The sun had barely risen when Elian opened his eyes. The wooden beams above him were old, cracked, and weather-worn, a perfect match for the orphanage he'd grown up in. He remained silent, listening to the creaking floorboards and the distant voices of other boys being roused from sleep.
No one came to wake him. They never did.
After all, why would they? He was the "Spiritless."
In a world where power was determined by the energy flowing through one's veins, Elian had none. No glow, no pulse, no aura. During the Spirit Awakening Ceremony at age ten, when every child was tested before the town's elders, Elian's crystal had remained dull.
Dead.
That day, whispers began to follow him like shadows. Pity at first, then disdain, and finally—forgetfulness. In a society where one's worth was etched into their body through spiritual flow, being void meant being invisible.
"Elian, you're still here?" came a voice from the doorway.
It was Mira, the caretaker's niece. She was sixteen now, with her Spirit Veins already reaching the third tier of cultivation—a rare feat in a small town like Arlin.
"Still alive, unfortunately," Elian muttered, pulling on his old, patched tunic.
Mira hesitated, her expression softening. "You could still apply to be a servant at the outer sect of the Azure Flame Temple. I heard they take in people even without spirit energy. With some luck, you might…"
"Be pitied?" Elian looked up, his gaze calm but sharp. "I'd rather be forgotten than be a footnote in someone else's legend."
She didn't reply. There was nothing to say.
The day passed like most others—quiet, dull, and filled with the distant laughter of those blessed with power. The market square buzzed with talk of the upcoming selection trials, where talented youths would be scouted by visiting sects. Excitement shimmered in the air like heatwaves.
Elian walked past the plaza unnoticed.
He always listened, though.
"There's a prodigy from the east village. Only thirteen, and already condensed his first Spiritual Core!"
"They say Lord Feran might personally oversee the trial this year!"
"Did you hear? Lady Nira of the Crimson Veil Sect will be watching!"
It didn't matter to Elian. He wasn't going to participate.
He couldn't.
That night, beneath a pale moon, he returned to the cliff overlooking the lake—a place few visited. He sat in silence, staring at the water as it shimmered silver.
Why was I born without power?
It wasn't a question he often allowed himself to ask. But tonight felt different. The breeze carried something… unfamiliar. A low hum echoed in his ears, not from outside, but from within.
Suddenly, the lake rippled.
Not from wind.
From force.
A single pulse of pressure emanated from beneath the surface. Elian stood instinctively, heart pounding.
Then he heard it.
A voice—neither male nor female, ancient yet childlike.
"Power forgotten… shall return."
He stumbled back, breath stolen by the weight of those words.
A moment later, a sphere of light burst forth from the water, blinding and golden. It hovered in front of him, humming with energy so dense it made the air tremble.
And then—silence.
Elian's eyes widened as the light shrank, spiraled, and shot straight into his chest.
He gasped and fell to his knees.
No pain.
But… warmth.
For the first time in his life, he felt something stir beneath his skin. A current. A flicker. Like embers reigniting after years in the cold.
He held his hand up.
It glowed faintly.
Not with fire or lightning—but with golden veins, thin and subtle, like threads of starlight.
Spirit energy.
But… this wasn't normal. It felt ancient. Dormant. As if the power had been locked away for centuries—and now chose him.
The next morning, the village awoke to a different Elian.
He said nothing.
No one noticed his calm smile. Or the fact that his steps no longer carried the weight of someone broken.
In the distance, the first sect envoys began arriving.
And for the first time, Elian wasn't just watching.
He was waiting.