Chapter one
In the desolate realm of Aethel, where jagged peaks tore through a sky perpetually bruised with Stygian gloom, stood the figure known only as the Void Lord.
His form, cloaked in shadows deeper than the chasm he commanded, was a testament to power forged in solitude and sorrow. His masked face, illuminated by eyes that pulsed with an unholy violet glow, betrayed no emotion—only an ancient, quiet resolve.
Behind him coiled a colossal dragon, its scales absorbing all light, its eyes mirroring the Lord's eerie luminescence. This creature, a beast of myth and terror, was more than a pet; it was a living extension of the Void Lord's will, its very presence echoing the boundless, dark energies he wielded. Around him, the air thrummed with a low, inaudible hum—the subtle roar of The Void, a place beyond space and time that was his dominion.
In his hand, he held a sword, not of tempered steel, but of solidified darkness, crackling with black flames that defied physical laws. This blade was a conduit, a siphon for the swirling chaos that birthed his power. Every flicker of its purple-black fire was a whisper from the infinite abyss, a promise of oblivion to those who dared to stand against him.
The Void Lord was not a conqueror, but a consequence. He was the silent guardian of the void beyond, born from the remnants of a shattered existence, and his reign was not of tyranny, but of eternal, unwavering vigil. The title emblazoned across the forsaken landscape was simply: THE VOID—a decree, a chilling reminder of the endless abyss, and the quiet, terrible power that presided over it.
We cannot grasp his present power without first confronting his past. To comprehend the man, we must delve into the very genesis of his existence—the age before the Void Lord took shape.
[20 years ago]
New Age Academy was a beacon in the modern era, known throughout the region for cultivating high intellectual students who consistently achieved outstanding results.
In a quiet classroom, Damian sat on the front row, engrossed in a book.
"Hey Damian, what are you reading?"
The voice belonged to Scott, who had just walked over. Damian quickly closed the book, revealing the cover. "It's a manhwa, it's called God-Level Stats," he responded.
"What's up? You've got anything for me?" Damian asked, looking up.
Scott hopped onto the edge of Damian's desk. "Are you going to watch the match after school today?"
Damian looked genuinely surprised. "Is there a match today?"
Scott looked at him, suspicion clouding his face. "You don't really like football matches, you're just pretending, and I wonder why?"
"I actually do," Damian replied hastily, dropping his book. "I just got caught up in this story that I actually forgot. What time is it?"
"It starts by 4 p.m. today," Scott said as he stood up to leave. "Hope you'll come."
"Certainly," Damian responded, already opening his novel and sinking back into the story.
The bell signaled the end of the school day. Damian walked toward the parking lots, his eyes scanning the endless rows for his parents' car.
"Hey Damian, over here!"
A tiny voice suddenly called out. He spun around. It was his little sister, Laura, her face pressed against the back window of a sedan that looked exactly like their family car.
"Oh, that's my ride," Damian muttered to himself.
He quickly made his way over, opened the door, and got in.
" Lucy glanced into the rearview mirror at her son. "Hey honey, how was school today?" she asked Damian, who was settling into the back seat.
"Fine, Mum," he chuckles. Immediately, his little sister Laura threw her arms around his neck in a tight hug.
"Everyone sit tight and put on your seat belts," Lucy said firmly as she started the car and pulled out, heading straight for home.
On the drive, Damian stared out the window at the towering city buildings while his little sister, Laura, quietly played games on her iPad. Suddenly, a thought struck him.
"Mum, I would be going to watch a match by four p.m. today," he announced, looking at her reflection in the rearview mirror for a reaction.
Lucy glanced back, her expression curious. "Where, and when do you intend to come back?"
"At the field and certainly before seven p.m.," Damian responded, already turning his gaze back to the passing scenery outside his window.
"Okay, Damian, but be careful and do come early," Lucy replied, her voice serious. "Night times aren't always safe."
"I will, I promise," he said, his gaze remaining fixed on the outside view.
