Samuel sat on his cardboard box, chewing on his piece of bread with the enthusiasm of a man eating dust. It tasted like cardboard. Had the same texture too. But what else could he do? Starving wasn’t exactly a better option.

He took a deep breath and looked around. What a shit day. Everything was gray and dull, like even the sun had given up on this world. He felt like Samwise Gamgee climbing Mount Doom—except there was no Frodo, no grand purpose, just the endless grind of survival.

His life had never been simple. His parents had died protecting him, but why? Because Samuel was a Twelve. The power of a god in the body of a boy.

In this world, people had abilities, ranked from one to twelve. The lower ranks? Support powers—think enhancers, tech-based abilities, minor elemental manipulation. Four through eight was where things got interesting: invisibility, telekinesis, advanced tactical gifts. Then came the real powerhouses—eight to eleven—the heroes you saw on TV, the ones fighting monsters, saving cities.

And then there were the Twelves. World-shakers.

Only two were known: Atlas, the number one hero, who trained new generations and hunted the other Twelve. And Nox, the ultimate villain, a shadow hanging over the world.

But now there were three.

Atlas.

Nox.

And Samuel Sero.

A kid who grew up in the finest orphanages money could buy—and by “finest,” he meant the kind filled with people who wished he didn’t exist. The day he turned eighteen, they kicked him out. No surprises there. Orphanages didn’t care once you stopped bringing in government subsidies.

Samuel smirked dryly as he stared at the last piece of bread in his hand. The number one hero. The number one villain. And him? The number one homeless guy.

He popped the rest into his mouth in one bite, brushed the crumbs off his clothes, and stretched. “What a fantastic day for more shitty errands,” he muttered before setting off toward the city with a half-hearted bounce in his step.

As he made his way to Mr. Affers, Samuel passed a few familiar faces—fellow homeless. People with their own stories, their own personal hells. Some were addicts, sure, but not all. Not even most.

Mrs. Johnson had lost her son at birth and never found the strength to move on. Mr. Gueves had come here searching for hope, a fresh start—only to find hatred and decay. Kip had grown up in a home full of fists and screaming and decided that sleeping on the streets was the better option.

People always assumed the homeless were junkies. They had no idea how many of them were just broken.

Samuel pushed the thought aside and threw his arms wide. “Well, don’t we look like a cheerful bunch! Everyone have a nice night?”

A few muttered responses.

He pulled an exaggerated grin. “Wow! My bridge was delightfully warm last night.” He chuckled and kept walking, glancing back once. “No day like today, folks! No day like today!”

When he reached Mr. Affers’ building, he paused, peering inside. A massive warehouse stacked with construction materials—wood planks, concrete blocks, everything needed to build something new.

Building blocks for feeding society’s hatred of the homeless, Samuel thought bitterly.

He muttered to himself, “We’re basically a Lego society. Always starting new projects, never looking back at what we tore down.”

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that, Sam…”

Samuel turned. Mr. Affers was standing behind him.

Affers was the perfect example of an ordinary man. Neatly dressed, wearing a slightly oversized white shirt tucked into his jeans. His glasses gave him a thoughtful look, and behind them were the kind of soft eyes only fathers had. He had two teenage kids and the tired expression of a man who told himself every night: Just one more episode...

“Back for another job?” Affers asked with a small smile.

“Gotta eat somehow. Can’t exactly rob a bank, can I?”

He could. With his power, no one would even notice. But he didn’t want to be a criminal. He wanted to be a hero. So, he followed the rules.

“Need money. Two days, Affers. Then I’m out of here.”

Affers gave him that familiar look. The you’ve been saying that for two weeks look.

“I mean it this time, Affers.”

What Affers didn’t know was that in exactly two days, the world’s top hero universities would open their doors to new students. Not just universities—hero academies.

Valcroy Academy, the closest one, was in the United States. The place where Atlas, the number one hero, had once trained—and where he now taught as a guest instructor.

Azmora Institute, in Geneva, stood right next to the headquarters of the Global Heroes Association. A breeding ground for strategists, peacekeepers, and some of the sharpest minds in the world.

