The air above Aethel Village rarely knew silence. It wasn't the noise of machines or the clamor of a marketplace that filled the valley; it was the soft, continuous hum of Ki.
Ki—the vital, cosmic energy that flowed through all living things and infused the very stone of the world—was the lifeblood of the realm of Aethelis. Every waterfall shimmered with it; every ancient tree pulsed a slow, strong rhythm. For the villagers of Aethel, a rural yet prosperous community nestled deep in the Veridian Peaks, Ki was as essential as oxygen. They used it to mend fences, light their homes, power their agricultural cycles, and, most importantly, to fight.
In this world, a person was measured by their latent Ki-Reservoir and the efficiency of their Ki-Flow. From the moment of birth, a child was a vessel of potential power, awaiting the formal ceremony that would awaken their connection to the world's current.
The Crimson Dawn and the Elder's Call
The night Yimi was born was marked by a rare celestial event: the Crimson Comet streaked across the dark sky, painting the clouds in shades of bruised amethyst and deep violet. Villagers whispered it was a sign—a herald of exceptional power.
Inside the small, timber-framed house of Haku and Elara, the air was thick with tension and the smell of boiled herbs. Elara, Haku's wife, lay exhausted but triumphant. She cradled the newborn boy, his skin flushed and his tiny fists already seeking purchase on the air. Haku, a man known for his patient temperament and moderate Ki-power (enough to subtly enhance his carpentry business), watched his son with an overwhelming sense of pride and a terrifying weight of anticipation.
"He is strong, Haku," Elara murmured, tracing the perfect line of the boy's jaw. "I felt his spirit fighting even before the end."
Haku nodded, his eyes on the closed door. The custom dictated that immediately following the birth, the Village Elder would perform the Ki-Attunement. This wasn't a ritual to grant power, but merely to measure and unseal what was already present, allowing the child's native Ki to flow and connect with the ambient energy of Aethelis.
A knock, firm and reverent, signaled the arrival of Elder Lyra.
Lyra was an old woman whose eyes held the cool, clear wisdom of a mountain spring. Her personal Ki-Flow was immense and perfectly controlled. She carried the Attunement Crystal, a palm-sized sphere of pure, polished Ember-Stone that pulsed with a soft, internal glow. The brighter the glow upon contact, the greater the child's Ki-potential.
The room quieted. A handful of neighbors, gathered outside, pressed close to the windows, eager to be the first to witness the reading. A high reading meant prestige for the family and good fortune for the entire village.
Elder Lyra approached the cradle. She spoke in a low, formal chant, her voice resonating with a gentle Ki vibration that smoothed the wrinkles from the air. She placed the pulsating Ember-Stone gently on the baby's chest, directly over the sternum.
The Silence of the Stone
The entire world seemed to hold its breath. Haku and Elara leaned forward, their hearts hammering against their ribs. They saw the Ember-Stone touch their son's delicate skin.
The custom dictated a burst of light—white, if the Ki was average; gold, if exceptional; sometimes even blue or green, indicating a rare affinity for elemental manipulation.
But as the stone rested on the baby's chest, the expected explosion of energy never came.
The soft, internal glow that Elder Lyra's own Ki had lent the crystal flickered, dimmed, and then vanished entirely. The Ember-Stone lay on the child's chest, a dull, lifeless piece of grey rock.
A collective gasp, thin and sharp, swept through the small room and spilled out to the watching villagers.
Elder Lyra was a picture of frozen disbelief. She lifted the stone, examining it as if it might be flawed. She checked the connection to her own Ki, and the stone instantly flared with a brilliant emerald light.
She looked at Haku and Elara, her ancient face etched with confusion. "Again," she whispered, her voice tight.
She placed the stone back on the child. Again, the light died.
Three times she attempted the connection, the results identical. On the third failure, a deeper, more chilling realization settled over the Elder's face.
She backed away slowly, her staff clicking softly on the wooden floor. She turned to the stunned parents.
"Haku… Elara…" her voice cracked. "He is… quiet. There is no echo. The current… it does not flow through him. There is no latent Ki."
The words struck Haku with the physical force of a Ki-blast. No latent Ki. It was a phrase reserved for the ancient, mythical legends of the pre-Aethelis age, or for those whose lives were sustained solely by technology in the most remote, corrupted lands. It was a condition thought to be extinct in their vibrant world.
The whispers outside the window erupted into a horrified murmur. They hadn't seen a high reading; they hadn't seen a low reading. They had witnessed nothing.
Elara clutched the baby fiercely to her chest, tears blurring her vision. "That's impossible! He is strong! He lives, Lyra, how can he live without Ki?"
Elder Lyra shook her head, her compassion mixing with fear. "He has life, yes. But the internal spark… it is stillborn. He will breathe, he will walk, but he will not connect. He is unattuned."
In a world defined by the power of the soul, Yimi had been born a void. His life, only minutes old, was already marked by a profound, fundamental lack.
The Stain of the Voidling
The name they chose for him, Yimi, meant Little Mountain—a name meant to signify immovable strength. Instead, within weeks, it became a tragic joke, whispered behind cupped hands as the child grew.
