The sun blazed down on New York in the heat of July.
Amid the bustling crowd, a lean young man stood silently, staring at the city that felt both familiar and foreign.
"Fifteen years," he murmured. "I'm finally back. I wonder how my seven sisters are doing."
His name was John—an orphan raised in a welfare home. Though he shared no blood ties with them, the seven girls he grew up with treated him like true family.
Their favorite childhood game was playing house. One by one, they had solemnly promised to marry him when they grew up.
John had only been five years old then. In a childish voice full of sincerity, he reminded them, "We're not three or four anymore. We have to keep our word."
His sisters laughed, but they took it seriously. They all made pinky promises and swore never to go back on their word.
John lived every day with excitement for the future—until a fire shattered his world.
The blaze engulfed their home. His sisters could have escaped, but when they heard John was trapped, they ran back inside without hesitation.
They were soon surrounded by flames.
John had been terrified, crying and choking on smoke. Even then, his eldest sister held him close, whispering words of comfort.
The fire roared around them. The eight children huddled together, eventually losing consciousness.
When John opened his eyes again, the fire still burned—but now, an old wizard stood between him and the flames, his robe untouched by the heat.
The wizard looked down at John and said, "I can save your sisters, but you must become my apprentice."
It was a lifeline. John agreed without a second thought.
He had no idea that this decision would alter the course of his life forever.
The wizard took him away from the ruins and brought him to a mysterious school. There, John trained for ten years—learning healing arts, martial skills, and ancient magic. He even studied a secret, unnamed discipline.
At fifteen, John believed he was ready to return to New York. Instead, the wizard sent him to the battlefield.
He spent another five years there, fighting alongside elite soldiers. During that time, a powerful group called Oracle rose to prominence.
Its thirty-six members, known as god-like warriors, kept the peace across the United States. No enemy dared to cross them.
Their leader—the King of Horizon—had now quietly returned to the place where it had all begun: New York.
Remembering it all felt like a dream. But for John, it was very real.
No one would believe his story. If he told anyone, they'd think he was crazy.
Now he stood in front of the Sunshine Welfare Center.
The building was still there.
Emotions surged through him.
The fire had made national headlines. Donations had poured in. The old brick home had been replaced with a small high-rise, better equipped but unfamiliar.
Still, when John saw the children's innocent smiles, the strangeness faded.
In those smiles, he saw echoes of himself and his sisters.
Maybe not everything had changed.
He approached the staff and explained his visit.
Soon, a woman with reading glasses approached him, eyeing him curiously.
"I'm the director of the Sunshine Welfare Center. Who are you looking for?"
John blinked. "You're the director?"
He remembered someone else—a kind old man named Wodehouse. This woman didn't match his memory.
"I've been the director for over ten years," she said. "Were you looking for me?"
"I was looking for Mr. Wodehouse."
"Oh, I see. He retired quite a while ago."
Her suspicion faded when she realized John meant no harm. She smiled more warmly now.
John's brow furrowed.
Mr. Wodehouse had retired? From the timeline, it seemed he had stepped down shortly after the fire.
"Do you have his address?" John asked urgently.
"Yes, just a moment. I'll write it down for you."
She returned shortly with a note.
"Thank you," John said.
He followed the address to a single-story home.
An elderly man with greying hair was sweeping the courtyard. John recognized him instantly—it was Mr. Wodehouse.
Fifteen years had aged him. John felt a pang in his chest and quickened his steps.
But what happened next turned that sorrow into fury.
A young man in a gaudy floral shirt pushed Mr. Wodehouse, then shouted at him.
"I know those women send you money every month. Where is it, old man?"
John's rage erupted. He stormed over, grabbed the young man by the collar, and shouted, "How dare you rob an old man in broad daylight, you worthless punk!"
"Agh!" the young man gasped. He hadn't expected resistance. Panic flashed in his eyes, but he quickly tried to act tough.
"Let go of me! Grandpa, help!"
John's eyes narrowed.
"Grandpa?"
Mr. Wodehouse looked down, ashamed. "He's not a robber. His name is Gary. I adopted him."
Gary?
The name triggered something.
John studied him. No wonder he looked familiar—he was the same Gary who used to bully him as a child. Back then, John's sisters would always step in to protect him.
How had this bully become Wodehouse's adopted son?
John was lost in thought.
Seizing the moment, Gary broke free and coughed violently.
"Mind your damn business, you bastard! Get lost!"
He turned to Mr. Wodehouse and sneered. "Since you adopted me, it's your job to feed me, clothe me, and make me happy. If you can't handle that, why'd you adopt me in the first place?"
His words grew crueler.
"Where's the money those women send you? Are you planning to take it to your grave, you old fool? You won't live that long anyway! When you die, who else would it go to? Me, obviously. So hand it over!"
Mr. Wodehouse trembled but said nothing. He lowered his head and endured the verbal assault.
John had seen enough.
Slap!
"That's for disrespecting your elder!"
Slap!
"That's for trying to rob him!"
Slap!
"And that's for not recognizing me!"