Wan's body ached with exhaustion. The air around him felt heavy, the weight of failure pressing down like an invisible force. Hours of grueling training with no progress had stripped him of his hope, leaving nothing but frustration and bitterness. The Shade had never come. No matter how hard he focused, no matter how fiercely he tried to will the shadows into his grasp, they remained distant, unyielding.

His stomach growled, sharp and insistent, reminding him of the emptiness that seemed to have settled in every part of him. He hadn't eaten since he arrived—hadn't even thought about food amidst the constant push to learn, to prove himself, to belong. The ache of hunger was now impossible to ignore.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Wan staggered to his feet, his legs unsteady beneath him. He needed something—anything—to fill the gnawing void in his stomach. He looked around the village, the rows of simple buildings, the narrow streets—nothing but muted earth tones and dull roofs. But then, at the far end of the street, his eyes landed on something different—a small, humble storefront, the sign above it too worn to read clearly. The scent of something warm drifted through the cracks in the door, and Wan's throat tightened at the thought of food.

He walked toward it, each step slower than the last, his feet dragging through the dust of the village. The hunger gnawed at him, sharper now.

When he reached the door, he hesitated. His fingers brushed against the wooden frame. He wasn't sure what he was doing—there was no reason for him to be here. The villagers had already made it clear that he wasn't one of them, that he wasn't welcome in their world. But the hunger drove him forward.

Gently, he knocked. Once. Twice.

The silence that followed felt colder than the wind that swept through the village.

He knocked again, a little louder, but there was no response. Not a sound, not a movement. Only the faintest impression of eyes watching from inside, peering through cracks in the door or the windows. But there was no invitation. No gesture.

Wan exhaled, his breath trembling in his chest. "Please," he whispered to no one. "I'm just... hungry."

He waited a few moments, but still, nothing. His stomach growled again, louder this time, and the emptiness felt deeper, more suffocating than ever.

With a defeated sigh, Wan lowered his head. He wasn't sure what he expected, but part of him had hoped, even if only for a moment, that someone would offer a kind word or a meal. But it was clear now—he was no more than a nuisance here, a shadow among shadows, ignored and dismissed.

And so, he sank to his knees.

The villagers, who had long since noticed his presence, began to gather in quiet curiosity. Their eyes, cold and judgmental, stared at him without mercy. They watched as he knelt before the door, unmoving. His chest heaved with each breath, but he couldn't seem to pull himself away. His knees ached, his hands shook with the strain, but still, he remained.

Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!

The first few hours passed slowly. A few people stopped to stare, their faces unreadable, but no one spoke to him. No one offered help. They just watched. He was a spectacle, a curiosity. They moved on with their day, leaving him there in the dust and the heat, the hunger gnawing at his insides.

By the fifth hour, a small crowd had gathered. Children pointed and whispered, their eyes wide with something between amusement and pity. Elders stood by, nodding in quiet approval. Some offered brief glances, while others simply turned away. No one stepped forward to offer him food or comfort. They were content to watch as the boy broke, as the outsider crumbled beneath the weight of his own desperation.

Hour six came and went, then hour seven. Wan didn't move. He didn't look up. His body was a hollow shell, his mind nothing but a blur of exhaustion, hunger, and the crushing realization that this village, these people, would never be his home. They would never accept him. He was just a stranger, a shadow passing through, soon to be forgotten.

By hour ten, the crowd had grown larger. More people had stopped to stare, some standing in small clusters, others whispering among themselves. Wan's vision was blurry now, his hands trembling with weakness. His body felt like a foreign thing, disconnected from his mind. His knees were raw, and his head hung low, almost touching the ground. The hunger was a distant ache now, replaced by the numbness of his limbs and the emptiness in his heart.

At the twelfth hour, the crowd had swelled into a large gathering. The air had turned cold as night fell, but still, Wan didn't move. His eyes were closed, his breath shallow, the weight of exhaustion and despair bearing down on him.

And then, the door to the small store creaked open.

But Wan didn't lift his head. He didn't acknowledge the movement, the change in the air, the soft steps that followed. His mind was too far gone. The pain had become all-encompassing. His body was on the verge of shutting down, his will broken by the endless hours of kneeling, of waiting, of hoping for something that would never come.

He didn't hear the voice that spoke his name.

"Wan."

It was Kai. The same Kai who had told him the truth—that he didn't belong here. The same Kai who had walked away without a second glance hours ago. Now, he was here, his gaze sweeping over the kneeling figure of the broken boy.

Kai stepped closer, his face unreadable, but something in his eyes shifted when he saw the boy's lifeless form. He crouched down beside Wan and checked for a pulse, frowning as he found it weak and erratic.

"Damn it," Kai muttered under his breath.

He lifted Wan's limp body, his hands carefully supporting him as he moved him away from the door. The crowd, watching silently, began to murmur among themselves. Some turned away, but others remained, their eyes softening for the first time, seeing the broken, exhausted boy as something more than just an outsider.

As Kai carried Wan away, a small figure pushed through the crowd. A girl, no older than ten, with a small basket of bread in her hands. She approached the unconscious boy, her face filled with a quiet resolve.

Without a word, she knelt beside him, taking a piece of bread from the basket and gently pressing it to his lips. Her eyes were soft, filled with something like sympathy, something that made the people around her pause.

And, for the first time since Wan had arrived in this village, someone had seen him—not as an outsider, but as a person.

As she fed him the bread, the crowd grew still. Even Kai paused, watching the small act of kindness in silence. For a fleeting moment, the walls that had kept them apart—Wan and the villagers—felt a little thinner.

But that moment was fleeting. As Wan swallowed the piece of bread, his body reacting as if it had forgotten the act of sustenance, the world around him felt strangely silent. Not peaceful, but still, as if waiting for something to change.

In the distance, the night continued to fall, and the shadow of the boy who would never be one of them loomed even larger.