As Yimi entered his toddler years, the difference between him and his peers was stark and painful. Other children, by age three, could already manifest small, clumsy Ki-effects: a pebble lifted an inch above the ground, a toy pushed without touching it, a faint blue glow around their hands when they played.
Yimi could do none of these things.
He would squat in the dirt alongside other children, concentrating with ferocious intensity, his tiny face screwed up in determination. He would strain, his muscles trembling, trying to coax even a flicker of light from his fingertip. The other children, often without malice, would simply laugh and effortlessly levitate the pebble he was trying to move, sending it spinning just out of his reach.
His parents tried to normalize his existence. Haku spent hours patiently explaining that Yimi's internal Ki-Reservoir was simply very slow to open, that he was a late bloomer, a quiet pool waiting to overflow. But even Haku knew he was lying. He had consulted the old texts and secretly traveled to neighboring settlements: the diagnosis was certain. Yimi possessed only the minimal, inert Ki required to maintain life—the "survival current"—nothing more.
The social isolation began early. During the village games, Ki-enhancements were essential. A race was not just about running; it was about the subtle application of Ki-boosts to muscles, extending strides and defying gravity. Yimi ran only with his legs, and while he was naturally fast and surprisingly coordinated, he was always left in the dust.
The children, cruel in the natural way of youth, began calling him the "Dull-Ears," a term referencing the inability to hear the world's Ki-hum, and later, the more biting "Voidling"—a vessel empty of the sacred current.
The Weight of Disappointment
The greatest burden Yimi carried was not the contempt of strangers, but the weight of his parents' silent disappointment. They loved him fiercely, but Haku's booming voice often softened into a hesitant whisper around Yimi. Elara, once vibrant, now carried a perpetual shadow of worry.
One evening, when Yimi was six, he overheard his father talking to Elder Lyra. He was hiding behind the kitchen door, drawn by the intensity of their hushed voices.
"He has the spirit of a warrior, Lyra," Haku pleaded, his voice thick. "But his body… it rejects the energy. He tries so hard. He pushes himself until he is ill."
"I know, Haku," the Elder sighed. "He has a rare, pure physical strength. But strength without the flow… it is like a sword without a hilt. Useless in the great battles. He will never be a Ki-user. He must be taught to live apart from the current, not with it."
The word "useless" echoed in Yimi's small heart, cold and hard.
He ran outside, choking back tears that refused to fall. He ran to the quietest place he knew: a small, overgrown clearing behind the woodshed. In the center of the clearing stood a massive, dead oak tree, long ago struck by lightning. The lightning, a natural conductor of raw energy, had drained the area of its Ki, leaving the air strangely flat and silent.
Here, in the Ki-shadow, Yimi felt less like an outcast. He screamed his frustration at the still tree and punched the rough bark until his knuckles bled. He sank to the ground, his chest heaving, listening to the crushing silence where the beautiful, omnipresent hum of Ki should have been.
The Discovery of the Blade
The relentless, almost manic quality of Yimi's physical training began around age eight. Since his mind couldn't manipulate energy, he decided his body would compensate for its absence. He trained in secret, using the silence of the Ki-shadow clearing as his personal dojo. He ran until his lungs burned, practiced calisthenics until his muscles failed, and developed an unnerving level of focus and control.
One day, while helping Haku clear out the forgotten attic of their home, Yimi stumbled upon a long, silk-wrapped bundle, tucked away beneath dusty tapestries.
"What is this, Father?"
Haku looked at the bundle and his breath caught. "That… that belonged to my great-grandfather. A foolish ambition of his, a time before the Great Attunement."
Yimi unwrapped it with trembling hands. Inside lay a katana.
It wasn't a ceremonial object. It was a weapon forged for war, its blade curved like a crescent moon and polished to a deadly mirror sheen. The grip was wrapped in deep indigo thread. As Yimi's fingers closed around the cold, smooth grip, he felt a strange sense of completeness.
The sword was completely inert. It held no Ki, no enchantments, no embedded runes. It was pure steel, pure craft, and pure potential, entirely reliant on the strength and will of the wielder.
"It's heavy," Haku observed, trying to sound casual. "And useless now. Everyone fights with Ki-blades, son. They are lighter, stronger, and slice through anything."
"But this one…" Yimi gripped the hilt tighter. "This one feels like an extension of me."
From that day forward, the katana became Yimi's companion, his teacher, and his obsession. He didn't just swing it; he learned to speak with it.
He spent hours studying its balance, its weight distribution, and the exact angles required for a perfect cut. He devised his own training regimen, blending the ancient physical arts he learned from forgotten scrolls with the requirements of the Ki-infused world. He learned to substitute the raw power of Ki with the physics of motion: leverage, momentum, and unparalleled speed.
While his peers were practicing how to fire Ki-bolts or create small Aether-Shields, Yimi was practicing the Hundred Cuts Drill—a complex, blindingly fast sequence of parries and slashes—until his arms ached and his sweat slicked the ground. He was a master of the ordinary in a world obsessed with the extraordinary.
