The gate of the Stellar Martial Academy became Lian's shadow.
He left the first time with guards' hands gripping his arms, boots dragging in the dust. They threw him out like trash. He landed hard on the stone road, new bruises blooming on old scars. The gate slammed shut with a final clang.
He sat there a long time.
Void eyes staring at the shining metal.
Then he stood and walked away.
But he came back the next night.
And the night after.
For weeks. Then months.
He never stopped trying.
First, he tried the front gate again—cleaner clothes stolen from a laundry line, hair cut short with his small knife, face scrubbed in a public fountain. He walked up bold during open hours.
Same orb.
Same dark result.
"Unawakened. Zero talent."
Guards recognized him the second time.
"Street rat's back," one laughed.
They dragged him out faster. Boots kicked his ribs. One cracked again.
He crawled away that night, coughing blood.
But returned three days later.
He tried different ways.
Climbed the outer wall at midnight—fingers digging into cracks, Foundation strength pulling him up silent.
Dropped inside.
Hid in gardens and trees.
Watched classes from the shadows.
Saw students throw Qi blasts that cracked stone. Saw instructors fly slow circles. Saw aliens—Veyari weaving four-armed energy nets, Dravok smashing boulders with bare fists, Sylphari diving from the sky with glowing wings.
Greed burned hot.
He watched for hours.
Then patrols found him.
Energy cuffs burned his wrists.
Thrown out again.
Harder.
He tried bribing a side worker.
Took the credits. Called guards anyway.
Beaten worse.
Left in an alley with broken nose.
He healed slow—Foundation Layer helped mend bones and flesh, but not fast enough.
Still came back.
Tried sneaking with supply carts.
Found by drones.
Stunned.
Woke outside.
Tried forging a badge.
Scanner flashed red.
Guards laughed longer.
He stopped counting beatings.
Scars layered on scars.
But his body grew tougher.
First Layer forged deeper from pain and effort.
He ran faster through city streets.
Jumped higher to rooftops.
Lifted heavier when stealing.
He lived rough.
Slept in tunnels.
Ate stolen food.
Watched the academy from hills, tall buildings, stolen binoculars.
Every day he saw power.
And every day the same thought looped quiet in his head.
Humans are weak.
Born soft. Break easy. Die forgotten.
Power is the only truth.
Without it, you watch the ones you love torn apart.
Without it, you are thrown away like dirt.
With it… you take back everything.
He whispered it in the dark.
"Power is the only truth."
Months passed.
Rains came, then dry heat.
Jacket thin.
Hair long.
Face harder.
Void eyes deeper.
Guards and recruits started calling him "the Scarred Ghost."
Stories spread.
"That dirty kid outside? Been here forever. Zero talent, but won't quit."
Some laughed.
Some pitied.
One red-haired girl saw him in rain, staring.
Felt something.
But rules stayed rules.
The Scarred Ghost kept coming.
Not to beg anymore.
To learn.
He watched everything.
Combat forms—students drilling punches, kicks, blocks.
Techniques—how they shifted weight, breathed deep, flowed like water.
Movement—footwork patterns, spins, leaps.
He memorized it all.
Every night, far from the academy, he practiced.
In empty alleys.
On rooftops.
Under dim street lights.
He copied the forms.
Slow at first.
Then faster.
Punched air until knuckles bled.
Kicked until legs shook.
Blocked invisible strikes.
Moved through patterns—shadow sparring alone.
His body remembered.
Foundation strength made it sharper.
Fists hit harder. Wind whistled.
Feet slid smooth on concrete.
He flowed better than before.
Combat sense grew.
He could feel weak spots now—imagine them on enemies.
But one thing he couldn't do.
Qi.
No glow.
No blast.
No external release.
The power inside stayed locked.
He punched—air cracked faint from speed and strength.
But no energy wave.
No flight.
No blade of light.
He tried forcing it.
Sat cross-legged in hidden spots.
Breathed like he saw them do.
Tried to push the Qi out.
Nothing.
The orb was right.
Zero talent.
Blocked.
The thought fueled him more.
Humans are weak.
But I'll break the block.
Power is the only truth.
I'll steal it if I have to.
One night, after practicing a full form until sweat soaked him, Lian sat under a tree far from the gate.
Rain poured cold.
He looked at distant academy lights.
Thought of Harlan's empty bed.
The old man's white eyes.
The shadow's claws.
The spark in his void eyes burned colder.
I don't need their orb.
I don't need permission.
I'll find my own way
Even if forbidden.
Even if dangerous.
He stood.
Rain ran down scars.
Turned from the gate.
Not forever.
Just changing path.
The city had darker places.
Underground arenas.
Black markets.
Forbidden techniques.
Hidden masters.
He would go there.
Learn what the academy hid.
Grow in shadow.
Then return.
Not begging.
Unstoppable.
The Scarred Ghost walked into the night.
Academy lights faded.
But the greed stayed.
Burning.
Patient.
Ready.