Shouren Academy, deep in Japan, was infamous for its ruthless training programs. Not a place for the weak, but those who survived it became legends.

And then there was Arkwright Academy in London—the Cambridge of the hero world. Elites, inventors, and tactical masterminds.

He did notice that South America was quite underrepresented in the field of Hero Universities.

These were the big four. There were smaller schools, sure, but Samuel didn’t care about those. He had one goal: Valcroy Academy.

Because that’s where Atlas was. The only one who could help him control his power.

"But!" Samuel leaned in slightly. "I need real money, Affers. I’ve got enough for a train ticket, but that’s it." He kept it vague on purpose. "I still need to buy some clean clothes and food. Got anything big? I’ll do what needs to be done."

He pulled a disgusted face. "Except, you know… dirty things."

Affers raised an eyebrow. "What do you take me for, Samuel? Someone who uses people like that?"

"You make me do shit jobs for half of what you’d pay a regular worker. Like it or not, glasses-man, you’re exactly that kind of guy."

"Well, excuse me," Affers said in that typical fatherly tone. "But yeah, I’ve got something. A big construction company is picking up concrete slabs today. Heavy job, getting those into the trailer. You can use the hoist—it should be easy enough for you. I need to get the paperwork sorted this morning, so it’d be great if you handled it. Hiring someone for it would cost me a fortune."

He sounded a little guilty—probably because of what Samuel had just said—but then shrugged it off.

"I’ll pay you fifty an hour, and it should take about four hours. So, two hundred total."

Samuel thought for a second. "And what if I finish faster?"

Affers raised a brow. "You think you can do it in less than four hours?"

Samuel grinned, challenging. "Who knows? Maybe I’m a natural."

Affers snorted, considered it for a moment, then shrugged. "If you get it done in two hours, I’ll give you fifty percent extra. That’s three hundred. That way, I can call them to pick it up sooner."

Samuel gave him a thumbs-up and started walking toward the worksite. "Oh, before I forget—Affers, your laces are untied."

Instinctively, Affers glanced down. "They’re not—"

Samuel burst out laughing. "Nope, but I did make you look."

Muttering under his breath, Affers headed toward his office while Samuel got to work.

When he reached the crane, he turned the key in the ignition, letting the machine start up. Then, he threw a quick glance at Affers, who was buried in his paperwork. Quietly, Samuel let himself drop to the ground and began stacking the concrete slabs into the trailer—effortlessly.

Once he was done, he left the machine running and stared into the distance, lost in thoughts about Lord of the Rings. The only good thing in his life at the moment.

After an hour, Affers stepped out of his office and froze. He looked at Samuel, then at the fully loaded trailer, then back at Samuel.

“You’re done? But how?”

“Natural talent. Impeccable physique. A dazzling display of skills,” Samuel said with a wide grin.

Affers stared at the trailer for a few seconds, sighed, and shuffled away. A moment later, he returned with a thick stack of cash.

“I’m calling them now to pick it up. This earns me a nice bonus. So here—you earned it.”

He handed Samuel three hundred and fifty dollars.

With his freshly earned money, Samuel turned to leave. At the last second, he paused, held out a hand to Affers.

“Thanks for all the jobs, Affers. You helped me keep food on the table and get things sorted.”

Affers pretended it meant nothing, but his eyes lingered just a moment too long. A small hesitation. A flicker of pride.

“No problem, kid. You seemed like a good one, and I don’t know how I’d feel if my kids were in your shoes.”

Samuel nodded, turned, and wandered toward the nearest dollar store.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Inside, the air smelled of cheap plastic and stale fabric. The fluorescent lights cast everything in a washed-out glow, like even the store had given up on life. Samuel’s gaze drifted over the shelves as he grabbed a few basics.

“A hoodie, a pair of pants, a shirt, and some socks and underwear… should be enough,” he muttered.

With everything bundled in his arms, he headed to the counter and dropped it all onto the register.

The cashier, a woman with tired eyes and a worn-out sweater, barely glanced at him as she started scanning. “No discounts, just full price.”

Samuel snorted. “You say that ‘cause I stink?” He met her gaze, unflinching. “Live your life, girl. Worry about something else.”

