Thunder roared across the sky as rain poured without mercy, drowning the light of what once was a bright and peaceful day.
In the quiet corner of a small village, far from any other home, stood an old wooden house — its windows dim, its walls whispering stories of humble lives.
Inside, a husband and wife sat together, enjoying a simple meal.
The crackle of the fire was the only sound… until a sharp knock echoed from the front door.
Brad Rennard paused mid-bite, his eyes narrowing.
"Mary… did you hear that?"
His wife looked up from her bowl.
"Yes, it sounded like someone at the door. Go and see who it is, dear."
Brad pushed back his chair and walked slowly to the entrance. The rain hammered against the roof as he called out,
"Who's there?"
No answer — only the relentless sound of rain.
He hesitated, then opened the door.
No one.
But when he looked down — there it was.
A small basket.
And inside… a baby, crying softly, wrapped in a thin, soaked blanket.
Brad's eyes widened.
"Mary! Come here — quick!"
Mary rushed to his side, her breath catching when she saw the child.
"Oh my goodness… who would abandon such a little one? The poor thing!"
"Maybe," Brad murmured, "the parents couldn't afford to raise him."
Mary knelt beside the basket, her hands trembling.
"You poor, unlucky soul," she whispered. Then she looked up at Brad. "Brad… what if we took him in? Raised him as our own?"
Brad's eyes softened.
"…Alright. Maybe this is fate. Maybe we were meant to find him."
He noticed a folded piece of paper tucked inside the blanket.
"Wait — there's a letter."
Mary opened it carefully and read aloud:
"THE NAME OF THIS CHILD IS ARTHUR."
"Arthur…" she breathed, smiling gently.
Brad nodded.
"Then from now on, he will be known as Arthur Rennard."
And with that, the child's new life began.
---
Five Years Later
Arthur Rennard had grown into a bright and curious boy. Though poor, his eyes burned with quiet determination.
He loved books — yet real books cost more than his family could ever afford.
So he scavenged.
Torn pages. Thrown-away covers. Forgotten stories — rescued from the trash.
Every evening, after Brad returned from his long hours as a woodcutter, he would find Arthur under the great tree at the edge of the village, reading the same worn book over and over again.
Sometimes the boy would whisper lines aloud, as though the words themselves gave him strength.
One evening, Brad looked at his wife with tired eyes.
"Mary… am I a failure as a father?"
She frowned softly. "What makes you say that?"
He pointed toward the window.
"Look at Arthur. He reads the same old book every day. I can't even give him something new. I can't even give him more to dream about."
Mary touched his hand gently.
"You give him more than you think, Brad. You give him a home… and love. That's worth more than any book."
That night, their small home glowed with laughter and warmth. They ate together, talked together, and as always, Brad told Arthur a bedtime story — about a mighty hero who saved the world from darkness.
Arthur's eyes shone.
"One day, I'll be that hero," he said proudly. "I'll destroy all evil in this world."
Brad chuckled and tousled his hair.
"Then the world will be safe in your hands, my son."
---
The Tenth Birthday
The morning began with sunshine.
Mary baked him a small loaf of honey bread — their only gift — while Brad whittled a wooden sword by the fire. Arthur laughed, waving the sword clumsily around the room as his parents cheered him on.
It was a simple, perfect day.
But perfection never lasts.
By evening, the skies darkened once more. Rain fell heavy and cold, as if the heavens themselves were warning of sorrow to come.
Arthur sat under his usual tree, reading the same old book until the ink ran with water. Smiling faintly, he closed it and ran home through the mud.
When his house came into view… he froze.
The windows were dark.
The door slightly open.
"Strange… did Mom and Dad forget to light the lamp?" he murmured, stepping closer.
He pushed the door open.
The smell hit first — iron and smoke.
Then his world shattered.
His parents lay on the floor… covered in blood.
His voice trembled. "Mom! Dad!!"
He stumbled forward, slipping on the wet floor, grabbing his father's arm.
"Please… wake up… please…"
Brad coughed weakly, blood staining his lips.
"Arthur… run… save yourself…"
Before Arthur could react, heavy footsteps echoed behind him.
From the shadows, a man emerged — cloaked in black, his sword dripping red. His eyes were cold. Empty.
Arthur's heart pounded.
"Who are you!? Why did you do this!?"
The man said nothing.
He simply raised his blade.
"Arthur! Run!!" Brad shouted with the last of his strength.
Arthur grabbed a kitchen knife and swung desperately, but the man moved like a shadow — too fast.
A flash of steel.
A scream.
Pain erupted in Arthur's arm.
Something hit the floor with a dull thud — his left hand.
He fell, clutching the stump, tears and rain mixing into one.
"Ahh—!! M-Mom! Dad!!"
The killer raised his sword again — but before it could fall, another man burst through the doorway, blocking the strike with a clash of steel.
"You bastard!" the newcomer roared. Sparks flew as blades collided.
But the killer fought dirty — throwing sand into the man's eyes before vanishing into the storm.
The rescuer cursed under his breath. "Damn it… I was too late…"
Arthur crawled to his parents, his small body shaking violently.
Blood smeared across his hands, his clothes, his face.
Brad reached out with trembling fingers, touching Arthur's cheek.
"Arthur… this… is your birthday gift… You must grow strong."
Mary smiled weakly, tears streaming down her face.
"Be strong, my son… help those who suffer… because you are our pride."
Their breaths grew faint.
Their eyes began to dim.
"Happy birthday, Arthur…" they whispered together — before the light in their eyes faded forever.
Arthur clung to them, screaming their names until his voice broke.
The rain outside swallowed his cries, washing the blood into the dirt floor.
And in that silence — beneath the roaring storm — a promise was born.
Not of vengeance… but of survival.
That night, a hero was born.
Not by choice.
But by tragedy.