Damian was just getting to the school field when Scott, spotting him from afar, ran over. "You made it!" Scott exclaimed, a wide smile on his face. "I'm glad you did."
"Yeah, I did," Damian replied, stepping past him. "I told you I'd come. Besides, it's just a ten-minute walk from my house." He headed toward the front row, hoping to snag a seat.
Damian found a seat up front and spent the rest of the game cheering loudly. Scott played excellently, dominating the match.
Shortly after the final whistle, Damian offered a brief farewell to his friend.
" I'll catch you later, Scott," he said, as Scott gathered his gear for a quick post-game practice.
Damian headed back home, muttering his thoughts aloud: "Hmmm, I left quite early, it's 6:05 PM. I'd love to surprise Mum and get home earlier than expected. Besides, I wouldn't want to pass that lonely road at night, so I have to go early."
He noted the surrounding stillness. "The sun set quite early today, and this road looks a little too quiet. I have to hurry up." With that, he quickened his pace, heading toward the silent, darkening road.
Damian pressed on through the shadowed lane. The quiet here was unnerving, far heavier than the city noise he'd left behind. Up ahead, where the road faded into the encroaching gloom, he noticed a lone figure. He narrowed his eyes, discerning that the lone figure was, in fact, two men, closing the distance quickly and purposefully. Instinct screaming a warning, he crossed to the far side of the street, hoping the shadows would grant him passage without confrontation.
As the two men drew near, his skin prickled with a cold realization: he wasn't alone. A soft, deliberate shuffle came from behind him—another man was stalking him from the rear, moving with unnatural silence.
Suddenly, one of the men from the front broke away and crossed the road, mirroring Damian's position and cutting off his path. The three figures formed a closing triangle. Damian's breath caught in his throat. He was not merely passing by; he was ambushed.
The figures lumbering toward him were not mere men.Each one looked like a walking brick wall, their shadows consuming the dim space. How was he, small and timid, supposed to escape something so large, so relentless? There was only one terrible option left: to plead for his life.
As they reached his spot, he collapsed, sinking to his knees in the dust, and began to beg. But these men merely smirked, their massive jaws stretching into cruel lines. They regarded him not as a person, but as a predator looks upon fragile prey.
Before he could utter another sound, the ones who had circled behind him lunged. They pinned him instantly to the cold ground, the sheer weight crushing the air from his lungs. He screamed for help, a frantic, raw sound that vanished instantly into the empty air. There was no one; there was only him, trapped beneath these monsters.
"Please get off me, I'm just a kid, I don't have anything!" he shrieked, tears blurring his vision. "It hurts, get off!"
The foremost figure, a man whose shadow seemed to swallow the dim light, leaned close, his voice a low, gravelly promise. "But you have what we want."
Terror, cold and sharp, finally pierced Damian's numbness. He remembered the mundane items he had instinctively carried: his phone, a useless link to a shattered world, and the meager stash of extra cash in his trouser pocket.
"My phone and money are in my pocket," Damian pleaded, his voice cracking like dry wood. Unstoppable, hot tears tracked paths through the grime on his face. "You can have them, please—just let me go."
A chorus of hideous, dry laughter erupted from the shadowy men, echoing like stones falling into a deep well. The man pinning Damian to the ground pressed down harder, his eyes glittering with malicious amusement. "We don't want your money, boy." The true horror—the nature of their desired tribute—was terrifying.
"What's we want from you is ...." he reached out to Damian's pants pulling it downward, thr realization hits,"don't please, I'm just 14,I'm still a kid" he screamed as he shook himself profusely hoping to get freed
" yeah It obvious and we love them younger " said the man who leaned towards him. "Just hold still, it would be over soon" the man holding him down said as he reached for his own pants and pulled it down
One held his hands while they took turns as he cried and begged them to stop.when they were done, they left him down stiff.
The rough concrete on the ground scraped against Damain's elbow, yet the pain was secondary to the cold, paralyzing chill that seized his spine. It wasn't the temperature; it was the sheer, impossible magnitude of what had just occurred.
