Chapter 1
The room was cold. Silent.
Yet Felin's breath came hot and ragged, as though he were drowning in air. His chest rose and fell with unnatural weight, each gasp louder than the silence that pressed against the walls.
He jolted awake.
"You can never escape…"
The whisper slithered into his skull, not spoken but breathed, as if the words were alive.
It was the same voice. Every night. Every dream.
Red mist. Broken chains. Blood staining his hands.
Felin sat upright, sweat soaking the thin blanket, his heart hammering against his ribs. He scanned the room — nothing.
But the shadows in the corners were wrong. They crouched like silent watchers, patient, unblinking.
And he knew better. He knew he was never truly alone.
---
The dream always began the same.
A burning temple. Stone pillars cracked with flame. A ring of robed men in crimson, faces hidden, knives dripping fresh blood.
Their chanting rose like a funeral dirge, every word pounding against his skull:
"Once you enter the Red Cult… there is no way out."
He saw himself running, stumbling through a labyrinth of fire and faces from his past. No matter which path he took, it always ended in the same place:
A coffin carved from red stone. His own name etched into its surface, waiting.
Felin had buried his ties to the Red Cult long ago. He had thought himself free.
But the dreams had returned — louder, angrier, closer.
And deep inside, he feared the truth.
These weren't memories.
They were warnings.
"You can never escape…"
---
His legs trembled as he crossed to the cracked mirror hanging on the wall. He wiped sweat from his brow — and froze.
A mark. On his neck.
Small, crimson.
The cult's symbol.
Felin's breath caught. He hadn't seen that mark in years. And he had not placed it there.
His pulse thundered. The symbol seemed to throb faintly, pulsing like a wound, as if something alive had branded him.
As if the Red Cult had reached through the veil of dreams and claimed him once more.
He staggered back, clutching the scarf he always kept nearby, and wrapped it around his neck.
"Not now," he whispered. His voice cracked.
"Not when my sons are watching."
---
The Rough Life
Outside, in the shack they called home on the city's edge, his three sons were already awake.
Melin, the eldest, was sharpening a stick with a shard of glass, turning it into a weapon. His movements were precise, practiced — not the play of a boy, but the discipline of someone who had already chosen to be a fighter.
Celin, wiry and restless, pounded his fists into an old tire, each strike echoing his determination to grow stronger. His knuckles were raw, but he didn't stop.
Kelin, the youngest, sat with a notebook on his knees. His hand moved quickly, scribbling symbols, sketches of strange machines, fragments of codes no one else understood. His dark eyes missed nothing. Always watching. Always calculating.
They were children shaped by survival — too young for war, too old for innocence.
Felin stepped out, forcing fear into the cage of his chest and wearing a father's smile instead.
"Get ready," he said. "We leave for San Jamb today."
The boys froze.
Melin turned sharply. "We're moving again? Why?"
Felin kept his tone even, calm, as though this were nothing unusual.
"There's nothing left here. No work. No safety. Just ghosts."
But inside, he knew the truth.
He wasn't running from hunger.
He was running from the cult.
---
They packed their meager belongings — a cracked radio, a few torn clothes, and Felin's secret journal. The journal was worn, its pages filled with maps, names, and the cult's symbols — each one crossed out in red ink, like curses scratched into paper.
By nightfall, they boarded a cargo train bound for San Jamb.
The city was infamous — a nest of gang wars, tunnels, and people who vanished without a trace. The perfect place to disappear.
Or so Felin thought.
That night, as the train rocked through the desert, he drifted into sleep once more.
The dream returned.
But this time, the whisper was different. Clearer. More venomous.
"Melin… Melin will replace you."
Felin's eyes snapped open, breath ragged. His gaze shot across the train car.
Melin sat opposite, watching him.
"You okay, Dad? You were mumbling in your sleep."
Felin forced a thin smile, though his face was pale.
"Yeah. Just a bad dream, son."
