He moved quietly through the cramped apartment, careful not to wake Kara. She slept with one hand near the blade hidden beneath her blanket, bow propped beside her cot. Even in sleep, she was ready to fight.
Shay envied that.
He pulled on his worn boots and stepped outside into the chill. The fog hadn’t lifted yet. Hollowrest’s narrow streets were slick with ash and dew, its rooftops slouching in silence beneath a sky too tired to turn blue.
He didn’t head toward the Church of Light.
Not yet.
He turned instead toward the edge of the ruins—toward the oldest bones of the city, where weeds cracked through ancient stone and time lay in broken pieces. It was his favorite place. There were no eyes here. No expectations. The ruins didn’t judge.
At the center stood a collapsed statue, its face long eroded by wind and ash. Shay liked to imagine it had once been Raneara—the Ascended of Light. He didn’t pray. But he came here anyway, before big moments.
He crouched at the statue’s base and closed his eyes.
He waited.
No warmth.
No whisper.
No voice from beyond.
Just silence.
Just cold stone.
“I’m going to survive,” he murmured. “I’m going to.”
Nothing answered instead leaves crunched behind him.
He turned.
Thorne.
The butcher’s son. Taller. Stronger. Meaner. Same smug sneer. Same dead eyes. With him were Garven and Hark—broad-shouldered, dull-eyed, cruel.
“I told you not to show your face on main street,” Thorne said, stepping forward. “Red trash like you ought to stay in the gutter.”
Crap. How did he find me? Shay rose slowly, scanning the ruins for an exit.
“You’re just a rat,” Garven sneered.
“Orphan freak,” Hark muttered.
Thorne grinned. “Big day, huh? Gonna awaken the Aspect of Failure?”
Shay didn’t answer.
Thorne didn’t like that.
He lunged.
Shay dodged the first swing—he always dodged the first one. But Garven caught his arm, yanked him back, and slammed him against the base of the statue.
Ding! – Skill: Body Tempering has increased by one level!
Body Tempering (Common): Level 11 → 12
Your body grows stronger and more resistant to physical trauma.
Pain exploded in Shay’s shoulder, but the soul system answered. Even this had meaning. The system rewarded survival. Endurance. Suffering.
“You think you matter?” Thorne growled.
Shay gasped. “No. I think you’re scared I might.”
That earned him a punch to the gut. Shay dropped to his knees, winded.
“Let’s go,” Thorne muttered, spitting near his feet. “He’s gonna die anyway.”
The boys turned and left, their laughter echoing down the path.
Shay stayed down.
He waited for the pain to settle into something dull and carryable. His shoulder burned. His lip throbbed. His hands were scraped and raw.
But he didn’t cry.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Rule Two: Don’t cry in front of them.
Rule Three: Statues aren’t gods.
Rule Four: Keep standing.
Eventually, he did.
The walk back was slower now. Limping made the town look different—colder, meaner. People saw him and looked away. No one asked. No one ever did.
He paused at a broken fountain near the slums. As a child, he’d tossed in a copper coin and made three wishes: for his parents to come back, for Kara to stop crying, for the world to be kind.
None had come true.
But the fountain never laughed at him.
He passed a boarded apothecary, its door marked with the charred glyph of a failed healing spirit. Further down, a group of guards laughed while kicking a drunk into a gutter.
Shay kept his head down.
When he reached the apartment, Kara was already awake, tightening the straps on her boots.
“Again?” she asked without looking up.
He nodded.
She tossed him a cloth. “Clean up. Ceremonies in less than an hour.”
As he wiped the blood from his lip, he hesitated. “Do you think I’ll... get one? An Aspect?”
Kara paused.
Then she reached into her pouch and pulled out a pendant.
It was old. Cracked. The chain long gone. Its face bore a faded sunburst—the long-erased symbol of Raneara. The metal was cold and worn, as if time had scraped every ounce of divinity from it.
Kara didn’t look at it long. She just held it out.
“Don’t believe in this kind of thing,” she muttered. “But maybe it’ll give you the luck you need. Or something.”
Shay took it.
