Ryan Walker was eight years old when he learned that heroes were real.
He sat on the curb outside the convenience store with his legs swinging idly, heels tapping against the concrete in a restless rhythm. His hair—pale blond and perpetually messy no matter how often his mother tried to tame it—kept falling into his eyes. He pushed it aside with the back of his wrist, leaving a faint pink smear behind.
The popsicle in his hand was melting faster than he could eat it.
Sticky syrup slid down his fingers, cold against his skin before dripping onto the pavement between his worn sneakers. Ryan frowned at it, lips pursed in mild irritation, then shrugged. He was small for his age, all narrow shoulders and knobby knees, his clothes hanging just a little loose on him. The mess didn't really matter.
Behind him, the automatic doors hissed open and shut. Customers passed by without a second glance. A delivery drone hummed overhead, its shadow sliding across the street. Somewhere nearby, a radio played an old song.
The world felt ordinary.
Safe.
Then the sound came.
Not thunder.
Not an explosion.
A sharp, brittle crack, like glass fracturing under impossible pressure.
Ryan's head snapped up.
The sky twisted.
Clouds folded inward, dragged toward a single point as light bent unnaturally, stretching into a thin, blinding line that tore straight through the blue. The air vibrated, heavy and wrong, pressing down on his chest until it was hard to breathe. His ears rang sharply, pain spiking behind his eyes.
People froze.
A woman dropped her phone.
Someone screamed.
His mother's hand clamped around his wrist, fingers digging into his skin hard enough to hurt. She was taller than him, dark hair pulled back hastily, her face drained of color as she stared upward.
"Ryan," she said, voice shaking, "inside. Now."
The ground trembled.
And then something fell.
It struck the street with a deafening crash, asphalt splitting apart as dust and fragments erupted outward. Ryan stumbled as the shockwave rolled through him, his mother pulling him back just in time to keep him from falling.
The thing that rose from the crater was wrong.
Its body looked stitched together from different animals—coarse fur melting into uneven plates of chitin, muscles bulging where they shouldn't. Too many limbs bent at angles that made Ryan's stomach twist. Its mouth split open far too wide, rows of jagged teeth slick with saliva, while multiple eyes blinked independently before fixing on movement.
People ran.
Someone shoved past Ryan, nearly knocking him over. A man tripped and fell, scrambling back to his feet in panic. Screams filled the air, sharp and raw.
Ryan tried to move.
His legs didn't respond.
The creature's head turned slowly.
It had heard something.
A thin, broken sound cutting through the chaos.
A child crying.
Ryan's gaze followed the monster's.
A little girl sat several meters away, her bicycle twisted beneath her like a trap. She couldn't have been much younger than him. Her dark hair clung to her face with sweat and tears, her knees scraped raw as she tugged uselessly at the handlebars. Her eyes were wide with terror.
The monster took a step toward her.
Ryan's heart slammed violently against his ribs.
He didn't think.
He ripped his arm free from his mother's grip and ran.
The world narrowed to the sound of his breathing and the slap of his shoes against the pavement. His chest burned. His vision blurred. He reached the girl just as the monster raised one massive limb.
Ryan threw himself in front of her.
He spread his arms, small and useless, shielding her with his body. His eyes squeezed shut so hard it hurt.
He waited for pain.
It never came.
Instead, the air exploded.
Heat washed over him, followed by blinding light and a crushing force that knocked the breath from his lungs. Ryan cried out as he stumbled forward, coughing violently. His ears rang so loudly he couldn't hear anything else.
Dust swirled thickly around him.
When his vision cleared, someone was standing there.
A man.
He was tall—much taller than Ryan's father—and broad-shouldered, his presence solid enough to feel like a wall. His coat fluttered faintly in the disturbed air, the edges scorched and smoking. His hair was dark, streaked with gray at the temples, and his face was calm in a way that felt impossible given the destruction around them.
One arm was raised slightly, fingers relaxed.
The creature was already airborne.
It slammed into a line of parked cars with a screech of tearing metal, flipping one vehicle onto its side. The impact echoed down the street. The monster twitched once.
Then went still.
The man watched it for a moment longer than necessary, eyes sharp and focused, making sure.
Only then did he turn.
He knelt in front of Ryan, bringing himself level with the child's shaking eyes.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
His voice was calm. Steady. Almost gentle.
Ryan tried to answer, but his throat was too tight. He shook his head instead.
Behind him, the little girl sobbed uncontrollably, clutching the back of his shirt with trembling fingers.
The man rested a hand on Ryan's shoulder.
It was warm.
Solid.
Real.
"That was dangerous," the man said quietly. There was no anger in his voice. No scolding. Just truth. "But you didn't hesitate."
"I didn't…" Ryan swallowed hard, his voice barely there. "I didn't want her to get hurt."
The man studied him closely, eyes sharp but not unkind, measuring something Ryan didn't understand. For a moment, Ryan thought he might say something important.
Instead, the man nodded once.