Her fingers hesitated over the register. Eyes that suddenly didn’t dare meet his. She swallowed, grabbed a plastic bag. “Thirteen dollars.”

Samuel knew how this worked. People ran their mouths until someone pushed back. He pulled a twenty from his pocket, waited for his change, and walked out without a second glance.

In an alley, he stripped off his old clothes and put on the new ones. The cold bit at his skin, the asphalt damp and grimy under his bare feet as he hurried to get his socks on. No shower today. No time.

Before heading to the station, he made one last stop by his fellow homeless. Slipped a few of them a dollar. Gave Mrs. Johnson a nod, and she offered him a small smile. Clapped Kip on the shoulder.

Then he turned and made his way toward the train station.

Time to go.

At the entrance, he paused, watching the steady flow of people coming and going. Eyes locked forward, hurried steps, trapped in their own three-by-three-meter worlds—a phrase he’d once heard in a show. No one really looked around. No one saw him.

Except when they smelled him, of course. And yeah, he reeked. Not exactly something he was proud of.

A cloud of smoke billowed from the trains, curling around the platforms as if the engines themselves were calling to him. Time to go. Come on.

It felt hollow.

Even in the middle of a crowd, he was no one. Just another shadow in the background of their lives.

Samuel made his way to one of the ticket counters. Since he only had cash, buying online wasn’t an option. Once there, he leaned against the counter and flashed a wide grin at the man behind the glass.

"I’d like to request a ride on your finest carriage. From the humble Knoxville to the grand and mighty New York."

The man—dressed in a stiff suit but sporting an unkempt beard and a body that had seen a little too much fast food—gave him a dead-eyed stare. Clearly not his first customer of the day. Samuel doubted he had ever been enthusiastic about his job.

"Knoxville to New York. That’ll be 143.50. Takes about seventeen hours."

Samuel had expected it to be expensive, but the number still stung. He reluctantly counted out the cash and slid it under the glass. In return, he received a stack of tickets and a confirmation slip.

"Your first train leaves in an hour and a half. Platform seven."

Samuel nodded, grabbed the tickets, and gave the man an exaggerated round of applause. "Flawlessly executed! Truly spectacular!"

The man didn’t even blink.

Chuckling, Samuel turned and wandered aimlessly through the station until he found an empty bench.

People-watching—always a solid way to kill time. In his head, he gave them ridiculous names and made up even more ridiculous backstories. The guy with the briefcase? Secret agent who moonlighted as a magician. The woman juggling five coffee cups? Probably a dragon in disguise—caffeine was just the human equivalent of hoarding gold.

Then his gaze landed on a bookstore further down the station.

Samuel shot up and walked over, eyes scanning the shelves the moment he stepped inside.

At the fantasy section, his fingers trailed over the book spines as he muttered under his breath, "Please, please, please..."

And there it was.

Lord of the Rings.

Samuel picked it up, turning it over in his hands, feeling the weight, the texture of the pages—the promise of adventure. His eyes flicked to the price.

Forty dollars.

“Expensive, but so worth it!” he nearly shouted.

Grinning like an idiot, he strode to the register, practically bouncing on his feet like a kid who just got candy. As he handed over the money, the cashier gave him a weird look.

Fair. He was eighteen, had just dropped a small fortune on a book, and was acting like a total lunatic.

But he had Lord of the Rings.

So, who cared?

Back on his bench, he sank down and flipped it open. The Lord of the Rings. His favorite story. Tolkien had a way with words—he painted worlds with ink, wove history into every sentence. A true artist. A wizard of language. A hero of words.

An hour and fifteen minutes later, he stood up and headed toward his train.

The ticket inspector stood at the entrance.

"Hello, fine ticket-snipper! Beautiful day, isn’t it?" Samuel said cheerfully, handing over his ticket.

The man raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Conductor. That’s the proper title, kid."

Samuel just grinned and walked inside. He found an empty compartment—not that anyone would willingly sit next to him anyway—and collapsed into the seat with his book.

The train jolted, came to life, and pulled out of the station.