He lay there, lungs burning, trying to piece together the swift, brutal moments. The men were gone but he laid there still.
His wallet was still secured inside his pocket. His smartphone—lay a foot away, screen intact. They had taken nothing of currency or hardware.They hadn't taken his money. They had taken the core of his being.
Damain lay in disbelief, staring up at the wall at the side of the street. What he had lost was greater than any earthly treasure: They had stolen his innocence,leaving him broken and helpless on the streets
A few agonizing minutes after the incident, Damian managed to drag himself upright. His head was swimming, and a deep, shuddering shock had taken hold, but a singular instinct guided him: home. His house was mercifully close, only two streets away. He began to walk, but his pace was excruciatingly slow, a broken stagger more than a stride, his entire being numbly directed toward the familiar safety of his front door.
Meanwhile, inside the house, Lucy was consumed by a nervous energy. The clock on the wall read just a few minutes to seven, and Damian still hadn't appeared.
She tried to steady her breathing, desperately clinging to the hope that her son was merely delayed.
"Should I go find him? He promised to be home before seven," she muttered to the empty room, beginning to pace.
The idea of searching felt terrifying, yet necessary.
She made a difficult vow to herself: "If he doesn't return by seven, I'd go search for him. I hope he comes before his father does."
The thought of her husband's reaction was the final, sharp spike of anxiety. Just as her worry crested, a sudden, firm knock sounded at the front door.
Lucy gasped, snapping out of her frantic internal debate. "Who's that?" she called out, standing rigid for a moment before forcing herself to walk toward the sound. She moved quickly, her heart pounding a heavy rhythm against the silence, praying it was her son and not the trouble she feared.
She reached the door, her heart still thumping with nervous anticipation, and called out, "Who's that?"
A single, flat, muttered word came from the other side: "It's Damian."
Relief, sharp and sudden, washed over Lucy, instantly replacing her fear. She swiftly unlocked and opened the door, finding her son standing there.
"Where have you been? You had me so scared!" she exclaimed, a blend of anxiety and frustration coloring her tone.
"I'm sorry," he responded, his voice dull, lacking any real emotion or tone. He didn't meet her eyes and immediately began making his way past her and toward his room.
Lucy was about to launch into the scolding he surely deserved for breaking his promise and making her worry. But as she watched him move, she noticed the profound sadness etched into his face, the utter deadness in his posture.
She hesitated, her planned lecture catching in her throat.
Perhaps I should let him be for tonight, she thought, sighing. He seems truly upset about something.
She watched his retreating figure. "Maybe tomorrow I'd scold him properly, and maybe add some punishments," she resolved to herself, closing the door quietly. For now, the strange, heavy mood he carried was punishment enough.
Upstairs, Damian had gone straight to his room, bypassing any nightly rituals. He collapsed onto his bed, fully clothed, and passed out immediately, lost to a deep, exhausted sleep.
Downstairs, the house remained silent. Lucy was still seated on the sofa, staring blankly ahead, consumed by the unsettled thoughts of her son's strange return.
It wasn't long before the front door opened again.
"Hey, honey, I'm back," Mike said softly as he entered. He quickly noticed the unusual tension in the air. Lucy was frozen, lost in thought.
He walked over to her, his brow furrowed with concern. "Is anything the problem? You look distressed."
Lucy sighed, shaking her head slightly as if trying to clear it. "I don't know, Mike. Maybe I'm just overthinking things."
Mike moved toward the couch where she was sitting, his presence solid and grounding. He sat down beside her, turning his body toward her. The silence stretched for a moment, thick with unspoken worry.
"No, really," he insisted gently, meeting her gaze. "Tell me. Is anything the problem?"
Lucy leaned against Mike, resting her head briefly on his shoulder before looking up at him again, the worry clear in her eyes.
"It's Damian," she finally confided, her voice low. "He just came in a little while ago, just before you did. He was an hour late, and he was... strange."
