[ A Flash into the future ]
**
The strongest hero in the world—SSS-Rank Crimson Gold—charged at Markus like a divine cannon of destruction. His legendary attack, The Exterminator, ignited the entire hall in fractured golden brilliance. The force didn't just cut the air; it crushed it, split it, devoured it. Windows exploded. The ground trembled. Every breath in the mansion warped under the pressure.
Crimson's boots cracked the marble as he lunged. His cape snapped behind him like a slashed banner of war. The Exterminator wasn't merely an attack; it was a myth—an execution reserved for monsters that threatened nations. It was said that when Crimson unleashed it at full power, he could erase a city block in a heartbeat. People whispered that once, long ago, he used it to stop an entire mountain from collapsing on a village.
This time, he used it on a single man.
Markus.
Crimson roared as he closed the distance. "THE CRIMSON TIDES FALL UPON THEE!"
The attack landed, the gold shattered the world—
And Markus didn't move.
He stood perfectly still and watched Crimson with the quiet contempt of a king studying a peasant struggling to impress him.
The golden blast swallowed Markus whole.
Light tore through the walls. A blazing column erupted through the mansion's ceiling and blasted upward into the night sky like a divine flare announcing a god's descent.
When the light died…
Markus remained exactly where he stood.
Untouched. Unshaken. Unimpressed.
Crimson's eyes widened—not with shock, but with disbelief so deep it bordered on madness. His lips trembled around words he couldn't force out. His entire worldview fractured right in front of him.
Every hero had warned him:"Never face God-Destroyer Markus alone.""His presence distorts space.""Your strongest blows won't matter."
But Crimson was the strongest hero alive. His arrogance told him he would be different.
He wasn't.
A soft smirk broke across Markus' face. It was slow, cruel, and more terrifying than Crimson's entire attack.
Before anyone could speak, Markus moved.
One swift, precise motion—silent, almost gentle.
Crimson Gold died instantly.
There was no explosion. No spray of blood. No dramatic scream. His body simply stopped living, his existence severed as cleanly as if the universe no longer required him.
His corpse hit the ground with a hollow thud.
Silence spread like a sickness.
Magnus, Starborn, Commander P, and Doctor Corpse—all legendary heroes in their own right—stared at Markus with expressions torn between terror and denial. They had once walked battlefields without fear. They had slain dragons, monsters, creatures from beyond the void.
But now?
They couldn't even breathe.
The air itself thickened, as though Markus' presence commanded the molecules around him to suffocate anything not worth letting live. Shadows crawled along the floor, sliding up their legs like cold fingers. The walls groaned. The mansion twisted, alive with something hungry.
The corridors stretched into infinity. The doors warped. Hallways stretched into impossible distances. Every corner shifted, every window darkened. The mansion did not imprison them physically—it imprisoned their hope.
Escape became a myth.
Starborn whispered, "This… this is space distortion… He's bending the house. He's bending everything."
Commander P. attempted to run.
He didn't make it three steps before the shadows around him thickened and the floor swallowed his foot up to the ankle. He screamed and wrenched himself free, stumbling backward.
Markus lifted his hand slowly, as though savoring their fear. His palm aligned with Magnus, the second strongest hero on Earth.
The others screamed.
And then—
A few months ago…
Markus had been just a normal boy.
No powers. No legendary title. No destiny.
Just Markus.
That day should have been special—his eighteenth birthday. A milestone. A moment of celebration. A beginning. But fate had a way of twisting beginnings into endings.
Markus hadn't slept for weeks. Insomnia clung to him like a parasite. His room smelled of old pizza boxes and the metallic tang of energy drink cans. Ten empty cans of Blaze energy lay scattered around his desk, forming a dented silver graveyard of bad decisions. The drink was designed for heroes, not normal people, but Markus didn't care. His only goal was to stay awake.
Awake.Distracted.Numb.
His parents had saved every cent they could for months to take him to the grand opening of Lifespawn's new restaurant—Vita Lux, the first ever healing-themed dining establishment in the country. Only VIPs could eat there. Heroes, diplomats, celebrities, the elite.
Markus' parents were none of those things.
They were a middle-class couple who worked overtime for years to give their son something special. Something memorable. Something to make him smile for once.
Markus appreciated the effort deeply… but the idea of sitting in a fancy restaurant surrounded by rich people felt wrong. It wasn't his world. It wasn't where he belonged. But he never argued. His parents wanted this for him. So he stayed quiet and followed them into the shining white palace of a restaurant.
Crystal chandeliers hung overhead like clusters of frozen stars. Marble floors gleamed beneath warm golden lighting. The guests sparkled with jewelry and power, every conversation stitched with self-importance. Government officials sat near one corner. A group of corporate heirs occupied another. And at the central table, attracting as much attention as oxygen attracts fire, sat Bunny from Pink Peaches—South Korea's most adored K-pop Idol.
