "If I'm disqualified… what happens to me?"
Caldris's smile widened. "You're sent where broken things belong. The Scrap Yards."
The words struck like a hammer.
The Scrap Yards—outside the eastern district. The place anomalies were dumped. Where glitched beasts crawled from ruined gates. Where salvage crews went to die trying to drag back anything valuable.
A graveyard that moved.
"That's a death sentence," Mira snapped, stepping forward.
An instructor grabbed her shoulder. "Student Sellen."
She shook him off. "He hasn't done anything wrong."
Caldris's gaze slid to her. "Are you challenging the System's judgment?"
"I'm challenging yours," Mira said, trembling but defiant.
The courtyard went silent again.
Caldris waved a hand like she was dust. "Keep your sympathy. You'll need it when your Tree disappoints you."
Then, to the guards: "Remove him."
They seized my arms—firm, professional, humiliating.
I didn't fight. Fighting here would only make me look like what they wanted me to be.
As they dragged me down the steps, I caught Mira's eyes. She looked ready to swing at every priest on the stage.
I gave her a small shake of my head.
Don't.
Because the System didn't punish unfairness.
It punished defiance.
The guards shoved me out through a side exit. A narrow street swallowed me—vendors shouting, carts rolling, life moving like nothing had happened.
One guard tossed a small cloth bundle into my chest. "Your belongings."
Light enough to be pathetic. A spare shirt. A worn journal. A ration bar. My mother's old scarf.
"Where do I go?" I asked.
"Registration office," the other guard said, pointing east. "They'll brand you and assign you to a salvage crew."
"Brand me?"
"Nulls are temple property once expelled. Keeps you from running."
My breath caught. "I'm not a criminal."
"You are now," he said without emotion. "To them."
Then they walked away, already forgetting my face.
I stood there with my bundle, feeling something invisible settle over my shoulders.
Not just fear.
A hollow certainty.
The System had made its decision, and the world would follow.
The registration office squatted near the eastern district, where the stone stopped being polished and started being patched. A crooked sign hung above the door:
TEMPLE SALVAGE AUTHORITY
SCRAP YARDS DISPATCH
Inside smelled like ink and sweat. Scarred laborers waited in rows—missing fingers, dead eyes, Trees that had stopped offering anything useful.
A clerk looked up. "Name."
"Han."
He checked a ledger, snorted. "Ah. The Null."
He said it loud enough to share.
A few heads turned. A few bodies shifted away.
He produced a metal stamp etched with the temple symbol and a serial number. "Hold out your arm."
"What does the brand do?" I asked.
"It marks you as salvage property. If you run, wardens can track you. If you die, nobody asks questions."
"And if I refuse?"
He leaned back, bored. "Then you refuse work, you refuse rations, and you starve by the eastern wall."
I held out my arm.
The stamp pressed down.
Pain bit deep—hot, immediate. I clenched my teeth until my jaw ached.
When he lifted it, a faint mark sat under my skin like a scar still forming.
He shoved a paper token at me. "Gate assignment. Crew twelve. Dawn departure."
I took it—and the world flickered.
For a heartbeat, faint translucent lines appeared over the desk. Over the ink bottle. Over the stamp. Like invisible structures under reality's surface.
Then it vanished.
I steadied myself.
The clerk eyed me. "You fainting, Null?"
"No," I said.
I walked out into late afternoon sun, token clenched in my fist. The eastern wall rose ahead—massive and ugly, built less to keep enemies out than to keep desperation in.
Beyond it, warning horns wailed from watchtowers that never slept.
The Scrap Yards were alive today.
I should've been terrified.
I was.
But beneath the fear, something colder settled in—sharp enough to cut.
If the System wouldn't give me a Tree…
Then I'd take one.
I looked down at the brand. It throbbed with heat.
And for a heartbeat, something flickered near it—like a tiny leaf-shaped icon that didn't belong.
A scrap of code.
A mistake.
Or an opening.
I tightened my grip and started walking east.
Toward the place broken things were thrown away.
Toward the Scrap Yards.
And whatever the System tried to bury there.