"That's a good reason."
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder as emergency responders flooded the street. Hands reached for Ryan, pulling him gently back. His mother wrapped him in her arms, shaking as hard as he was.
When Ryan looked up again, the hero was already walking away, disappearing into the chaos as if he had never been there at all.
But Ryan remembered him.
He remembered how the shaking stopped the moment the hero arrived.
That night, Ryan lay awake staring at the ceiling, his amber-brown eyes reflecting faint streetlight through the window. His heart still raced as the scene replayed again and again.
Heroes weren't stories.
They weren't symbols.
They were people who stepped forward.
And Ryan decided—quietly, completely—that one day, he would be one of them.
Eight Years Later
The alarm went off at exactly six.
Ryan's eyes opened instantly.
He lay still for a moment, staring up at the ceiling as the sound echoed through the room. His face had sharpened with age—older now, lean rather than broad—but some things hadn't changed. His blond hair still refused to stay in place, falling messily across his forehead no matter how often he tried to tame it.
He reached over and shut off the alarm.
Silence settled in.
Today.
He sat up and let his feet touch the cool floor.
Morning light filtered in through the window, catching in his eyes—amber-brown, warm in color, almost golden when the light struck them just right. His room was small but lived-in. Posters covered nearly every wall—heroes standing amid ruined streets, academy recruitment banners, old magazine covers carefully pinned despite their faded edges. A narrow shelf near his desk held a line of figurines, each positioned just right, paint worn slightly from years of careful handling.
They weren't decorations.
They were proof.
Ryan dressed slowly, deliberately.
Black trousers, neatly pressed, the fabric heavier than normal clothing. A crisp white button-up shirt followed, cool against his skin as he fastened it. Over that, he pulled on a fitted black vest trimmed with subtle gold detailing along the seams and buttons—clean, formal, unmistakably academy-issued. The uniform wasn't flashy, but it carried weight. When he adjusted the vest and straightened his sleeves, he barely recognized the reflection staring back at him.
He looked… official.
In the kitchen, his mother watched him quietly. She adjusted the collar of his shirt, smoothing the fabric where it had folded.
"It fits you," she said, trying to smile.
Ryan nodded. "Yeah."
She hesitated, then rested her hands briefly on his shoulders. "Be careful."
"I will."
They both remembered the day the sky broke open.
The transport skimmed across Tokyo Bay, sunlight glittering across the water like scattered glass. Ryan stood near the window among other students—some laughing too loudly, some whispering nervously, others staring straight ahead as if afraid to blink.
Asterion Hero Academy rose into view.
White towers climbed skyward from a massive floating platform, banners snapping sharply in the sea breeze. Energy barriers shimmered faintly around the structure, bending light into soft rainbows. Drones filled the sky, buzzing constantly—some projecting holographic welcome signs, others bearing the logos of major news networks.
Crowds lined observation platforms. Music played. Reporters spoke rapidly into floating cameras.
It felt overwhelming.
Festival-like.
Ryan stepped onto the platform, heart pounding. Pro heroes stood scattered near the entrance—some tall and imposing, others relaxed but unmistakable even without armor. One hero laughed easily with a reporter. Another stood apart, arms crossed, eyes tired but sharp as they swept over the students.
Ryan adjusted his bag and moved forward.
Inside the academy gates, the noise dulled but never fully disappeared. Staff guided students into a vast verification hall, its polished floors reflecting the overhead lights. Lines formed beneath glowing markers, orderly and efficient.
Ryan joined one near the back.
Ahead of him, students were scanned one by one. Some watched their results with visible relief. Others stiffened, disappointment flickering across their faces before they masked it.
When it was Ryan's turn, he stepped forward and placed his hand against the glass panel.
The surface was cold.
Light flowed over him, threading through his chest, down his arms, along his spine. The chill lingered longer than expected, sinking deeper than surface level. Ryan tensed slightly, jaw tightening.
The display flickered.
A staff member leaned closer, eyes narrowing just a fraction.
Then the screen stabilized.
Archetype: Ice
Merit: 1,037
Rank: E
"Verified," the staff member said after a brief pause, tapping the screen. "Proceed to housing."
Ryan exhaled slowly and stepped away, flexing his fingers as the cold finally faded. A few students glanced his way—quick looks, curious but not impressed. Ice wasn't uncommon.
He preferred it that way.
Housing assignment came last.
A terminal hummed softly before sliding a small card into his hand.
Dormitory C — Room 317
The corridor leading to the dorms was quiet compared to the festival outside. The walls were clean, the lighting soft and even. Ryan stopped in front of his door, fingers resting on the handle.
For a moment, he thought of the eight-year-old boy frozen beneath a broken sky.
Then he pushed the door open.
The room was simple—a bed, a desk, a window overlooking the bay. Clean. Empty. Full of possibility.
Ryan set his bag down and stood there, breathing slowly.
This was the beginning.
Make sure to read the auxiliary chapter