The world was quiet. Solitary. Almost perfect.
Everything lived in harmony - the rivers ran calmly, the forests knew no axe, and people lived simply and honestly. There were no wars. No great inventions. Magic had long been forgotten, and technology had never arrived. Life moved slowly, like honey sliding off a spoon - warm, gentle, and seemingly eternal.
But it hadn't always been that way.
Long ago, the world knew terror. Darkness.
There was a Dark Prince - mysterious, powerful, bringing ruin wherever he stepped. Cities fell. Villages burned. Nothing could stand against him.
Until one man rose.
A hero named Uso. With a mythical sword in hand, he faced the Prince… and won. And gradually the Prince's Empire fell. In his honor, a city was founded. And at its heart stood a statue - a sword raised to the sky, a calm face, eyes gazing into the distance. As if Uso was still watching, still protecting the peace he had won.
This city was called Woodenreach.
Built of timber, it was warm and old, carved by hand and full of quiet life. The homes bore delicate patterns, the rooftops baked in the afternoon sun. In the evenings, the air filled with the scent of pine, dust, bread, and woodsmoke. The people here had no fear. Even arguments were rare. And children believed they lived in the safest place in the world.
It was in this peaceful town that a boy named Kibo was born.
From the very beginning, he was fragile. His heart was weak — burdened with a rare and serious defect. The healers in Woodenreach, few as they were, didn't know how to help him. Some whispered he wouldn't live to see his first birthday. But he did.
Quiet, delicate, often pale — he almost never left the house. His immune system was nearly nonexistent. Even a mild cold could keep him bedridden for weeks. He didn't run with other children, didn't play hide and seek, didn't climb trees. His world was made of books, the scent of wooden walls, and his mother's evening tales.
He didn't know how real wind felt — only heard it whispering beyond the windows. He didn't know the scent of fallen autumn leaves — only watched them rest on the windowsill. But he knew the sound of his mother crying… when she thought he was asleep.
Years passed, and the days blurred into each other, each one quiet and the same. But Kibo never complained. He had grown used to it. He simply dreamed. He dreamed that one day… he would step outside. Walk the streets. See the market stalls, hear the laughter of children, and feel the breath of the city he had never truly touched.
One quiet morning, Kibo sat by the window with a thin notebook on his lap and a wooden pencil in hand. He was drawing—as always. Today, it was a leaf that had fallen onto the windowsill. Yellow, almost transparent, with frayed edges. Kibo tried to capture its shape and color so he wouldn't forget it.
He often drew things he couldn't touch. Autumn leaves, the sound of rain, the clouds he saw from his window. Sometimes—faces. Sometimes—dreams. Drawing had become his way of holding on to a world he rarely got to be part of.
The day seemed like any other. Silent. Still. But suddenly, something broke that stillness.
Laughter. Bells. A distant murmur of voices.
Kibo looked up. He walked to the window and peeked outside.
The streets had come alive. Bright ribbons danced in the wind, vendors were setting up stalls, children ran past with painted faces. Somewhere, a drumbeat echoed. Paper flags fluttered. The air smelled of baked sweets and fried honey.
A festival.
Kibo froze. He pressed his forehead to the glass, afraid to blink. Everything inside him stirred. He wanted to be there, inside that bright, living world. To hear the music not through a pane of glass, but with his own ears. To smell the sweets. Just... to be near it.
He slowly sat back down, his eyes lowered. He picked up the pencil again and tried to draw what he saw, but his hand was trembling. The lines came out crooked. He dropped the pencil.
His mother passed by. She saw him. She paused. Looked at his shoulders, the way he sat—silent, still. And she understood.
She walked over to his father. Whispered something.
His father stood up, looked at Kibo for a long moment.
Then, softly, he said:
— Son… want to go to the festival stall?
Kibo flinched.
He turned. Shock on his face. Lips trembling.
— R-really?.. — he whispered.
— Really, — his father smiled. — Let's go. All of us. Today is your day.
His mother was already helping him into a coat, wrapping a scarf around his neck. Her hands trembled, but her smile was real.
And so… for the first time in eight years, Kibo stepped outside.
He walked slowly. His legs trembled a little, and his breathing was unsteady. But he kept going—his mother held his hand firmly, and his father walked just ahead, glancing back with a warm smile.
The sunlight hit his face—warm, real. The air… it smelled different. Sweet, spicy, smoky. It was alive. It carried the world he had only heard about in stories.
People turned to look. Some stopped. Elders whispered. Children froze in place.
"Is that him?" someone murmured. "The boy?"
Kibo lowered his head. But his mother only squeezed his hand tighter, and they kept walking.
