Volume 2, Chapter 4: "Not Enough"
The sky was overcast—dull gray clouds swirling above the ruins of an abandoned lot near Black Hollow's edge. Concrete cracked underfoot. Rusted rails ran off to nowhere. The wind carried the scent of burnt plastic and damp rot. This was where the forgotten came to stay forgotten.
And Cainen was here.
Alone.
He stood shirtless beneath the rusted frame of a fallen support beam, fists clenched so tight his knuckles split. Blood dripped, mixing with the sweat that clung to every inch of his skin.
Thud.
Another punch into the broken wall in front of him.
Thud.
Then another. And another. Until the stone cracked—until his bones begged to stop.
He didn't.
"—ngh... Tch."
He grunted again, wiping blood from his lips with the back of his hand. There were no teachers here, no students laughing with flashy RACs, no one showing off new abilities like toys they were born lucky to have.
Just him.
Just rage.
He threw another punch. Missed. Lost balance. Slammed shoulder-first into the wall.
He caught himself with one knee, panting, eyes wild. Breathing like a cornered animal.
"Why… why ain't it enough?!"
His voice echoed. The sound bounced off stone and steel. But no one answered.
He stood again. Shaky. Arms trembling.
One more.
He dropped into a stance, forced himself into push-ups. Then again. Then again. His muscles screamed, but he shut them up with willpower alone.
Ten.Twenty.Forty.
By the time he hit eighty-seven, his elbows buckled.
He hit the ground hard.
"Gh—!!"
He didn't move. Couldn't.
Sweat pooled beneath his chin. His heartbeat roared in his ears. The dull ache in his back climbed into something sharp.
He lay there, defeated.
Not by anyone. Not by DMK. Not by the government.
By his own limits.
The sky rumbled.
A crow landed on a rail above him. Watched.
He didn't care.
"Those babies… born with powers… silver spoons in their goddamn RACs…"
He gritted his teeth.
He didn't stop thinking about them.
The little geniuses throwing lightning at age five. The prodigies with fire dancing in their veins. The gifted elites who never had to train, just exist.
Meanwhile, he had nothing. His bones ached for every ounce of strength. His skin tore for every inch he climbed. And it never mattered.
Never.
He pushed himself up. Staggered to his feet.
The lot was silent.
Too silent.
Then—
He felt it.
That itch on the back of his neck. The crawling sensation behind his ears. A presence. Watching.
He spun.
No one.
Nothing.
"…"
He looked around, chest heaving.
No figures. No movement. Just debris, rust, broken walls.
But the feeling didn't go away.
It pressed harder now. Cold and invasive. Like breath down his spine.
He scanned the rooftops. Shadows danced from the flickering light above.
Nothing.
"Tch… get a grip…"
He shook his head. Slapped his own face once. Twice.
And just like that, anger returned.
The crawling fear, the helplessness—it burned away under something hotter.
Rage.
He walked back to the wall. Stared at the blood stains from earlier.
He raised his fist again.
Cracked his neck.
And with teeth clenched, muscles flaring, he slammed his hand back into the stone.
Again.
And again.
Even if it broke him.
Even if it killed him.
He would claw his way to the top.
"I'll get up there with you... I fucking will—"
The wind howled, like something heard him.