Every camera phone in sight was subtly angled toward her.
Markus' parents couldn't stop smiling as they guided him to their table.
His mother whispered, "We did it, honey. We really did it."
His father grinned proudly. "Our boy's eighteenth birthday at an S-Rank hero's restaurant. Not bad for a family like ours."
A waiter dressed in immaculate white approached, voice crisp and cheerful. "Welcome to Vita Lux. May I take your order?"
Markus ordered spaghetti and meatballs.
Not steak. Not lobster. Not the healing-infused Gourmet Phoenix Roast.
Just spaghetti.
His parents didn't judge him for it.
When the dish arrived, steam curled upward, carrying the comforting scent of tomato and herbs. But something was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
Markus stared at the plate. The spaghetti seemed… off. The strands reminded him of torn intestines. The meatballs looked disturbingly like organs. And the tomato sauce—thick, dark, too heavy—resembled blood.
His stomach twisted.
His father's voice cut through his haze. "So, son… when are you getting a real job?"
Markus blinked, overwhelmed. His father tried to hide the frustration in his tone, but it leaked through.
He didn't answer.
He couldn't.
"I need to use the restroom," he muttered.
He stood up so quickly his chair scraped the floor.
His father sighed. "Too much energy drinks. I told him…"
Markus didn't hear the rest. He rushed into the restroom and pushed open the stall door. He collapsed to his knees and vomited violently. All ten cans of Blaze erupted from his stomach in burning waves. The taste of acid lingered painfully in his throat.
He fell back against the cold tiled wall, trembling.
Everything felt wrong. His mind. His life. His future.
He had dropped out of school. He had no job. No friends. No direction. His days were spent gaming in the dark, staring at screens, ignoring sunlight like it was an enemy.
He whispered through choked breaths, "In the end… I'll always be a failure."
For a moment, he let himself cry—quiet, painful sobs that echoed softly in the empty restroom.
When he couldn't cry anymore, he washed his face, trying to wash away the despair too.
But despair clung.
Then he heard it.
A scream.
Sharp. Frantic. Real.
At first, he thought it was his imagination. But then came another scream. And another. Louder. Closer.
His heart slammed against his ribs. His blood froze.
Markus ran out of the restroom.
And the world shattered.
Bodies littered the dining area. Blood traced horrifying patterns across the marble. The chandeliers above flickered, casting twisted, frantic shadows. The air smelled of iron and death.
Markus felt his chest tighten as he scanned the room in panic.
His parents.
His parents.
He sprinted toward their table.
They were there.
But they were not alive.
Their eyes were open but empty. Their hands limp. Their bodies slack. His mother's arm still rested on the table, as though she'd simply nodded off during conversation.
But she wasn't asleep.
Neither was his father.
Markus' scream tore out of him.
He grabbed them, shook them, begged them to wake up.
They didn't.
He sank to his knees between them, sobbing so violently his vision blurred.
Around him, fifty-eight other people lay dead.
Heroes. Officials. Civilians.
All lifeless.
All stolen.
Then came the police.
They interrogated Lifespawn whose restaurant it was.
Lifespawn raised his hands and declared, "It was an attack. Nothing more, nothing less. Villians."
When Markus ran out the restroom door, there were no villains.
Nothing except death.
Witnesses tried to speak up, but officers shoved them aside, ordering them to stay silent. Bribing them.
Threatening Markus.
He had tried to tell them what he saw.He had tried to say something didn't make sense.He had tried to mention that Lifespawn had disappeared before the screams started.
The officers told him, "Keep quiet if you know what's good for you."
Later, at home, Markus sat on the floor in front of the TV, stale tears drying on his cheeks.
The news report played:
"A tragic disaster occurred today at the grand opening of hero Lifespawn's new restaurant. Authorities believe a villain infiltrated the crowd—"
"Unfucking believable," Markus muttered.
"When I ran out of the restroom," he whispered to himself, "there were no villains. Not one. And Lifespawn was nowhere to be seen…"
"When the police came, they chased survivors away. Silenced them."
"When I tried to speak, they threatened me."
He turned up the volume.
Lifespawn appeared on screen, expression carefully crafted. "We are devastated by the loss of life. We promise justice. We will find the ones responsible."
Markus stared at the TV.
Every word tasted sour.
His baseball bat leaned in the corner of the room, a gift for his tenth birthday.
Markus grabbed the bat.
He swung with all the rage inside him.
The TV shattered. A surge of pain shot through his shoulder—so sharp and intense his arm dislocated from the force.
He screamed.
He cried.
He collapsed.
Not into sorrow.
But into something sharper.
Something burning.
Revenge.
Vengeance.
Righteous fury.
"If no one else will do it," Markus whispered, tears spilling down his face, "then I will."
He clenched the bat so tight his knuckles turned white.
"I'll find the ones responsible."
"And I'll make every one of them pay."