The morning began like every other: heavy, gray, hostile.
Kael didn't wake to light or hope, but to the knocking of an old water pipe running through the storage room beneath the dormitories. That's where he lived. Not because there were no rooms available—but because "someone like him" had no right to one.
"Room allocation by rank and Chi status," said the school's rules. At the very bottom: Chi-less.
So he got what no one else wanted—a room with rats, a damp floor, and a rusty bucket as a washbasin.
The bell rang.
The students hurried to the hall, lined up by element and rank. Kael was neither. He stood like a shadow in the corner. As always.
The others knew they could hit him without consequence. There were no punishments for attacking him. He had no family, no Chi, no standing. Only a name—and even that, they wanted to strip from him.
"Maybe we should just send him to the Creatures," someone whispered.
"Even they wouldn't want him," replied another.
And then: fire.
A spark, spoken through a half-whispered word, struck him in the back. Kael went down, his shirt burning into his skin. No scream. No protest. Just the quiet sizzle of fabric.
The teacher saw it. Turned away.
Officially, bullying was prohibited. Unofficially… not for Kael.
In this world, only power counted—and Chi was the currency that decided whether you were heard.
Kael crawled back to the storage room after class. The hallway was empty; no one asked how he was. He treated the burn with cold water. No bandage, no ointment. Just the quiet trembling of his breath.
Then, as every evening, he went outside.
Away from the official training grounds, in a ditch behind the West Tower, he practiced. Always alone. Always in the dark.
He repeated movements he had seen from afar. Imitated kicks, stances, forms. His hands were cracked, his shoulders raw.
But he didn't stop.
Why?
Because somewhere out there, the Academy awaited. The Academy of Chi Users—a place he was never allowed to enter. Officially reserved for "qualified candidates"—unofficially only for children with Chi. There, they trained in groups of three, went on missions, earned ranks, wore colors, banners… respect.
Kael wanted none of that.
Only the right to prove himself. Once.
Not to be better—but to prove that the system was wrong.
That even a nobody could change the world.
The cafeteria was loud. Voices, laughter, the clatter of cutlery. It was one of the few places where everyone came together—users of wind, water, flame. And Kael.
He stood at the end of the line. Always.
Not because he'd been told to. But because everyone did it that way—and he had learned that resistance meant staying hungry.
When he finally reached the front, they handed him a metal bowl. Almost empty. Just some lukewarm mush. The kitchen aide grimaced, as if feeding a stray dog.
"That's all you get for your rank," she muttered.
Kael took the tray with trembling hands. Not from the cold. The burn on his back—the one from that morning—throbbed beneath the fabric. Every movement was a cut. Every step a quiet burn, as if embers were being sprinkled over his skin.
He sat in the corner. Alone.
As always.
He didn't look up when three shadows approached.
He knew who it was.
The tallest stood before him. Virel. Fire user, Level Two.
"Kael. You were slow today. Slept too long in your… what do you call it? Storage toilet?"
Laughter.
Kael said nothing. The heat on his back returned, as if the memory had reignited it. He breathed shallowly—deeper hurt too much. It pulled at the wounded skin.
Virel grabbed him by the collar.
"Or maybe it's because you've got… nothing inside. No flame. No Chi. Just filth."
He lifted Kael up, stood on the bench, and held him with ease. Kael's back hit the edge of the table—and a bolt of pain shot through his body. He grimaced, stifling a groan. The pain burned. And this time—it was real.
"Look at him!" Virel shouted. "This is what happens when you have nothing. No Chi, no worth, no life!"
Then he shoved him back. Kael crashed to the ground, his tray falling, mush splattering over his pants. When he hit, the wound felt like it tore open. Warm wetness spread across his back—blood? Pus? He didn't know.
Silence.
Then: more laughter.
Kael stayed down. Not from weakness—but because standing up meant expecting another beating.
He waited until they left. Then quietly picked up the shards of his bowl. His hands trembled as he threw them into the waste bin. Not just from rage. The pain gnawed at him. Slowly. Cruelly.
But as he stood, he felt—for the first time—a thought that wasn't sad.
"Why? Why is it like this?"
Not: "Why me?"
But:
"Why is it allowed?"
It was the first true thought against the system. Not against Virel. Not against the boys who beat him. But against the world that rewarded them for it.
That evening, Kael didn't return directly to the storage room.
He went to the dark part of the training grounds, to the trenches. He struck. Kicks. Punches. Again and again. Despite the pain. Despite the pull in his back.
Not out of anger—but out of defiance.
His body was weak.
But his will… was still there.
"If I'm nothing," he whispered, "then I at least want to know how far a nothing can go."