Chapter 1: The Grey Canvas

  The world wasn’t grey, not technically. Veridia Prime pulsed with colours born from manifested Auras, from the shimmering cobalt shields of City Guardians to the emerald kinetic trails left by rooftop Runners. Buildings weren't just ferro-concrete and plas-steel; they were canvases for elemental expressions, scarred by training bouts, blessed by growth enchantments, or simply glowing faintly with the residual energies of their occupants. Schools vibrated with the nascent potential of a thousand budding powers, market squares buzzed with haggling over energy crystals and minor artefacts, and the skies often hosted duels between soaring elites, painting transient rainbows of destructive beauty.

  Yet, for Ash, the world was grey. Not a visual greyness, but a profound lack of saturation in his own experience, a muted filter permanently overlaid on his perception. He existed in the faded margins, the unnoticed corners, the spaces between the vibrant hues of others. He was ten years old today, an age that, in Veridia Prime, should have been a threshold. For most, the Spark of Ability ignited somewhere between the ages of five and seven. By ten, if nothing had manifested, you were quietly, irrevocably labelled: Null. Powerless. Background static.

  Ash lived in the Orphanage of Forgotten Sparks, Sector 7G. The name itself was a cruel joke whispered among the staff – a place for those whose potential never flickered to life. It wasn’t intentionally malicious, just… pragmatic. Resources flowed towards potential, towards those who might one day contribute to the city's defence against the Rift incursions or add to its prestige in the Nexus Combats. Nulls were destined for manual labour, low-level administration, sanitation – the cogs that kept the glorious machine running but were never mistaken for the engine itself.

  He sat on the cracked ferro-concrete steps outside the orphanage dormitory, watching the morning bustle. Children, younger than him but already radiating faint Auras – a flickering heat signature, a subtle magnetic pull, a whisper of telepathic static – chased each other, their laughter sharp and bright against the city's hum. They practised clumsy energy bolts that fizzled into colourful dust, tried to levitate pebbles that stubbornly remained earthbound, or compared the faint glyphs that sometimes appeared on their skin, precursors to more defined System Interfaces.

  Ash had none of that. No heat, no pull, no whispers, no glyphs. His System Status, a basic function accessible to all citizens via neural link implants received at age five, remained stubbornly, depressingly blank in the 'Abilities' section.

  [Citizen Profile: Ash Nulligan]

  [Age: 10 Standard Years]

  [Sector ID: 7G-Orphanage-482B]

  [Physiological Status: Nominal (Sub-baseline Parameters)]

  [Aura Signature: Undetectable]

  [Manifested Abilities: None]

  [System Rank: Unranked (Null)]

  Sub-baseline parameters. Even his basic physical stats were below average. Weaker, slower, less resilient. It was as if the universe, having decided not to grant him a power, had skimped on the basic construction materials as well.

  His parents? He barely remembered them. Hazy figures associated with hushed arguments, averted gazes, and a final, definitive departure when he was four. The official record stated ‘Relinquished due to Null potential.’ They hadn’t even waited for the standard age-seven confirmation. They’d seen the inherent lack in him, the absence of the spark that defined value in their world, and cut their losses. He hadn't seen them since. No messages, no birthday acknowledgements, nothing. Just the sterile efficiency of the orphanage system taking over.

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  He traced a crack in the concrete with a worn shoe. It branched like a miniature lightning bolt, stopping abruptly at a patch of stubborn synth-moss. An insignificant detail in an insignificant corner of the city, observed by an insignificant boy. Perfect symmetry.

  Then, she walked by.

  Elara.

  Even her name sounded like starlight. Elara Vanya, the brightest Spark in Sector 7, perhaps even the entire district. She lived in the affiliated, upscale ‘Potential Academy’ dorms across the square, a place Ash only ever glimpsed from a distance. At ten, her Aura was already a tangible presence – a soft, golden light that seemed to subtly warp the air around her, making colours near her seem richer, deeper. Her System Rank, according to the hushed, awed whispers that followed her, was already pushing C-minus, an unprecedented feat for her age. Rumours spoke of unparalleled light manipulation, perhaps even nascent healing abilities. Genius wasn't a strong enough word.

  She was talking animatedly with two other Academy students, their uniforms crisp white and silver compared to Ash’s drab grey orphanage tunic. Her laughter, clear and bright, carried across the square, a sound so different from the strained noises within the Orphanage walls. Ash had watched her from afar since he was five, ever since he’d first arrived here, lost and bewildered. She’d been one of the first people he saw, radiating that nascent glow even then. He’d mistaken it for kindness, for warmth.

  As her group passed the orphanage steps, her gaze flickered towards him. For a heartbeat, Ash felt a ridiculous surge of hope, a desperate wish for acknowledgement. Her eyes, the colour of warm honey, met his. And in them, he saw exactly what he always saw.

  Pity.

  A faint, almost imperceptible softening of her features, a slight downturn of her lips. The look one might give a stray, three-legged cryo-cat shivering in the rain. It wasn't malice, wasn't disdain. It was worse. It was the gentle acknowledgement of his inherent lessness, his unfortunate state of being. She offered a tiny, hesitant smile, the kind reserved for things that couldn't help being broken, before turning back to her friends, her bright laughter resuming as if she’d merely glanced at a particularly uninteresting crack in the pavement.

  Ash’s gaze dropped back to the concrete. The faint warmth he’d imagined clinging to him evaporated, leaving the familiar chill. That pity was a constant reminder. He wasn’t just ignored; he was a recognized tragedy, a walking cautionary tale about the cruelty of genetic lottery.

  A commotion near the Academy gate drew his attention. Kael Masters, another ten-year-old, but one whose Spark had ignited, albeit weakly, was fumbling with a practice drone. Kael was… average. Ranked F-plus, with a minor kinetic-pulse ability that barely dented the training shields. He was clumsy, often tripped over his own feet, and lacked the effortless grace of geniuses like Elara. Right now, he was trying to guide the drone through an obstacle course, but it kept stuttering, its repulsors whining erratically.

  Kael kicked the ground in frustration, his face red. "Stupid piece of junk! Why won't it just stabilize?"

  Several Academy students snickered. Even among the powered, hierarchies formed quickly. Kael, despite having an Ability, was near the bottom, often the target of casual mockery.

  Ash watched him, a strange pang echoing in his chest. It wasn't pity, not like Elara's. It was… resonance. Kael struggled. Ash existed in perpetual struggle. Different leagues, same game of frustration. He found himself idly wishing Kael could just get the drone through the first hoop. Just once. So the laughter would stop.

  Suddenly, the erratic drone surged forward, wobbled violently, then shot cleanly through the designated energy hoop. It hovered there, perfectly stable for a moment, before resuming its slightly unstable flight.

  Kael stared, blinked, then broke into a wide, astonished grin. "Whoa! Did you see that? It worked!" He looked around, beaming, eager to share his minor, unexpected success. The snickering students just rolled their eyes, unimpressed by the fluke.

  Ash felt nothing. No connection, no drain, no sense of having done anything. It was just a coincidence. A random flicker of luck in Kael's favour. His own luck remained steadfastly absent. He pushed himself up from the steps. Ten years old. Officially Null. The grey canvas of his life remained untouched by colour, and the faint hope that today might be different dissolved like smoke. Time for chores. The refectory floor wouldn’t clean itself.