As Acacia walked through the coasts of Ocarina’s port, the incessant rain seemed to mirror the emptiness from within. Each droplet struck him like a mournful weight. The grim sky and the rhythmic patter of raindrops echoed in his ears.

  He drifted asleep against the gutter walls.

  Only the raindrops batting against his skin woke him up from his sudden slumber. Alone and aimless, the Irregular drifted like the nearby waves. He ultimately found himself at the ports. The crashing waves amplified his sense of finality. Morbidly enough, the more he lingered with the void in his chest, the less he felt unfixed about his execution.It was likely evening, judging by the darkness. There were only a few hours left before it was time to return to his cell. The ports reminded him of Litore before happened, so he figured he’d stroll around there for nostalgia’s sake.

  Acacia sighed, his lips curving upward involuntarily.

  Huh, he hadn’t realized it was his first smile in a while.

  His smile faded as the wind picked up, driving the rain harder. His clothes clung to his body as the atmosphere grew bleak by the second. He watched the waves crash violently against the rocks. He sought refuge in one of the piers with a header over it. It was run-down, but the rain left him no choice.

  Soaked, Acacia sat at the edge of the pier. He sat for hours, watching the churning waves crash against the port. The cold air and water droplets made him feel small and vulnerable. If this was a horror movie, he would have been killed by now.

  The world felt like an ensnaring abyss. It felt cruel that such a world mirrored the ocean he loved.

  Watching the sea, memories of Litore surfaced. It was unfathomably beautiful—that’s why he loved it. But the port had its charm; the vast sea, the crashing waves, and the raindrops reflecting his mood.

  The night deepened as rain slowed to silence over Ocarina's piers. Acacia let his legs dangle over the wooden edge, exhaling slowly as he stretched. It was time to head back, he supposed. The air hung heavy with salt and petrichor—that distinctive scent when rain kisses earth. It was almost peaceful.

  Then a voice shattered that illusion.

  "Thought you could hide here, huh? Has your brain gone defective, Irregular?" The words carried that same cruel inflection he knew too well, even if the voice itself was unfamiliar. Two others snickered in echo, and Acacia turned his head toward the sound.

  "Please, I swear that was all the money I—"

  "Had? Don't feed me that crap! You got paid tonight—we watched you. What, blow it all on garbage already?"

  "Wait, please—I can pay triple next week! My family's struggling with bills right now, I just need—"

  "Your family?" The question dripped with mock concern. "An Irregular talking about family?"

  The scene unfolding was achingly familiar—three figures looming over a smaller one, their school insignias marking them as students from other academies. Different uniforms, same story. The strong preying on the weak, nature's most primitive law playing out under civilization's thin veneer. In a world where most could command the elements while others remained powerless, what other outcome could there be?

  After all, no amount of determination could let an Irregular throw fireballs. No volume of sweat and tears would grant them control over storms. The physics that bound them were as immutable as the prejudice that haunted their steps. Even now, Acacia could only watch as the natural order reasserted itself, as it always had, as it always would.

  "Hmm... Triple the payment next week or get my money right now?" The ringleader made a show of contemplation, dark intent bleeding through his facade. "You know what? Let me help you with that decision."

  His hand shot out—casual, almost lazy—and air coalesced into a rotating sphere, aimed squarely at the cornered Irregular's chest.

  “[Roa].”

  The compressed wind struck like a sledgehammer. The boy's body crumpled, skidding across damp wood as he gasped desperately for air that wouldn't come. Laughter erupted from the trio, sharp and hollow as breaking glass. They could have simply taken what they wanted. But that was never really the point, was it?

  "Screw your family," spat the leader, the previous pretense abandoned. "In fact, screw you for making me even consider it. Irregulars like you?" His lips curled into something too cruel to be called a smile. "You need to learn your place."

  He then turned to his companions, voice dropping to a command that dripped with casual malice.

  “Rough him up.”

  The order unleashed the others. One seized the boy's neck, hurling him toward his partner like a ragdoll. The second caught and slammed him down, wooden planks groaning under the impact. A fist whistled toward the fallen Irregular's face—he jerked aside, survival instinct granting him a moment's reprieve. Another blow missed by a hair's breadth, but desperation could only carry him so far. A punch found his stomach, and his world dissolved into pain.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Acacia watched on.

  A voice, indescribable, from within.

  I do?

  in this ghetto of endless repetition.”

  He remembered what that woman—Pandora Kirchiesen—told him. If he took the first step, he could become a symbol of Irregulars by inspiring hope, determination, and perseverance of the hearts of the oppressed. All if…

  And so, Acacia chose to escape the ghetto of repetition.

  His footsteps, at first muffled against rain-soaked planks, grew deliberate and loud. The sound drew the trio's attention, their heads turning in unison to face this new intrusion. Their expressions shifted curiously—surprise, then disdain, then something deeper, as if catching an unwanted glimpse of their own reflection in the Irregular who dared to stand before them.

