The winter winds of Eldridge carried a bite that sank into bones, but Ethan Hale barely noticed. His breath formed fleeting clouds in the frosty air, each exhale a quiet defiance against the cold that had once mirrored the chill in his soul. The city hummed around him—its streets alive with the subtle pulse of cultivated energies, its people wrapped in the warmth of their own ascendance. Yet Ethan, the null, moved through it all like a shadow cast by a forgotten sun, his backpack heavy with deliveries, his heart heavier still with the weight of newfound possibility.
The ancient book, its leather cover now soft from constant handling, had become his silent mentor. Tucked into his drawer at night, it whispered of the supernatural veil—a realm of power not drawn from qi, but from the essence of the mundane, the overlooked, the worthless. Its first lessons had awakened something in him: the ability to mend a cracked mug, to coax life into wilting flowers, to sense the unspoken pains of those around him. These were no grand feats, no explosions of might, but quiet improvements that rippled outward, cinematic in their subtle beauty. The park where he'd found the book now bloomed with unseasonal vibrancy, its air thick with whispers only he could hear. His basement apartment, once a damp prison, felt like a sanctuary, its walls humming with harmonized calm.
Yet Ethan's mind churned with questions. The book spoke of connection, of weaving the worthless into the tapestry of the world, but what did that mean for him? Improvement was no longer a distant dream—it was a hunger, a need to rise above the label of null. But the path was unclear, and the veil, for all its gentle promises, hinted at shadows. Balance, it warned. Take too much, and the veil recoils.
As dawn broke, painting the city in hues of frost and gold, Ethan pedaled through his delivery route, the rhythm of his bike a meditation. The veil's influence sharpened his senses: he dodged icy patches with intuitive ease, sensed shortcuts through the city's chaos, felt the faint emotional echoes of passersby—a merchant's quiet pride, a child's fleeting joy. These glimpses were intoxicating, each a step toward something greater. He wanted to improve, not just himself, but the world around him. To prove the worthless could be worthy.
But the past had a way of clawing at the present, and Ethan's hunger for growth was about to collide with a history he'd buried deep.
Ten years ago, at fifteen, Ethan's life had taken a darker turn. The memory surfaced unbidden as he paused at a red light, the city's hum fading into a distant echo. He'd been a scrawny kid, already marked as null, living with his parents in a modest tenement on Eldridge's outskirts. They were clerks, their own cultivation weak but enough to scrape by. Ethan's null status was a family shame, a quiet ache they never voiced but wore in their tired eyes.
Then came the summons. A letter, sealed with the crimson wax of House Varnholt, one of Eldridge's noble cultivation families. The Varnholts were earth-affinity elites, their mansion atop the city's western hills glowing with infused wards and crystalline gardens. The letter claimed Ethan had been selected for a "unique opportunity"—a chance to serve their household, to be trained in auxiliary roles despite his lack of qi. His parents, desperate for his future, saw it as a lifeline. Ethan, naive and hopeful, saw it as a chance to belong.
The reality was far crueler.
The Varnholts' mansion was a labyrinth of opulence and cold precision. Marble halls echoed with the hum of qi-infused artifacts, chandeliers pulsing with soft light, air heavy with the scent of rare herbs. Ethan was assigned as a "ward assistant," a glorified servant tasked with maintaining the family's protective runes—polishing crystals, sweeping ritual circles, fetching elixirs for the young heirs. He was invisible, a null among luminaries.
The family's patriarch, Lord Cedric Varnholt, was a towering figure whose aura pressed against the air like a storm. His wife, Lady Isolde, was colder, her gaze dissecting Ethan as if he were a flawed gem. Their children—twins Alaric and Elara, both sixteen—were prodigies, their earth qi shaping stone with a flick of their wrists. To them, Ethan was less than nothing, a curiosity at best, a target at worst.
The abuse began subtly. Alaric would "accidentally" trip Ethan during rune maintenance, sending him sprawling into dust. Elara's laughter was sharp, her words sharper: "Nulls shouldn't touch what's sacred." Tasks grew punishing—carrying heavy crystal arrays up endless stairs, scrubbing floors until his hands bled, all while the twins critiqued his worthlessness. "You're a void," Alaric once sneered, his qi flaring to pin Ethan against a wall. "You drag the air down with you."
Lord Cedric's indifference was worse. He'd watch Ethan struggle, his silence a verdict. Lady Isolde was more direct, her voice cutting: "You're here to remind us of what failure looks like. Be grateful for the lesson."
For ten years, Ethan endured. The Varnholts wove a spell over him—not of magic, but of despair. They promised improvement, dangling lessons in minor crafts, only to withhold them when he failed their impossible standards. Isolation became his world; his parents, unable to visit, faded to letters, then silence. The mansion's wards, meant to protect, felt like chains, binding him to a life of servitude and scorn.
