The morning light crept through the cracked window, illuminating the small, cramped room. Orion sat on the edge of his bed, his legs dangling as he rubbed the stiffness from his arms. The events of last night—his awakening, the strange flashes of memory, and the emptiness in his chest—felt unreal.
But the world outside waited.
He stepped into the orphanage hall, a narrow corridor filled with the sounds of clattering dishes and early chatter. Already, some of the older children had noticed him. Whispers floated like poison through the air:
"Coreless Orion."
"Why do they even keep him here?"
"Looks like he'll never make it past a basic Stellar test."
The words should have stung, but Kael—inside Orion's body—tuned them like background noise, focusing instead on observing. Every sneer, every sideways glance, every motion told him something: patterns, reactions, hierarchy. Bullying wasn't random. It was predictable.
Still, prediction wasn't enough to stop humiliation.
Darius Korr, tall and imposing even among the older kids, leaned against the wall with his usual smirk. A faint golden glow—his Stellar Core—swirled around his hands, faint but noticeable.
"Morning, freak," Darius sneered. "Did you even sleep last night? Probably dreaming of powers you'll never have."
Orion's stomach twisted. He wanted to respond, to throw back some clever retort, but he remembered: this body was weak. Coreless. Any direct confrontation would end badly.
Kael's mind raced. Observe. Survive. Learn.
Darius stepped closer, energy crackling faintly, enough to make the air buzz. "Hey, look! He's shivering! Oh, I get it. Coreless bodies are fragile. Guess that's why they call you 'nothing.'"
Some of the other kids laughed, the sound like nails on a chalkboard. Orion clenched his fists. Pain lanced through his body—more from frustration than injury. He tried to summon any spark of energy, any instinctive defense, but nothing. Nothing at all.
And then, instinct took over.
A tray of breakfast dishes clattered as one of the younger kids tripped near them. Without thinking, Orion reached out and steadied it with a speed that surprised even himself. The movement was fluid, precise—like his body had reacted before his mind caught up.
The room froze for a moment. Darius blinked, taken aback. "Wait… what?"
Orion's fingers tingled faintly. Nothing powerful—no light blasts, no flashy abilities—but enough for the children to notice. A small tremor of admiration, tinged with confusion, rippled through the crowd.
Kael exhaled slowly, a small smirk forming despite the humiliation. Not bad for a 'nothing,' he thought.
Lyra Veyrin, sitting at the far end of the table, leaned slightly forward. Her pale blue eyes, curious and cautious, studied him intently. She didn't say anything yet—but Kael felt a quiet recognition, a subtle connection. She had noticed.
Darius, recovering from his shock, slammed a hand on the table, making everyone jump. "Don't think a lucky reflex makes you special, freak!" His aura flared faintly, showing raw power and control. "You'll never match someone with a real Core. Not ever."
Kael bit back a retort. He wasn't ready. He had to survive. Learn. And wait. Patience would be his weapon.
Later, when the hall emptied for lessons, Orion sat in the corner of the classroom, quietly observing others practicing small Stellar Core exercises. Each flicker of energy, each movement, each spark told him something about how power worked here.
And then it happened.
A flash—sudden, fleeting—hit the back of his mind. Earth. A memory of a punch thrown in a crowded hallway, a reflexive dodge, a surge of adrenaline. The movement wasn't deliberate; it was instinct. He barely noticed, but his hand moved with uncanny speed to catch a falling quill that would have hit a classmate square in the face.
No one saw it. Not exactly. But the subtle shift in his posture, the precise timing of his fingers, drew Lyra's attention again. She tilted her head, curiosity sharpening in her gaze.
Orion's chest tightened. This small, almost imperceptible spark—whatever it was—was proof. Something remained. Something latent.
He clenched his fists, staring down at them. Coreless, yes. Weak, yes. But not nothing. Not yet.
The bell rang for the next lesson, echoing through the hall. Darius shot Orion one last sneer, but the fire in his opponent's eyes did not falter.
Kael—Orion—smiled faintly, inwardly.
This world underestimates me. And they will regret it when I awaken.