Mike tilted his head, prompting her to continue. "Strange how?"
"He was just so flat," Lucy explained, choosing her words carefully. "I started to scold him, but he just muttered an 'I'm sorry' and went straight to his room. He didn't even stop for a drink or acknowledge me properly." She paused, remembering the look on his face. "He looked utterly defeated, Mike. He had this deep sadness on his face, like something really heavy had happened. He looked exhausted, not just tired."
"I went up just now," she continued, "and he's already fast asleep. I didn't even hear him move. He just passed out on the bed fully dressed."
Mike wrapped an arm around her, rubbing her shoulder gently. "So you think something happened while he was out? Something he didn't want to talk about?"
"Yes," Lucy confirmed, her gaze falling on the dark staircase. "He promised to be home before seven. He broke his word, but he didn't even try to argue or explain. That's not like him. I was going to punish him, but honestly, I think he's already carrying a punishment of his own.
Mike pulled Lucy closer, holding her tightly. He kissed the top of her head, offering silent reassurance.
"Maybe we should let him rest," Mike suggested gently. "Whatever it is, he'll likely explain it better tomorrow, when he's had some sleep and time to gather his thoughts."
"Hopefully," Lucy responded, the word barely a whisper as she leaned into the comfort of his embrace, accepting the decision to wait. The quiet of the house held them both until they eventually retired for the night.
The next morning broke with the usual sounds of the neighborhood, but the interior of their home remained strangely quiet. Lucy, accustomed to a specific rhythm, rose and immediately felt the shift.
Damian was the kind of child who woke with the sun. He was hardworking and helpful, typically the first one downstairs, ensuring the house was in order, maybe even setting the table or emptying the dishwasher.
But not today.
A prickle of renewed concern urged Lucy forward. She climbed the stairs and walked quietly to his room. She tapped softly on the door, waited a moment, and then pushed it open.
He was still fast asleep, completely undisturbed by the morning light filtering through the curtains
Lucy stood by the doorway for a moment, frowning. The clock on the bedside table showed well past eight.
"Why is he still asleep by this time?" she whispered, the question laced with increasing unease.
She moved quietly toward the bed to get a better look at him. As she leaned closer, her eyes instantly caught sight of a discoloration on his right arm, just visible where his sleeve had ridden up. It was a long, red scrape, a definite wound.
Her mind raced, searching for a benign explanation.
"Did he fall?" she thought to herself. "Yes, he must have hurt himself during the match yesterday. He probably took a tumble."
Immediately, she dashed out of the room and downstairs, her focus shifting entirely to caregiving. She quickly returned with the first-aid box and walked gently back into the room, determined not to wake him. She pulled a chair silently beside the bed and began gathering supplies.
As she carefully opened the box, her theory seemed to solidify.
"Maybe he gave it his all and they lost the match," she muttered in a low, soft tone. "No wonder he was so sad and so tired last night."
She convinced herself that the wound and the sorrow were simply the side effects of a hard-fought, ultimately disappointing game.
Lucy carefully took hold of Damian's right arm, gently positioning it to begin cleaning the scrape. The skin felt slightly clammy beneath her touch, but as her fingers wrapped around his wrist, a much more alarming realization struck her.
"Huh!" she muttered softly, pulling her hand back momentarily. "His hands... they're burning up."
She immediately placed the back of her hand against his forehead. It was searing hot.
"He must have caught a fever overnight," she concluded, her mind now racing beyond a simple injury from a fall.
Putting aside the cleaning solution, she quickly and quietly applied a sterile dressing to the wound, her movements precise and gentle, determined not to wake him. She finished the task and then rushed out of the room.
Her priority shifted entirely. She went straight to the bathroom to soak a towel, then hurried back to his side to begin the steady, cooling compresses, working to bring his temperature down.
Once she felt the immediate crisis was being managed, she hurried downstairs to find Mike. She informed her husband quickly and concisely about Damian's high fever and the discovered injury. Without waiting for a response, she grabbed her keys and dashed out, knowing they needed proper medicine immediately.