The festival was everywhere. Stalls lined the streets, selling flatbreads, roasted fruits, honey-coated nuts. Colorful banners, garlands, and paper lanterns swayed in the wind. Performers in bright clothes juggled and did tricks. Musicians played flutes, whistles, and drums. Someone was handing out balloons. Children laughed.
Kibo didn't know where to look first. He kept turning his head, afraid to miss even a second of it.
"What do you want to try?" his mother asked, smiling.
"Everything!" he breathed. "Can I… try everything?"
They bought him honeyed nuts, roasted pumpkin, berries in sugar. He tasted everything slowly, in awe, like he couldn't quite believe it was real. He ate—and cried. He laughed—and sniffled. Every taste was new. With every breath, he felt like he was truly living.
And then, his eyes caught it—the statue.
Massive. Proud. Rising in the center of the square. A warrior in armor, his sword raised toward the sky. His face strong and confident. At the base, golden letters read: USO.
Kibo stepped closer. Tilted his head back. Said nothing for a long moment.
"That's him?" he asked quietly. "Uso?"
"Yes," his father nodded. "The great hero. He defeated the Prince of Evil. Saved the world. Thanks to him, we live in peace."
Kibo clenched his fists.
"I'll be a hero too. Someday…"
They didn't answer. They just looked at him. And then—they hugged him. Gently. Tightly.
At first, it looked like a star.
Just a tiny dot in the violet sky — dark and distant.
But it grew.
And grew.
Faster than the wind. Heavier than thought. Burning not with light, but with shadow.
People stared. Some gasped. A few backed away.
And then, screams.
The star kept growing. Bigger. Closer.
And people began to understand — something was falling from the sky. Not light. Not fire. Something else.
Then — impact.
A massive, spherical object crashed into the heart of the city with a deafening roar and a blinding flash. The ground trembled. Buildings shook and crumbled. A wave of dust and heat burst outward, swallowing the streets.
At the center of town, where laughter had echoed just moments ago, there was now a crater, wide and steaming.
And something was inside.
Something big.
Slowly, with a screech like bending steel, dark tendrils slithered out of the pit. They writhed and scraped, digging into the earth. Then came the body — enormous, twisted. Dozens of eyes bulged across its surface, bloodshot and milky, each staring in a different direction. The tendrils snapped through the air like whips, or dug into the stone like searching claws.
People screamed. Ran. But some remained — frozen, unable to look away.
The creature rose.
And then — saw them.
It lunged.
Not walking — crawling, dragging its grotesque form across the stone. It roared with a sound that was part metal, part agony — a screech that clawed at the bones.
Kibo could hardly breathe. His father held him tightly, his mother gripped his hand. They ran. As fast as they could.
"Why…?" his father thought.
"Why today? On the only day he smiled?"
And then — he stopped.
From a ruined alley, someone emerged.
A man.
Thin. Limping. Wrapped in a long, dark-purple coat. His steps were uneven, his hands trembling. A mask covered his face, but there was something... wrong about him. Deeply wrong.
Not alive. Not dead.
Just… wrong.
Kibo's father shouted:
— GET AWAY! DON'T GO NEAR IT!
But the man didn't stop.
The creature turned.
And it froze.
Not at the family.
At him.
A scream burst from its throat — but it wasn't rage.
It was fear.
The tendrils thrashed, the dust swirled, blinding everything. Kibo's father shielded them, pulling the boy close.
And still, the man walked forward.
And then—
A howl.
From the monster.
But not a battle cry.
A scream of pain.
And then — silence.
The dust began to fall.
The creature lay still.
He stood in the middle of the street. Alone.
The wind tugged at the edges of his long coat. Dust clung to his shoulders. He looked painfully thin, almost see-through — as if his body barely held itself together.
Kibo saw him through the swirling haze.
At first — just a silhouette.
Then — clearer.
The man stood hunched forward, breathing heavily. His face was hidden behind a smooth mask — no eyes, no mouth, only a single jagged crack running from cheek to chin.
Beside him lay the monster's body.
Dead.
No wounds. No blood. No sign of a fight.
Only emptiness.
The man trembled.
He raised a hand to his chest — slowly, as if it weighed a thousand pounds. Then — he staggered. Took a step forward… and collapsed to his knees.
Kibo froze. Even his heartbeat seemed to stop.
The man looked straight at him.
Through the mask.
Through the distance.
Through something more.
And then, suddenly — he clutched his chest, curled inward, and fell.
He lay there, turned toward Kibo. His voice broke out in a rasp — faint, but clear:
— Run… while you still can…
And in the same moment — a glow in his chest.
Not bright. Not radiant.
Dim. Like a dying star.
Then — the blast.
Louder than anything before.
A wave of heat shattered windows.
It threw Kibo and his parents against a wall.
The air screamed. The light died.
The last thing Kibo heard…
was his father's whisper:
— Forgive us… son…
And then — darkness.