The weeks following Awakening Day transformed the school into a completely different world. It was no longer a place of equal learning; it had become a hierarchy built upon the sands of time and past glories.
Those who had awakened souls were treated like royalty. They were moved to special classes, given nutrient-rich meals, and trained by masters. The air around them crackled with power.
Anthony sat in the back of the generic classroom, the "Dregs" class as everyone called it. Here sat the few who had awakened weak souls—farmers, merchants, commoners—or those like Anthony, who had awakened nothing at all.
"Hey, Hollow Man!"
A shadow fell over Anthony's desk. It was Derek, a boy who had awakened the soul of a Body Cultivator. His muscles were already twice the size they were a month ago, and he moved with unnatural speed and grace.
Derek knocked Anthony's books off the table. "Still looking for your ghost? Maybe it got lost on the way to reincarnation."
The class erupted in laughter. Anthony bent down to pick up his books, his face stoic, but his heart aching.
"Leave him alone, Derek," a soft voice said.
It was Sarah. She had awakened the soul of a Healer, her hands glowing with a gentle white light. She was kind, but even she was now part of the elite.
Derek scoffed. "Why defend him? He's a blank slate. He doesn't belong here. In this world, if you don't have a soul, you don't have a right to stand on the same ground as us."
Derek pushed Anthony's shoulder. It was a casual shove, but because of his strengthened physique, Anthony was thrown backward, crashing into the wall. Pain shot through his ribs.
"See? Weak. Pathetic." Derek sneered. "You're an orphan, Anthony. No parents, no past, no power. You're literally nothing."
The words 'nothing' echoed in Anthony's mind. He lived in the state orphanage. He had nothing to his name. And now, he didn't even have a self.
Later that afternoon, Anthony walked to the edge of the city, to the old abandoned park where nobody came. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of blood and orange.
He sat on the rusted swing, looking at his hands. They were small, weak, ordinary.
What is the point? he thought. Everyone is moving forward. They are becoming geniuses, warriors, mages. And I am just... stuck. I will live a short, hard life doing manual labor while they fly in the sky and command respect.
Tears finally fell. He was tired of being mocked. Tired of being invisible. Tired of being empty.
He stood up, looking at the horizon where the powerful lived in their floating citadels. "I give up," he whispered to the wind. "There is nothing inside me. I am just a shell."
As he turned to leave, the ground beneath his feet trembled almost imperceptibly. Deep, deep down in the abyss of his consciousness, something ancient shifted. An eye that had been closed for a thousand years, perhaps longer, finally flickered open.