Opening Scene (Cold Open)
(Scene fades in. Wind blowing. Rubble all around. The sky is red — battle scars everywhere.)
(Ghost) (breathing heavily, blood on lip):
"I'm not backing down. Even if it kills me... I'm going to fight. I will defeat you — no matter what it takes!"
Enemy (calm, smiling, scarred face):
"Heh... You've really got guts, kid. But guts won't save you from the truth."
(They stare each other down. Tension builds. Their fists tighten. Then...)
[Both in unison]
"Let's finish this!"
(They charge forward — fists flying. As their punches collide—)
[BLACK SCREEN]
Text appears:
"The Soul Hunters"
Text fades in:
Twenty Years Ago…
It was a night when the skies themselves seemed to wage war above a quiet northern orphanage. Thunder cracked and rolled in fury, lightning danced across the sky like the wrath of gods. Inside the small orphanage, Father Richard sat hunched over his old desk, the scratch of his quill echoing in the candlelit silence as he worked on his latest novel.
Then, the candle flickered… and went out.
With a sigh, he stood up, reaching for a fresh one from the almirah outside his room. But just as he stepped into the hallway, he froze. A sound pierced the storm's roar—a soft, desperate cry. Not just any cry.
A newborn.
Father Richard's heart skipped a beat. He rushed to the entrance, opened the heavy wooden doors, and stepped out into the wind and rain. There, lying just outside the rusted iron gate, was a tiny bundle—soaked and shivering, barely covered with a torn piece of cloth.
The priest didn't hesitate. He scooped up the child into his arms, cradling it gently. The baby had strange, piercing eyes that seemed to look directly into his soul.
And then—CRACK!
A bolt of lightning tore through the night sky above, illuminating everything in blinding white.
"Bolt," Father Richard whispered. "That will be your name."
Bolt grew up in the orphanage among other kids but became especially close to another orphan named Mikey. Mikey was loud, brave, and always had Bolt's back. Though they weren't blood-related, the bond between them was unbreakable. They did everything together—shared a bed, fought off bullies, stole food from the kitchen, and got punished together.
By the time Bolt was 13, he and Mikey had formed a solid friendship group with two other boys from school—Jack and Tom.
Unlike Bolt and Mikey, Jack and Tom had families in the village but spent nearly every day with the two orphans. The four of them were inseparable. They joked, fought, protected each other, and explored the surrounding forest like brothers.
Jack was the calm, wise one—always the first to stop a fight or solve a problem. Tom was the funny, easygoing one, always thinking of a prank or joke. Mikey was the muscle and bravado. And Bolt… he was the wildcard.
Though Bolt was fierce in a fight and trained hard every day, he was the weakest when it came to swordplay or studies. He often trailed behind the others in exams, and in training he struggled to keep up. The only area where he shined was hand-to-hand combat—raw, instinctual fighting that didn't require much theory.
"You swing a sword like it's a fishing rod," Jack once laughed after a sparring session.
"Says the guy who hides behind a wooden stick!" Bolt shot back.
They laughed, but the truth was always there.
Bolt was different.
And one person never failed to remind him of that.
Rose was Jack's closest female friend—brilliant, strong in swordsmanship, and clearly destined for greatness. Everyone whispered that the two would end up together.
Rose, however, had little patience for Bolt.
"Why do you keep hanging around him?" she once asked Jack after school. "He's just going to drag you down."
"He's our friend. He's family. You wouldn't understand."
"No," she replied sharply. "I understand too well. He's got nothing to offer."
In her mind, Bolt was a failure. And worse, he was a distraction—especially to Jack, who she believed was meant for far more.
One day, in school, the teacher stood in front of the class, eyes sharp as he addressed the students.
"In this world," he began, "every single person is born with a sage aura. There are four main sage natures—Fire, Water, Wind, and Earth. From these come the rarer types—Mist, Sound, Metal, and so on.
At your age, it's difficult to detect what nature lies dormant within you. And only a few, very few, are destined to become true sages."
He paused, letting the silence build.
"To become a sage, you must master all five forms of your nature. Only then can you awaken."
He looked around, then added, "And there is one nature feared and revered across all lands—Lightning. It's so rare that we have no real documentation of how to train it. Most who possess it don't survive long enough to master it."
The class stirred. Rose's hand shot up.
"Sir, has anyone from this region ever had Lightning nature?"
The teacher shook his head. "Not that we know of. But you never know what the world holds."
Bolt leaned over to Mikey. "Bet I have lightning."
"Bet you can't even light a fire," Mikey whispered back, grinning.
Time passed. The final school year neared its end, and excitement buzzed through the village. At fourteen, each child would graduate and hopefully receive an invitation from a sage academy.
Bolt trained harder than ever. While Jack, Tom, and Mikey seemed to naturally progress, Bolt often trained alone at night, fists bruised, breath ragged. He failed repeatedly. But he never gave up.
One week before graduation, the invitations arrived.
Jack and Tom had been accepted into the same prestigious sage academy in the neighboring city. It was a big deal—they would train together under elite sages.
Mikey received his invitation too—from a different city, but equally promising.
Bolt waited.
And waited.
Nothing came.
"Maybe it's just delayed," Tom offered.
"It'll come," Mikey said with false confidence.
But Rose looked at him, expression cold. "He's not getting one. Why waste time hoping?"
Bolt said nothing. He forced a smile. "It's fine. I'll figure something out."
That night, as the others celebrated their selections, Bolt sat alone outside the orphanage. Father Richard came out and sat beside him.
"You're not like them," the priest said gently.
"Yeah. I know. I'm worse."
"No, Bolt. You're something else entirely. And sometimes the world isn't ready for people like you."
Those words brought Bolt's confidence back and was ready to perform the miracle.
The next morning, Mikey woke up and found a letter on the table. He read it aloud, voice cracking.
"To Mikey, Jack, Tom... and even Rose. I'm not mad. I'm not sad either. This is just something I need to do on my own. Maybe no one invited me. But that doesn't mean I'll give up. I'll find someone. I'll train. And one day... I'll catch up. Maybe even surpass you guys.
*Until then, don't wait for me. Just remember me."
Bolt was gone. He'd left the orphanage in the early hours of the morning, taking only a bag, some coins, and an iron will.
None of them saw him off. He didn't want them to.
Mikey sat in silence for hours after reading the letter. Jack stared at the sky. Even Tom, usually light-hearted, had no jokes.
Rose said nothing—but for the first time, her eyes showed something that almost looked like regret.
Bolt walked away from the only home he'd ever known, towards a world that had no place for him. But he wasn't afraid.
He would find his path.
Because one stormy night, the sky had named him.
Bolt.
And lightning always strikes twice.
Bolt wanders from city to city, carrying nothing but:
A cloth bag
His hope
And bruises on his fists and feet
Everywhere he goes, he begs for a chance — "Please, test my Sage nature."
At first, some Sages humor him.
They place their hands on his head, close their eyes, and try to sense his aura.
But the result is always the same:
"...Nothing."
"You don't have any potential."
"Get lost, boy."
"You're wasting our time."
Some even laugh at him.
Others push him away.
One even throws him out into the mud.
After a month of rejection, Bolt finds himself sitting alone on the edge of a city, on a broken fence, his legs dangling, his eyes hollow.
The sun begins to set behind the hills.
His stomach growls.
His feet are blistered.
His clothes are dusty.
His hands, clenched into quiet fists.
He looks out toward the horizon and whispers to himself:
"...Am I really good for nothing?"
"No Sage Nature… No strength… No one believes in me..."
"...Was I wrong to leave?