It was heavier than it looked, the ridges biting faintly into his palm. He didn’t believe in it either. But it was Kara’s. And she’d given it to him.
He held it tight.
They walked toward the Church of Light together.
The cathedral loomed at the town’s center, a relic of better times. Its stained glass sagged in iron frames, and gold-leaf pillars stood tarnished with soot. Where once divine radiance had pooled like sunlight, now only blue flame shimmered weakly above the altar.
The Church had long lost its power. But the Awakening Rite still worked.
The priests didn’t perform miracles anymore. They activated systems. Lit interfaces. Awakened souls. That was enough to keep the nobility paying attention.
Every soul in Vaelrún had a system. Even unawakened children had capped stats and limited skill slots. Most started at 5s across the board and pushed to 10 through labor and discipline.
But awakening changed everything.
It lifted the 10 stat cap.
Allowed users to consume aspects.
And it granted a central aspect: a fragment of memory, soul, and power that transformed the bearer’s path.
A hush settled over the crowd as the rite began.
Priest Baldric, standing beside the altar, unrolled a ceremonial scroll and began to read names aloud in order. His voice was dry, practiced, and indifferent.
One by one, twelve-year-olds stepped forward when called. They placed their hands upon the altar—a slab of stone veined with faint blue light. The moment their palm touched it, their system responded and the priest announced their aspect.
“Common Aspect of Balance.”
“Common Aspect of Stamina.”
“Uncommon Aspect of Blood Iron.”
A noble boy with yellow mana received an Uncommon Aspect and was offered a mentorship contract on the spot. His father beamed. A priest blessed him.
Then:
He froze.
His name echoed too loudly through the square. Heads turned, then turned away. The crowd went still.
Kara gripped his sleeve.
He turned, just slightly—and she pulled him into a hug.
Tight. Fierce. Unshakable.
“You come back to me,” she whispered. Her voice cracked on the last word. “Do you hear me, Shay? You come back.”
“I will,” he said, though it came out hollow.
Her arms trembled. He felt her breath hitch. Just once.
She pulled back. Blinked hard. Didn’t wipe her eyes.
“You're not nothing. You're my brother. That’s enough.”
Shay nodded, jaw clenched. He was too afraid to speak again.
She placed a hand on his chest, over the pendant.
“Whatever this thing is… it saved you once. Maybe it'll do it again.”
He didn’t believe in gods.
But he believed in her.
And that was enough.
He turned and walked forward.
NameRaceAgeMana PurityLevel
ResourcesHealth: 200/200
Stamina: 200/200
Mana: 200/200
StatsVitality: 10
Strength: 10
Dexterity: 10
Endurance: 10
Wisdom: 10
Intelligence: 10
Perception: 10
Aspects (0/5)UnawakenedSkills (6/12)
- Swordsmanship (Common) – 14
- Mana Manipulation (Common) – 15
- Mana Sense (Common) – 14
- Cleaning (Common) – 21
- Body Tempering (Common) – 12
- Scavenging (Common) – 16
The priest—Baldric, thin-lipped and cold-eyed—glanced at him. He’d presided over ceremonies for over forty years, and nothing in his expression suggested surprise. Only tired disdain.
“Red mana,” he muttered. “Waste of incense.”
Shay stepped forward and placed his hand flat on the altar.
Power surged.
Something pushed into him—thick, suffocating, wrong. His muscles locked. His bones screamed. A cry tore from his throat.
Then—
Heat. Cold. From his pocket.
The pendant pulsed—once. A shock of something ancient rushed through him, countering the force pressing into his core. The pain stopped. The invasive presence vanished like smoke.
The altar dimmed.
Shay collapsed, gasping for air.
No glow.No interface change.No Aspect.
But he was alive.
Baldric frowned. “Well? Did you awaken anything?”
Shay shook his head.
“Come back tomorrow,” the priest sighed. “You survived this time. Maybe next time, you won’t waste the gods’ patience.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd. A noble girl smirked behind her silk fan.
Shay turned and walked away.
Head down. Hands clenched.
But beneath the failure, beneath the bruises and shame—
Something stirred.
Not called by light.
Not summoned by prayer.
Something ancient.
Something watching.
Something waiting.