The boy crouched low in the grass, fingers digging into the dry soil. Roots. Bitter ones. Daren tugged them free and stuffed them into a pouch made of stitched hide. He continued collecting them until he couldn't find more. His clothes were tattered, patched so many times that the original cloth had vanished under layers of crude sewing. His hair was tangled, his cheeks gaunt. At 6 years old, he already looked like a half-starved stray.
The Reed Plains stretched out endlessly behind him. Tall stalks swayed under the evening wind, hiding the beasts that prowled after dark. He knew better than to linger. The sun dipped lower, painting the horizon in orange. He had to return.
The camp was nothing more than a cluster of huts slapped together with wood and clay. Refugees, just like him. Survivors of burned towns and raided villages, holding on because there was nowhere else to go. Smoke rose faintly from a few fires.
It had been two years since he had arrived in Valm Village. Like the other refugees, his home had been destroyed by a surprise beast tide. By the time reinforcements had arrived, his family, along with most of the villagers, had already died. He was found under rubble, an injured and afraid four-year-old boy. The warriors had brought him and the rest of the survivors back to Valm Village.
So was the norm of the tribal villages of Reed plains. Villages were destroyed by the continuous onslaught of the Beasts and the survivors relocated to other villages. In the beginning, the survivors stuck together. Bound by the memories of their shared home, they believed that they could support each other. But reality showed them the cold truth of the world.
They were outcasts. Although the village gave them a place to live, they weren't accepted. Forget about supporting others; they couldn't even help themselves. But that would all change tomorrow. Tomorrow, Daren would awaken his Anima. He remembered when the village elders would gather the children to teach them about the way of their world.
Every six-year-old child would participate in the Awakening. An ancient ceremony meant to awaken Anima, a power that resided inside everyone. Anima took many forms- Beast, weapons, plants, and even the body itself. Anima could take the form of anything. His father's anima was a large tree. He had been the village healer. His mother, on the other hand, had awakened her own hands. She had been one of the best seamstresses in the village. If he could awaken a powerful Anima, everything would change.
With hopes of a better tomorrow, Daren stepped into his hut. A single blanket, a wooden bowl, and a chipped knife—that was all he owned. He sat cross-legged, dropped the roots into the bowl, and stared. No firewood left. He would eat them raw again.
His stomach twisted, but he forced himself to chew.
The next morning, the camp stirred with unusual energy. Children were being gathered, their faces scrubbed, their hair combed as best as their families could manage. It was the Awakening.
Daren had waited for this day for years. He had no parents to fuss over him, no hand to straighten his shirt. He walked alone to the ritual circle, head down, pretending not to hear the whispers.
"Withered Roots…" someone muttered.
The name stung. They had given it to him because of his family's downfall, because nothing good was expected to grow from him.
A stone altar stood at the centre, carved with old runes. The elder of the camp, hunched but sharp-eyed, waited there with a pale essence stone glowing faintly in his hand. One by one, the children stepped forward. The elder pressed the stone to their foreheads, and Anima bloomed.
The first child flared with golden light. A lion roared in the air behind him. Beast Anima. Gasps of awe followed.
Another child's body shimmered into a phantom blade, sharp and clean. Armament Anima. Prideful laughter erupted from his family.
On and on it went—flowers blooming, wings spreading, shadows twisting. Each child carried away cheers and hope.
Then the elder's gaze fell on Daren.
"Step forward."
Daren did. His heart thudded in his chest. He pressed his forehead to the essence stone. Cold seeped into him, then a flood of light burst out.
A body-shaped silhouette formed first, faint but whole. A Body Anima.
Before the whispers could begin, another flare erupted. Roots snaked outward, twining around the phantom body. Branches stretched, violet blossoms blooming weakly among curling tendrils.
The crowd gasped.
"Gemini Anima…" someone whispered.
"Impossible… How could that cursed child awaken Gemini Anima?" someone else whispered
But then, they noticed that the blossoms were thin. The roots trembled as if starved. The elder squinted. The stone dimmed, showing numbers across its surface.
"Innate Essence… Level 2."
The words hung heavy.
The people erupted in mutters.
"Two?"
"Makes sense."
"Even with Gemini Anima, he's still cursed."
"Such a waste…"
The elder cleared his throat. His voice carried pity. "Daren Withered-Roots awakens at Level 2 Novice. His Anima—Body and Banyan Tree. May he find strength in struggle."
Daren lowered his head. His hands clenched into fists. Gemini. Rare. Desired. And yet with Innate Essence two, he was worse than ordinary.
The ceremony ended. Families embraced their children, proud or tearful. Daren walked away alone. The word followed him like a brand.
"Withered Roots."
He kept walking until the voices faded. His hut welcomed him with silence. He sat on the floor and stared at his trembling hands.
Body Anima. Tree Anima. Everyone saw weakness. He saw something else.
He thought of his parents. His Anima weren't just a tree and his body. It was their memory. He thought of the blossoms—faint, starving, but alive. He thought of his body, already hardened by hunger and toil. Two paths. Everyone expected him to fail on both.
He let out a shaky breath.
He had no family. No patron. No one believed in him. But he had himself, and now, a constant memory of his parents. And that was enough.
The whispers outside carried on, cruel and dismissive. He closed his eyes and let them fade.