Samuel kept reading, lost in Middle-earth, until an hour later, he finally looked up.

The trip was a straight shot to Washington D.C., where he’d have to transfer to a bus.

He stared at the cabin door, letting his imagination run wild. Just like Harry Potter... what if, right now, a Hermione and Ron walked in?

He pictured Hermione waving her wand and saying, "Pif, paf, poof. Now you don’t smell like hoof."

But no one came in.

Samuel sighed and went back to reading.

The train ride was long. And boring. Tedious. Awful. Stiff. Wooden. Gray. Not fun. And about a dozen other things that ran through his mind.

He had tried everything to keep himself occupied. Reading. Doing push-ups. Singing the alphabet. Making up riddles—which turned out to be surprisingly difficult without a phone. Eventually, he just gave up and slept.

The following morning the train arrived in Washington D.C.

As he stepped off the train, he did it dramatically, as if he were in a musical, arriving at the city where he truly belonged. Just as he was about to break into a grand opening number, he stopped, exhaled, and said just one word:

"Boring."

Then he made his way to the bus station and handed over his next ticket.

"Sir, how long is this trip? Am I about to suffer through another eternity of boredom?"

The bus driver gave him a slow, considering look before answering, completely deadpan, "Once we start driving, I’ll come sit next to you. We’ll play Yahtzee."

Samuel blinked. "But… I stink?"

The man nodded, pulled a can of deodorant out of his bag, and handed it to him.

"Spray this on, and I’ll be right over."

Samuel looked at the deodorant. Then back at the man.

"Who are you?" Samuel asked dramatically before letting out an exaggerated sigh and stepping onto the bus.

Not long after, the bus pulled away, beginning its journey to New York. Samuel stared out the window. Every second brought him closer to his new future.

His school wasn’t in New York, just the recruitment center, but that didn’t matter. This was the first step.

Finally belonging somewhere.

Finally having a place.

Making friends.

A roof over his head.

His fingers unconsciously traced the edge of his book. It felt unreal.

A little while later, the bus driver sat down next to him.

Samuel turned to him, eyes wide in horror.

"But… but if you’re here… WHO’S DRIVING THE BUS?!" he shouted dramatically.

Several passengers shot upright, panic flashing across their faces.

The man quickly waved them down. "Relax, relax! I’m a backup driver, drama queen."

Samuel leaned back, grinning. "Are you always this serious?"

"Are you always this annoying?" the man shot back.

"Gotta survive somehow," Samuel said dryly. "Can’t exactly rely on my charming scent."

And so, they played Yahtzee. Samuel had never played before, but the driver patiently explained the rules, and they played just for fun.

Samuel, however, turned out to be a natural at trash talking.

"Not surprised," he said smugly. "You’re a bus driver. You live among the people. You hear everyone talking shit. You had to learn how to talk shit back."

The man shot him a cynical grin. "That scent of yours doesn’t exactly scream ‘privileged upbringing,’ so shut your smart mouth, kid."

Samuel chuckled to himself. He liked this guy.

Kid, huh? He was anything but. He stood at one meter ninety-five—his height straight from his father. Dutch genes. His mother had pulled him down a little with her one meter sixty frame. Small woman. Mexican.

Thinking about her brought a flicker of warmth—one that quickly twisted into something else.

Loneliness.

Soon, he’d be standing there, surrounded by other eighteen-year-olds. Parents dropping off their kids with pride, hugs, and encouraging words.

And him?

He’d be alone. Again.

Eventually, Samuel decided to nap. He had played plenty of Yahtzee with the driver, and the man had eventually left to switch places with his colleague.

It wasn’t long before he was shaken awake.

"Hey, kid. We’re here."

Samuel shot upright without restraint, grabbed his book, and leaped off the bus.

"Thanks for the ride!" he called back over his shoulder.

He barely registered how fast he moved. Not ridiculously fast, but just a fraction faster than a normal person. Hopefully, no one noticed.

His powers made everything easy. Super speed. Super strength. Super endurance. And super flight.

The "super" before flight was his own addition—otherwise, it didn’t feel complete.