While Lucy rushed out, Mike took charge downstairs. He quickly wrapped up preparing a simple, quick breakfast, setting it aside to await Lucy's return. He was also focused on getting Laura, their younger daughter, ready for the day.
Laura, sensing the sudden air of crisis and realizing her older brother was still upstairs, became restless. She wanted to see her older brother, but her father wouldn't allow it.
Mike knelt down to her level, speaking in a soft, soothing tone.
"Laura, honey," he said gently, "Damian is sick, and I can't let you see him right now so you don't fall sick too. He needs a lot of rest, okay?"
Laura's bottom lip began to tremble, and her eyes grew instantly teary. "No! I want to see big brother! I want to play with him!" she insisted, her voice wobbling with disappointment.
Mike gently wiped a small tear from her cheek. "You will play with him once he gets better, sweetie. For now, he needs to sleep and get strong again."
He gave her a quick hug, hoping the small distraction of breakfast would help ease her worry.
It wasn't long before the front door burst open and Lucy returned, medicine bag in hand. She rushed straight up to Damian's room.
First, she gently managed to wake him just enough to administer the drugs. To ensure the medication would work effectively, she offered him a small bowl of soup she'd prepared earlier. He roused slightly, eating only a few spoonfuls—just enough to settle his stomach—before the exhaustion and fever pulled him back into a deep sleep almost immediately.
For the rest of the day, Lucy and Mike worked in a quiet, dedicated rhythm. They took turns checking on him, sitting by his side, and gently applying a wet towel bath to his face and body to bring the fever down. They were patient, persistent, and vigilant.
Slowly, and thankfully, their efforts began to pay off. As the afternoon wore on, his temperature began to drop, and his high fever came down gradually
Damian finally woke up in the deepest silence of midnight. The oppressive heat was gone; the fever had broken, leaving behind only a persistent, mild headache.
He pushed himself up and walked slowly toward the bathroom, his mind hazy, trying to piece together the events that had led to him being sick in bed.
It was then, as he took a hesitant step, that he felt a sharp, intense pain below his waist.
The physical agony was a switch. Suddenly, the fog lifted, and the fragmented, terrifying memories of the previous day came flooding back to him with brutal clarity.
He stumbled backward, sinking down right at the entrance of the bathroom, clutching his knees to his chest. He closed his eyes and began to process, properly, completely, the horrible truth of what had happened to him.
Silent, hot tears rolled down his cheeks as the reality of the assault settled over him, heavier and colder than any fever.
Here is the continuation, focusing on Damian's immediate emotional reaction and his need for solitude and quiet function:
👤 The Weakness Reflected
After a long while spent processing the crushing memory, Damian slowly managed to stand. He walked the few painful steps into the bathroom and stopped before the mirror.
He stared at his reflection—at the pale, tired face and the lingering shadows under his eyes.
"You're weak," he muttered to the boy staring back at him, the self-condemnation harsh and low. "Way too weak."
He took a slow, deep breath, trying to anchor himself, and then he proceeded to take his bath, washing away the lingering traces of fever and injury.
Once dressed, and feeling slightly steadier, he crept downstairs. The house was utterly silent, wrapped in the deep quiet of the late night hours before sunrise. He moved with practiced stealth toward the kitchen to get something edible. He took a few slices of bread and prepared a warm beverage.
Clutching his small sustenance, he turned and went back upstairs, ensuring he made no sound at all. He returned to the privacy of his room, needing to be alone with his thoughts.
Early the next morning, as the first light touched the windows, the rhythm of the house seemed to snap back to normal. Damian was up, just as he always was, actively performing his daily duties.
Lucy walked down the stairs, and a wave of relief washed over her when she saw him active again, busy in the kitchen. She smiled, the worry of the previous day fading slightly.
"How are you feeling, honey?" she asked, her voice light and filled with a bright, genuine smile.
