One month had passed since his thirteenth birthday. The initial shock had settled into a dull, permanent ache. Anthony stood on the rooftop of the dormitory building, the wind whipping at his hair. Below him, the city was alive with the energy of the new era. Flying vehicles zoomed past, and in the distance, he could see cultivators training, leaping between buildings like birds.
He was thirteen years and one month old. The window of opportunity had closed. Everyone knew that if you didn't awaken by your birthday, you never would.
"I have nothing," Anthony whispered to the wind. Tears finally escaped, tracing hot lines down his cheeks. "No parents, no family, no talent. I'm just... empty."
He looked down at the ground, hundreds of feet below. It would be so easy to end it. To stop the mocking, the loneliness, the feeling of worthlessness. Why struggle in a world that had already judged him and found him wanting?
He took a step forward, his toes hovering over the edge. His heart beat wildly, a mixture of fear and resignation. Just as he was about to let go, a memory flickered—not of someone else, but of himself. A vague feeling of perseverance.
"No..." he gritted his teeth, pulling back. He fell to his knees, clutching his chest. "I won't give up! Even if I have no soul, I am Anthony! I will find a way!"
But as he said the words, he knew they were hollow. He was lying to himself. He was broken, and there was no fix. He curled into a ball, sobbing until exhaustion took him, right there on the cold concrete.