At twenty-five, he'd escaped, a bureaucratic oversight allowing him to slip free when a new servant replaced him. He returned to Eldridge's lower city, broken but alive, the weight of those years a shadow he couldn't shake. The Varnholts had taken his youth, his hope, leaving only the label of null.
Now, as Ethan pedaled through the snow, those memories surged like a tide. The book's teachings had stirred something, peeling back the scars to reveal a truth: he wasn't worthless. The veil saw him, chose him. But the realization burned—improvement meant confronting that past, not just healing from it.
He stopped at the park, the same one where he'd found the book. Snow blanketed the bench, but the oak tree stood tall, its branches whispering in the veil's language. He sat, pulling the book from his backpack, its warmth grounding him. The pages had shifted again, new words forming as if responding to his turmoil. To improve, face the fractures. The veil mends what the heart dares to see.
Ethan closed his eyes, letting the veil guide him. Images flickered—not visions, but memories refracted through new clarity. The Varnholts' mansion, its grandeur a mask for cruelty. Alaric's smirk as he crushed Ethan's spirit. Elara's cold eyes, reflecting a void of empathy. And yet, beneath their disdain, Ethan saw something new: their own fears, buried deep. Alaric's pressure to surpass his father. Elara's dread of never matching her brother. Even Cedric and Isolde, bound by lineage, terrified of decline.
The realization hit like a slow dawn: their abuse wasn't about him. It was their own fractures, projected onto a null they could control. He wasn't worthless; he was a mirror they feared to face.
Ethan's breath steadied. He wanted to improve—not for revenge, but to transcend. To weave the veil's gentle power into a life they couldn't touch. But first, he needed to understand his own fractures, to mend the boy who'd been spelled into submission by a noble family's cruelty.
He returned home, the basement apartment a cocoon of quiet progress. His roommates, Jon and Mia, were out, leaving him alone with the book. He lit a candle, its flame dancing with veil-born whispers, and began a new exercise: See the self you buried. Heal through truth.
The veil responded, wrapping him in a soft current. Memories unfolded, cinematic and raw. Himself at fifteen, wide-eyed, entering the Varnholt mansion. The first time Alaric pushed him, the weight of shame as Elara laughed. Nights spent crying in a servant's cot, dreaming of escape. But now, he saw more: moments of resilience. The time he'd repaired a cracked ward crystal, not with qi, but with instinct, earning a fleeting nod from a groundskeeper. The way he'd memorized the mansion's rhythms, surviving through quiet observation.
He focused on those moments, letting the veil amplify them. The boy wasn't weak—he was enduring. The man he'd become was proof. The candle flickered, its light brighter, as if affirming his realization. Ethan felt lighter, the weight of ten years loosening, not gone, but less suffocating.
Days turned to weeks, each a step toward improvement. At work, Ethan's deliveries became seamless, his intuition sharper. He sensed a customer's hidden grief and left a note with their package—a simple "You're not alone." The man later thanked him, eyes wet, a connection forged.
At the café, Lila noticed the change. "You're... different," she said, sketching him one evening, her pencil capturing the quiet strength in his gaze. "Like you've found something."
"Not found," Ethan replied softly. "Realized."
He shared more with her, not the book's secrets, but its philosophy: that worth wasn't tied to power, but to presence. Lila's art flourished, her canvases now glowing with veil-like depth, drawing crowds. She credited Ethan, her smile a mirror of his own growth.
The park became his sanctuary. He practiced there, mending frost-damaged roots, harmonizing the air until birds sang through blizzards. Locals whispered of miracles, but Ethan sought no credit. Improvement was its own reward.
Yet the Varnholts lingered in his mind, a shadow he couldn't ignore. One morning, a delivery took him near their hilltop estate. Its spires loomed, wards pulsing with cold light. His heart raced, but the veil steadied him, whispering: You are not what they made you.
He didn't approach. Not yet. Improvement meant readiness, not recklessness. Instead, he focused on the city below, weaving subtle harmonies: a street corner where fights once flared now calm, a playground where children laughed freer. His powers grew—glimpses of potential futures in dreams, the ability to ease tensions with a word. Always gentle, always humane.
Spring neared, the snow melting into rivulets that mirrored Ethan's thawing heart. He stood in the park one evening, the book open in his hands. New words appeared: The worthless are the weavers of the veil. Improve not for yourself alone, but for the fractured world.
Ethan closed the book, his resolve firm. The Varnholts had shaped his past, but the veil shaped his future. He would improve—himself, his connections, his city—not through battles, but through quiet, cinematic realizations that the null could be boundless.
And as the first buds broke through the thawing earth, Ethan knew the veil had more to reveal, its threads leading him toward a purpose he was only beginning to grasp.....