Don’t Give Up

Wes sighed, the weight of old memories pressing down on him. He had been at the top—until the day the others absorbed their Void Crystals. From that moment on, his rise had become a slow, painful crawl. When his peers unlocked their new abilities, Wes found himself struggling just to keep up. A middling fighter at best, he had been forced to adapt while the rest soared ahead.

Void Crystals weren't as straightforward as granting flashy powers. It wasn't like swallowing a crystal and suddenly hurling fireballs or bending wind. No, most abilities started small—subtle enhancements rather than grand displays of power.

Xavier, for instance, had taken the wind affinity crystal. At first, all he could manage were faint gusts, barely enough to ruffle leaves. But in combat, those tiny winds added an edge to his Essence abilities. His spear thrusts became quicker, his movements more fluid, as if he could ride the breeze itself.

Rachael had absorbed a chameleon bloodline crystal. Bloodline crystals were different—they offered layered benefits. She gained an affinity for light, not by wielding it, but by reflecting it. Her skin could shimmer and shift, allowing her to blend into her surroundings. It wasn't true invisibility, but it made her a nightmare in the chaos of battle. Her Essence manipulation allowed her to capitalize on this, slipping into blind spots and striking with deadly precision.

Dexter's choice had been a peculiar one. His crystal affected his eyes. At first, it simply enhanced his vision—allowing him to see at incredible distances, like a living telescope. But as he progressed and awakened his crystal, it became clear that his true power lay in his perception of time. He could see the world in slow motion, his mind processing details faster than anyone else. His arrows never missed, and he could react to danger before it fully unfolded.

Then there were the oddities. One kid had gained a bonded weapon—a sword he could summon at will. It wasn't especially powerful, but its reliability made him a formidable opponent. Another kid could conjure armor around himself, the kind that seemed to sprout from his skin, protecting him like a living shell.

And then there was the thief. His ability had seemed laughable at first—an enhanced sense of smell. But as he grew, so did his powers. He could sniff out treasure, sense danger, even detect lies through the subtle changes in a person's scent. That kid had become a renowned thief, and Wes would cross paths with him more times than he cared to remember.

Essence was connected to mana; every race had access to it. There were countless techniques for each type of move, with each race adding their own twist. It was like everyone had the same ingredients but created entirely different dishes. Humans, however, struggled to gain affinities. For most, an affinity was a gift of birth or an unimaginable stroke of luck.

Wes had managed to gain an affinity, but it had been a fluke—one of those rare, unexplainable moments where fate had thrown him a bone. Affinities came from the soul, bloodlines from DNA. These things couldn't be forced. And as much as Wes had clawed his way up, nothing had ever come easily.

Wes sat on a cold stone outcrop, staring at the rocky ground. The world around him felt distant, muted. The other kids were sparring, the sounds of clashing weapons and grunts of exertion echoing through the air. But to him, it was all a dull hum, like the world had pulled a blanket over his senses.

A fresh burn wound throbbed on his forearm, the skin raw and angry. It had come from a kid who could heat up his hands—a minor ability, but enough to turn a simple sparring match into a humiliating defeat. Just a week ago, Wes had been untouchable among his peers. Now, he was losing to recruits he had once outclassed with ease.

He clenched his fists, the sting of the burn nothing compared to the ache in his chest. It wasn't just the pain. It was everything. His family, murdered. His future, stolen. He had worked himself to the bone, poured every drop of sweat and blood into becoming the best, and when it finally mattered—when the Void Crystals were handed out—he had been robbed.

A shadow fell over him, and he looked up to see Azhok, the orc who had been both tormentor and mentor for as long as Wes had been in the Red Sons' camp. The orc sat down beside him, heavy and solid, a boulder among stones.

Wes moved to stand at attention, but Azhok's hand landed on his shoulder, firm but not forceful. "Sit."

He did, his body obeying even when his mind wanted to recoil.

"You're good, kid. Kinda shitty fate being a Null."

Wes didn't respond. Crying about it wouldn't change anything. He had learned that much. Tears had bought him nothing but bruises, so he bit them back, swallowing the lump in his throat.

"What I like about you," Azhok continued, "you don't complain. You don't bitch. Most kids would've quit by now."

Silence stretched between them. Wes traced the rough pattern of the stone beneath his fingers, letting the texture ground him.

"You know, Void Crystals weren't always around, right?"

Wes glanced up, his brow furrowing. He hadn't thought about it—hadn't thought about much beyond the next fight, the next lesson, the next chance to prove he wasn't worthless.

"Humans were mostly a subject race," Azhok said, his voice a low rumble. "Or they were culled outright. But every once in a while, a human cultivator would rise up on Essence alone. No crystals. Just hard work and a hell of a lot of grit."

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Wes could hear the wind against the rock, the distant splash of water where other recruits trained by the lake.

"You need to get stronger before the path of Essence opens to you," Azhok said. "Refine your mana core to a certain state… But I believe in you."

The words hung in the air. Wes blinked, a tightness building behind his eyes. He hadn't cried since the night his family died. It was like a pressure, always there, always pushing against him. He refused to let it out. Not here. Not now. But it was hard. So damn hard.

"It'll be tough," Azhok went on. "And this conversation's probably pointless. But don't let it be because you gave up."

A slow grin spread across the orc's face, toothy and fierce. Wes couldn't help but mirror it, just a little. A small, fragile thing, but real.

He had already committed to being part of the Red Sons, to following the orcs' path. But this—this moment made it feel real. The camaraderie, the belief, the shared struggle. It wasn't just a matter of survival or pragmatism anymore. He truly felt like he belonged.

Azhok stood, offering Wes a hand. He took it, the orc's grip pulling him to his feet with ease.

The initial mark on Wes's arm, a simple chain, would one day become a full sleeve tattoo—a testament not just to his survival but to the bond he felt, to the promise he made to himself. No matter how hard the path of Essence would be, he would walk it to the end.

Wes had not always been exceptional. In fact, until he reached the upper D ranks, he had been painfully average—just another human struggling to survive in a world where extraordinary abilities set the standard. Before that point, he had been just another face in the crowd, a middling fighter at best. It wasn't until he reached that threshold that his true potential began to show.

Getting there hadn't been easy. He had clawed his way through F and E ranks, nearly dying a half-dozen times along the way. Each brush with death had sharpened him, forged his willpower, and honed his instincts. Essence Manipulation had been his only weapon, and he had become damn good at it. He had to.

While others gained power quickly through Void Crystals, Wes had fought for every step. He didn't even gain an elemental affinity until the last few months of his life. His strength came from raw Essence ability, from refining and mastering every technique he could.

He didn't need to be the strongest—he just needed to outlast, outthink, and outfight those who were.