The sun rises over Velastra—a city that never truly sleeps. Neon signs flicker alongside the chirps of morning birds. Ancient trees weave through concrete towers, roots tangled in steel. In this world, people are born with potential. And at age sixteen, that potential awakens into power.
For most.
Not for Noctix.
---
The alarm buzzed.
He didn't move.
Then it buzzed again—louder this time—until a hand shot out from the bed and slammed it off. Noctix sat up slowly. The room was quiet, dim, simple. Cracked walls. A small shelf of old books. And on the desk near the window, a glass case containing a broken, color-stained orb.
His test orb.
The one that shattered when he was ten.
He reached for his shoes, pulled his hoodie over his head, and grabbed his bag. No words. No noise. Just motion. Like a ghost repeating the same routine every day.
---
School was loud.
Students flashed their powers like badges. One boy flew up the front gates. A girl turned invisible and reappeared behind her friends with a grin. Everyone had something.
Everyone but him.
He kept his head down, walking past them like he didn't exist. But he heard it.
"He's the one, right?"
"Orb-breaker."
"Still powerless at sixteen? That's rough."
He didn't respond. Not because it didn't hurt—but because it always hurt. You just learn to walk through it.
---
Lunch break.
He sat alone under a tree just outside campus. The same tree every day. Opened the same old book: Forgotten Myths of Powerkind. The pages were yellowed, barely holding together. Noctix didn't care. He wasn't reading it for school.
He was searching.
Hoping for something that might explain him.
Something... that might tell him why the orb broke, why the rainbow-dark light swirled in it just before it shattered, and why nobody else seemed to remember that light but him.
---
After school, he walked far—past the edge of Velastra. Past where the city noise faded into humming winds and glowing moss. He came here often. Something about the place felt... right. Like it was waiting.
And there, half-buried in the roots of a small twisted tree, it was.
A fruit.
Small. Fits in the palm of your hand. Its surface shimmered—not gold, not silver, but something between light and shadow, like a reflection you can't name. The skin looked like it breathed—soft pulses of violet, indigo, and midnight blue.
He crouched down, eyes locked on it.
It didn't feel magical.
It didn't feel cursed.
It felt alive.
And somehow... it felt like it had always been his.
He didn't reach for it—not yet.
But something inside him stirred. Quietly. Deeply. Like a whisper that had waited sixteen years to be heard.
---
He stood up.
Eyes still on the fruit.
Tomorrow... maybe tomorrow he'd pick it up.
But tonight, he walked home with his head a little higher, like something in the world had finally noticed him back.
---
To be continued…
Next Chapter: "The First Bite"