Chapter 2:
The road stretched endlessly before Aren, a thin line cutting through fields of dull green and lifeless brown. Behind him, the academy loomed like a monument to everything he wasn't. Ahead—nothing. No destination. No purpose.
Just forward.
His boots scraped against the dirt path, each step slower than the last. The adrenaline from earlier had faded, leaving behind a hollow exhaustion. His chest still felt tight, as if the examiner's words were echoing inside him.
No ability detected.
Aren let out a dry chuckle. "At least they didn't sugarcoat it."
The wind picked up, tugging at his worn cloak. He pulled it tighter around himself, more out of habit than necessity. He wasn't even cold—just… empty.
After a while, the road forked. One path led toward the capital—bright, distant, and unreachable. The other wound into the outskirts, where smaller towns and forgotten people lived.
He didn't hesitate.
"Figures," he muttered, taking the lesser path.
The further he walked, the quieter the world became. No grand buildings. No bustling crowds. Just scattered homes, uneven fences, and the occasional curious glance from villagers who passed by.
To them, he was just another nobody.
Good.
By the time the sun dipped low, painting the sky in dull orange, Aren reached a small roadside settlement. A handful of houses, a stable, and a crooked sign hanging above a building that could generously be called an inn.
He paused in front of it.
"I don't exactly have money," he said under his breath.
His stomach answered with a sharp growl.
"…Right."
With a sigh, he stepped inside.
The air smelled of stew and smoke. A few people sat at wooden tables, their conversations low and unremarkable. No one paid him much attention—until they did.
It was subtle. A glance. A pause. Then another.
Aren was used to it. News traveled fast. Faster than it should.
"Oi," a voice called from behind the counter. "We don't serve trouble."
Aren looked up. The innkeeper, a broad man with tired eyes, stared at him like he already knew.
"I'm not trouble," Aren replied calmly.
The man snorted. "Kid, I've seen your type before. Academy reject, right?"
Aren said nothing.
"That's what I thought." The innkeeper crossed his arms. "No power, no coin, no reason for me to let you stay."
Straightforward. Honest.
It stung more than mockery.
"I'm not asking for a free room," Aren said. "Just food. I'll work for it."
A murmur spread through the room. Someone chuckled.
"Work?" another voice scoffed. "What can a zero do?"
Aren's jaw tightened, but he didn't turn.
The innkeeper studied him for a long moment. Then, with a grunt, he jerked his thumb toward the back. "Dishes. Wood chopping. Stable cleaning. You finish it all, you eat."
Aren nodded. "Deal."
The work was worse than he expected.
The dishes were endless, stacked high and caked with grease. The wood was heavy, his arms burning after just a few swings. The stable—he didn't even want to think about the smell.
But he didn't stop.
Not when his hands blistered. Not when his back ached. Not when the laughter from earlier replayed in his mind like a cruel reminder.
If this was what the world gave him, then fine.
He would take it.
Hours passed. The sky darkened completely. One by one, the inn's patrons left, their voices fading into the night.
By the time Aren finished, he could barely stand.
He stumbled back inside, expecting nothing.
The innkeeper glanced at him, then wordlessly slid a bowl across the counter.
Stew. Simple. Warm.
Aren stared at it for a second before sitting down.
"Eat before it gets cold," the man muttered.
"…Thanks."
The first bite hit harder than it should have. Not because it was amazing—but because he had earned it.
No ability. No talent.
Just effort.
As he ate, the innkeeper leaned against the counter. "You didn't quit."
Aren shrugged. "Didn't have a reason to."
"Hm." The man scratched his beard. "Most do."
Aren didn't respond.
Silence settled between them, not uncomfortable—just… quiet.
After a moment, the innkeeper spoke again. "Name?"
"Aren."
"Well, Aren," he said, pushing himself upright, "you can sleep in the stable tonight. If you're still here in the morning, there's more work."
Aren let out a small breath. "I'll be here."
"I figured."
The man turned away, ending the conversation.
Aren finished his meal slowly, savoring each bite. His body ached, his future was uncertain, and the world had already decided his worth.
But for the first time that day, something felt… steady.
Not hope.
Not yet.
But something close.
Later, as he lay on a thin pile of hay in the stable, staring up at the wooden beams above, Aren clenched his hand into a fist.
"No ability detected," he whispered.
The words still hurt.
But they didn't define him.
Not anymore.
"Then I'll make my own."
The wind howled softly outside, as if the world itself was listening.
And somewhere deep inside him—quiet, faint, almost imperceptible—
something stirred.