Now, keeping his pace deliberately controlled, he walked toward the recruitment center.

A massive building, established through a joint effort between the government and the hero academies.

This was it.

The big, the small, the mid-tier schools—they all sent scouts here, looking for fresh talent.

And Samuel?

He could walk right in. No barriers. No limits.

No more waiting.

He had his power card, after all.

It said he was an eleven.

Nonsense, of course. But good enough to get in.

When he turned twelve, like everyone else, he was tested. July 6, 2018. The day it all officially started. The day he was sent to the testing center.

The tester had looked at him. Too long.

"Do you really want that kind of attention?" the man had asked.

Samuel had begged him to lower it by one point.

The man had given in. Manually adjusted it.

His official card now read:

Samuel Sero

Born: July 6, 2006

Powers: flight, super strength, super speed, super endurance

Power level: 11

It would be enough to catch the universities' attention.

There were only two known twelves. But elevens? Hundreds.

As he reached the building, he looked up. The dome-like structure loomed above him. Inside, the real tests would begin—disaster simulations, combat trials, power evaluations.

By the entrance, a tablet was counting down.

17 hours, 2 minutes.

“The doors open at eight, then,” he muttered.

Then he stopped.

“I need to stop talking to myself. People are going to start thinking I’m the fucking Joker.”

His eyes scanned the plaza. Empty.

Except…

A tent.

What the hell was a tent doing here?

He walked over and knocked on the fabric. Inside, something rattled. The zipper slid open.

A girl looked at him. Eighteen, silver hair, glasses that fit perfectly.

She looked unimpressed.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello,” he echoed. “So, uh… what are you doing here? Camping? Going fishing?” He frowned, blinking at her.

She stared at him like he was an idiot. “I’m here for the university recruitment process.” She pointed at the door. “Currently, I have sixteen hours and fifty-nine minutes left before the doors open. To maintain an optimal rest cycle, I require sufficient sleep. So I set up a tent and am waiting here.”

She pushed her glasses up her nose. “What are you doing here?”

Samuel blinked at her, expression blank. “Same. But without the tent.”

“That’s not optimal.”

“No, not really.” He gave her a questioning look. “Mind if I sit next to your tent and wait?”

She glanced around, then at her tent. “My tent is designed for exactly two people. Your height and build won’t be an issue, as I accounted for a scenario in which two, al be it short, candidates might arrive early. Theoretically, you could sleep next to me and avoid the cold. Additionally, we would retain body heat and wake up more rested.”

Samuel raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking me to sleep in your tent?” He narrowed his eyes. “Isn’t that… kind of… something you…”

“Ah,” she interrupted, her gaze analyzing him. “You’re referring to the social construct in which men and women have a tendency toward emotional bonding and sexual intercourse when sleeping in close proximity?”

Samuel stared at her in silence.

“While you are physically attractive,” she continued, completely deadpan, “you are not an optimal candidate for my ideal partner. Therefore, my calculation is that we can share the tent without concern for any sexual activity between us.”

“Great,” Samuel said dryly.

He stepped inside, immediately noticing how soft the ground was. He looked up. “Did you drag mattresses here? So you could sleep comfortably?”

She glanced at him while zipping up the tent. “No. To optimize my time management, I hired a homeless man to set it up. In exchange, I promised him the tent and mattresses tomorrow—provided he picks them up at exactly 7:45 AM. That way, I don’t have to clean up, and someone gets a warmer sleeping space.”

Samuel stared at her.

She had no idea he had been homeless.

His respect for her skyrocketed a thousand percent in a single second.

She held out her hand. “I’m Lynn, by the way. Social etiquette dictates that we should at least know each other’s names and converse for an hour to confirm neither of us is a psychopath before sleeping in the same space.”

“Great,” Samuel said again.

He let himself sink onto the mattress and stared at the fabric of the tent above him.

"This is going to be a long day."

© Ruben Poelen, 2024. All rights reserved.

This work, Endborn & Dawnborn, including all text, characters, and worldbuilding, is the intellectual property of Ruben Poelen. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in reviews or articles.

Unauthorized use, copying, or distribution of this work is strictly prohibited.