  "Leave him alone."

  The boys exchanged glances, momentarily thrown by this unexpected deviation from their script.

  The ringleader recovered first, arrogance reasserting itself as he invaded Acacia's space. "And who exactly do you think you are, Irregular apologist? Playing hero for this worthless loser? You're just as defective as he is!"

  “If I’m worthless, then what are you?”

  "...What did you just say?"

  "You have all the power in the world at your fingertips. You could reshape reality itself. Instead, you spend your nights hunting people just trying to survive. If you guys are just jokes, then I refuse to be the punchline.”

  Silence.

  “Shut

  The punch came fast—too fast for an untrained eye to follow. It carried the force to drive air from lungs, yet the impact felt hollow. He registered the connection, the jolt of contact, but something was missing. The power that should have surged through that blow felt... empty. Without conscious thought, his own fist shot forward. The instant it struck the bully’s face, reality seemed to fracture. Raindrops hung suspended in midair. Waves halted their crash. Even time itself faltered, as though the world had been sealed within a bubble of perfect stillness.

  The leader staggered back, blood streaming from his nose. His eyes widened as he stared at his crimson-stained palm, his expression twisting into something between rage and disbelief.

  "The hell did you do to me?”

  "I punched you." Acacia deadpanned.

  "You're dead meat!" He lunged forward, fist cutting through air where Acacia's head had been a moment before. Rage made his movements predictable—a fundamental law that held true whether one invoked miracles or stood powerless before them. The bully realized his mistake too late, stumbling as his target slipped away by a few.

  “[Roa]!”

  Trying to correct his mistake, he shot out another spell. The wind materialized instantly, crossing the space between them like a bullet. Acacia didn't run. He planted his feet against the drenched wood and crossed his arms, meeting the wind head-on. The impact sent him sliding backward, shoes scraping against the pier, but he held his stance defiantly.

  Behind him, the shivering Irregular watched in bewilderment. Everything about this scene felt wrong, like watching someone defy gravity. Through swollen eyes, he saw the angry red welts forming on Acacia's arms where he'd blocked the spell. This was madness.

  Battles that couldn't be won, shouldn't be fought.

  "W-what are you doing?" he stuttered. "Please, just get away! It's too dangerous!"

  “Why should I?” said Acacia, not bothering to turn his head.

  "You're an Irregular too! You know it's impossible to win against them—you'll get yourself killed!" The words came out as a desperate shriek, incomprehension giving way to fear. Not for himself now, but for this stranger who'd stepped into his nightmare.

  Acacia, however, simply chuckled.

  He then turned his head around, facing the boy with a gentle smile.

  “And so?"

  "What?"

  "Does being an Irregular mean we don't have eyes to see what's wrong? Does it mean that we bear no mouths to speak up? Does it mean we don't have hands to fight back? Does it mean we don't have legs to stand up?"

  "..."

  "I'm not just an Irregular." The words carried an odd serenity, like a fine abstraction—the truth—was finally spoken aloud. "I'm a person with the power to resist. Not a criminal. Not a murderer. Not a victim. Not anyone's scapegoat. I'm me—and as long as I have these eyes, hands, and legs, I'll fight whatever nonsense I see."

  "You're... you're absolutely crazy."

  Another chuckle escaped Acacia, genuine amusement coloring his voice despite everything. "That's a strange way to thank someone trying to save your life."

  "I guess it is." Slowly, painfully, the boy pushed himself to his feet. "...Y-you really think you can win against them?" he asked, wavering between hope and doubt, eyes searching Acacia's face for any hint of uncertainty.

  "No."

  "Then what are you gonna do?"

  “I’m gonna fight.”

  On command, Acacia's feet shifted against the pier, body settling into a stance that spoke of countless brawls and hard-learned lessons. The trio watched him with a mixture of disbelief and growing anger, their previous amusement curdling into something darker. Even now, their ringleader’s face betrayed his calculations—no flickers of prana, no telltale signs of any Integration Sequences. He truly was just another Irregular, then. One who needed to learn his place.

  "Hah, you've got some balls! You’re frickin’ dead!"

  "I won't deny that."

  "What?"

  "I won't deny that I have balls."

  The trio snickered at the quip, but soon their laughs were replaced with shouts of anger when Acacia charged straight at them like a bullet train.

  "If you're that scared of standing up to thugs like them," his words carried across the pier, meant not for his opponents but for the boy behind him, "when are you ever going to start living?!"

  The question echoed in the other Irregular's mind. He didn't know the answer. But as he watched this strange—possibly insane—boy charge headlong into impossible odds, something shifted in his chest. A crack appeared in walls built by fear and reinforced by resignation.

  And so another act of resistance began, as the Irregular rose to join Acacia's charge.