The Annual Youth Showcase
The defining moment of Yimi's early life arrived when he turned ten: the Annual Youth Ki Showcase. Every child was required to participate, demonstrating their growing mastery of Ki to their families and the village elders.
The courtyard was buzzing. Ki-enhanced light flares decorated the timber beams, and the air thrummed with the vibrant energy of hundreds of young, flowing Ki-currents.
The children, organized by age group, performed impressive displays: Mina levitated ten stones simultaneously; Taru enveloped his hand in a stable sheath of fire; Kael, a boy the same age as Yimi and already a prodigy with a large, golden Ki-Reservoir, demonstrated a nascent form of the Ki-Lance, a concentrated spear of raw energy.
When Yimi's name was called, a noticeable ripple of awkward silence ran through the crowd. He stepped into the central circle, carrying only his plain, mundane katana—no Ki-enhancing armor, no glowing aura.
Elder Lyra, looking pained, gave him a task: "Yimi, demonstrate your control. Try to channel energy into the Focus-Stone."
Yimi knew it was hopeless, but he tried, for his parents, who stood rigidly at the edge of the crowd. He closed his eyes, remembering the feeling of the world's energy, the hum he could never truly connect to. He pushed every ounce of his will, his focus, his desperation, toward his fingertips.
Nothing. The Focus-Stone remained cold and dark.
The laughter started as quiet coughs, then grew into open snickers.
Kael, standing nearby, stepped forward with an arrogant smirk, his golden aura momentarily flaring. "Come on, Voidling. Don't waste the Elder's time. Let me show you how it's done."
Kael placed his hand on the Focus-Stone. It immediately flared with a brilliant, steady golden light. The crowd cheered for Kael, and the juxtaposition was brutally clear.
The shame was overwhelming. Yimi, his face burning, gripped the katana's hilt.
"It's easy to make a rock glow," Yimi snapped, his voice sharp with suppressed years of frustration. "It's harder to hit a moving target."
Kael's smile vanished. Insulted by the non-Ki child, he raised a hand and directed a small, but sharp, Ki-Bolt—a controlled burst of kinetic energy—at Yimi's chest. It was a juvenile, cruel attack, meant to knock him down and humiliate him.
Yimi did not power up a shield. He did not charge energy. His body, trained in a constant fight against the inevitable, simply moved.
He dropped his weight, spinning slightly on the ball of his foot, and the Ki-Bolt harmlessly passed through the space where his ribs had been a fraction of a second before. It impacted the ground behind him, kicking up dust.
The crowd gasped for a different reason this time. It wasn't a Ki-feat; it was pure, untainted, unbelievable speed.
Kael, enraged by the boy's quickness, abandoned the Ki-Bolt and charged, bringing his Ki-enhanced fist down in a powerful strike.
Yimi, relying on his years of practice against the inert oak, met the charge not with power, but with technique. He pivoted sharply, using his katana not to strike, but to deflect the incoming arm with the flat of the blade, redirecting Kael's massive, Ki-boosted momentum sideways.
Kael stumbled, momentarily unbalanced. Before Kael could recover and fully charge his Ki again, Yimi executed a flawless Sheathing Strike—a move that looked like a simple, backward sweep of the blade followed by the quick sheathing motion—ending with the katana back in its scabbard. He hadn't touched Kael, but the sheer velocity of the steel moving past Kael's face was enough to momentarily freeze the boy in shock.
Yimi stood there, breathing heavily, his non-Ki heart racing, but his posture perfect. He had been outclassed in power, but he had proven two things: he was fast enough to survive Ki-attacks, and he could use a mundane weapon with lethal precision.
Elder Lyra cleared her throat, breaking the stunned silence. "Enough. The showcase is over." Her eyes, however, were fixed on Yimi, a strange mixture of pity and grudging respect flickering in their depth.
Haku rushed to Yimi, but Yimi shook his head, focusing on the distant hills. He had proven his resilience, but he knew this small victory meant nothing in the grand scheme. He was still the Voidling.
As he walked home, ignoring the stares and whispers that now had a hint of awe mixed into the contempt, Yimi heard one man, a former soldier, speak the words that would solidify his path.
"He is a waste. All that talent, that speed, on a body that cannot channel a spark of energy. He will never be a warrior. He will never enter Vanguard."
The Vanguard Academy—the most elite institution in the known world, where the strongest Ki-users were trained to protect the realm. Its very existence was predicated on the presence of Ki.
Yimi stopped walking. He looked at his katana, reflecting the last rays of the setting sun. They say I cannot be a warrior? They say I cannot enter Vanguard?
A calm, cold resolve settled over his heart, eclipsing the years of shame and fear. He wouldn't try to prove them wrong by finding his Ki. He would prove them wrong by showing the world that Ki, while essential, was not the only path.
He would enter Vanguard Academy, the sacred temple of Ki, and he would do it with nothing but his steel, his muscles, and his mind. It was an impossible, suicidal goal. But for the boy who had been told his life was a fundamental mistake, the impossible was the only road worth traveling.
The next morning, Yimi began training with a new purpose, pushing his body to inhuman limits. He knew the entrance exam was years away, but his preparation had already begun. The era of the Voidling hiding in the shadows was over.