But deep in his gut, something screamed.
This was no dream.
It was prophecy.
---
San Jamb City was nothing like Felin imagined.
It was louder. Dirtier. More violent.
The air reeked of smoke, sweat, and rust. Graffiti coated every wall, bold warnings and threats scrawled over crumbling stone. Sirens wailed constantly. Armored bikes roared down the streets, their riders masked, their laughter sharp as blades.
Felin's heart sank.
There was no safe corner here.
With no money, no home, no plan, they fell into the only life the city allowed them.
Begging.
Melin stood near the marketplace, dented tin can in hand, ignored by rushing crowds. Celin hovered near Kelin, who continued filling paper scraps with strange designs and codes. And Felin — he stayed in the shadows, drowning in dreams that stalked him even while awake.
"You can never escape…"
The words echoed endlessly.
---
One day, wandering near Red Sun Alley, Melin saw three older boys surrounding a lone figure.
They shoved him down, kicked his bag into the gutter.
"Think your daddy's name protects you here?" one sneered.
Melin might have walked past. He'd seen fights before. But this boy — bruised, bleeding — stood up laughing.
"You hit like scared dogs," he spat, grinning. "I've had worse from my grandma."
The bullies charged again.
Melin stepped forward. His hand found a broken pipe near a dumpster, and he swung. One attacker went down, gasping. The second lunged, but Melin ducked and drove a fist into his ribs. The third fled.
The boy wiped blood from his face, smiling through split lips.
"Nice moves. You from around here?"
Melin didn't answer.
"Name's Jack," the boy said. "Jack Fredrick. And you just saved me."
There was something dangerous in the boy's grin. Not weakness. Not fear. Something else.
"Why were they after you?" Melin asked.
"Because I talk too much," Jack chuckled. "And because my dad used to run this street. Before the cults took it."
He held out a hand.
"You hungry?"
Melin hesitated. Then nodded.
And with that, a bond was born.
Not of blood.
But of survival.
---
That night, Jack led him into an underground boxing ring beneath a garage.
He tossed Melin a loaf of bread and gestured to a cracked chair.
"Sit. Eat. Learn. You've got fight in you. Maybe you're meant for more than begging."
Melin stayed quiet, chewing.
For the first time in San Jamb, he felt like he belonged.
"Hey," Jack called out. "What's your name?"
Melin lifted his eyes. "Melin. Any problem with that?"
Jack grinned. "No problem. Just means I've got a new friend."
Melin's expression hardened. "You want to be friends with a beggar? I'm not the kind of boy you just walk up to. That's impossible."
Jack shrugged, leaving without another word.
Alone, Melin felt a sting of regret. But then his father's words echoed:
Don't be sad. Be happy, no matter what life throws at you.
The next day, Melin searched the marketplace for Jack. No sign.
Until he passed the largest hotel in San Jamb — an opulent fortress of gold and light — and there Jack stood, waiting.
"Jack!" Melin ran to him. "Where've you been?"
Jack smiled. "Visiting my dad. He owns this place."
Melin froze.
Jack tilted his head. "What about you?"
"I was looking for you," Melin admitted. "About yesterday… I'm sorry. I want to be friends."
Jack grinned wider. "Good. Come inside. We'll talk over pizza."
Melin followed, wide-eyed at the glittering marble halls and golden chandeliers. His heart raced.
But what he didn't know was that Jack's father, Mr. Fedrick, was more than the hotel owner.
He was a senior figure in the Red Cult.
And when his gaze fell on Melin, recognition struck.
He had seen this boy's face before. In old files. In old plans.
Felin's bloodline.
And the storm was only beginning.
---
When Melin returned home that night with gifts, Felin said nothing. But dread gnawed at his chest.
His wife — once strong, now silent after war had taken her hearing — touched his arm in question. He only shook his head.
The past he thought buried was clawing back.
And this time, it wasn't after him.
It was after his sons.
To Be Continued.....