Damian didn't look up from the sink where he was washing plates, maintaining his usual focus. "I'm fine, Mum. Sorry for making you worry."
"You certainly had us scared yesterday," she said, walking over to the counter and beginning to prepare ingredients for breakfast. "Laura was really upset that she couldn't see you. She missed her big brother."
The small domestic scene—the warmth of the kitchen, the sounds of breakfast prep, and Damian's steady presence—offered a comforting sense of normalcy, despite the heavy secret he now carried.
Once his daily chores were completed, Damian wasted no time. He hurried back upstairs, the need for action overriding everything else.
He went straight for his phone and immediately started making research. His search terms weren't for games or homework; he was looking for local training centers where he could learn combat training—any discipline that promised strength and self-defense.
He sat on the edge of his bed, his eyes fixed on the screen, a chilling resolve setting over him.
"I would not be forced against my will ever again," he stated quietly, the words spoken in a cold, determined tone that left no room for doubt or fear.
Later that evening, the family settled around the dining table for dinner. The atmosphere was quiet, still holding the faint chill of the cold evening air, even inside the house.
It was Damian who broke the silence. He set down his fork and spoke softly, yet with a surprising steadiness that demanded attention: "Mum, Dad, I have decided to learn martial arts."
Both Lucy and Mike immediately paused, mid-chew, looking up at him in total surprise.
Mike was the first to find his voice. "Where did that come from?" he asked, his tone registering genuine bafflement.
Lucy quickly followed, her expression concerned. "Why do you suddenly want to learn martial arts, Damian?"
Damian looked directly at them, his gaze firm. "For self-defense, and also to protect Laura if need be. I'd also like to improve my stamina."
Both parents exchanged a quick, knowing look across the dining table. They silently agreed that Damian's sudden, intense desire for combat training was definitely rooted in something more than just improving stamina or protecting his younger sister. Yet, they failed to ask the deeper question. They chose, instead, to meet his request directly.
"Well then," Mike said, finally composing himself and settling back in his chair. "Where is this center you're talking about?"
Damian quickly offered the information, his voice carrying a calm, convincing certainty that was hard to argue with.
"There's one at the end of this street. The acceptance fee is low; you can use my monthly allowance to cover the registration."
Mike nodded slowly, considering the proximity. "
Mike held Damian's gaze, the serious look on his face emphasizing the importance of the terms.
"Since it's close to the house, I would allow it, but only on three conditions," he stated.
He lifted a finger to tick off the rules:
* "First, I would be the one to pay the fee, not with your monthly allowance. We will cover that cost."
* "Secondly, you must be home by 6 PM. No 'ifs' or 'buts' about it, regardless of the class schedule."
* "And lastly, if I notice it's putting too much strain on you—on your schoolwork, your health, or your temperament—you would quit, no arguments."
Mike leaned forward slightly. "Do we have a deal?"
" yes dad " Damian responded with excitement on his face but his thoughts were different. " barely three hours daily, four times a weeks , it's not enough, I need more, I'd have to add other training regime to it,I must get stronger " Damian said in his thoughts
A flash of genuine excitement crossed Damian's face. "Yes, Dad!" he responded immediately, sealing the deal.
However, his thoughts were racing in a completely different direction.
Barely three hours daily, four times a week, his internal voice calculated, dismissive and cold. It's not enough. I need more. I'd have to add other training regimes to it. I must get stronger.
He accepted his father's conditions, knowing full well he planned to push his limits far beyond what his parents intended or imagined
For the next two years, Damian dedicated his entire being to his training. His life settled into a demanding and relentless routine: a rigorous home workout routine every morning before school, and dedicated martial arts training immediately after school let out.
On the days he didn't have formal martial arts classes, he spent the time alone, relentlessly practicing and mastering what he had learned, pushing his body until he was exhausted.
His goal was a singular, powerful command: Never again would he let history repeat itself. Every punch thrown and every mile run was fueled by the cold memory of his weakness and the absolute resolve to be strong enough to protect himself.