In this world, chaos was not an accident.
It was tradition.
Kingdoms tore themselves apart from the inside. Lords raised banners against their own blood. Cities burned not because of invasion, but because of ambition. Loyalty was bought, sold, and discarded like rusted steel.
And yet—
even in a world like this, people still believed in something.
They whispered its name in ruined streets and refugee camps.
They prayed to it when soldiers marched closer.
They taught it to their children like a bedtime story.
M7-PROTECTION.
An organization stronger than any kingdom.
An authority that answered to no crown.
A shield for the poor.
A nightmare for the corrupt.
Its towers stood in the Kingdom of Famos like unmovable pillars of fate—six surrounding one central spire that rose higher than any castle wall. Six divisions. Six colors. Six powers that kept the world from collapsing completely.
At the top of it all stood a single title.
General.
The owner of M7-PROTECTION.
The final voice.
The symbol of hope.
But for seven long years… that symbol had vanished.
No grave.
No body.
No confirmation of death.
And because of that, the throne remained empty.
The world moved forward—but something vital was missing.
Far from the towers, far from power and authority, there lived a boy who looked at that distant spire every single day.
His name was Zaro.
He lived in the lower districts, where buildings leaned against each other like exhausted men and the streets smelled of iron and smoke. War had passed through this place too many times to count. It had taken homes, fathers, and futures—then moved on without apology.
Zaro had nothing special about him.
No noble blood.
No famous surname.
No hidden talent whispered by fate.
Just a thin boy with worn boots, calloused hands, and eyes that refused to look down.
Every morning, before the city fully woke, Zaro climbed to the broken rooftop at the edge of the district. From there, if the sky was clear, he could see it.
The tower.
Not clearly.
Not fully.
Just enough to remind him it existed.
"You're staring again."
A voice snapped him out of his thoughts.
Zaro didn't turn. "So?"
Behind him stood a boy a little shorter, a little younger, with sharper eyes and a permanent scowl on his face. His clothes were just as worn, but he stood like he was ready to fight the world if it dared breathe wrong.
His brother.
"You think looking at it will change anything?" the younger one said. "That place doesn't care about people like us."
Zaro finally looked at him. "It will."
The younger brother snorted. "You're delusional."
They said things like that to each other all the time. Anyone listening would think they hated one another. Their words were sharp, their arguments constant, their tempers short.
But when the younger brother's sleeve slipped, revealing a poorly bandaged arm, Zaro's eyes narrowed.
"Who did that?" he asked.
"It's nothing," the boy replied quickly, pulling the fabric back down. "Just some idiots."
Zaro stepped closer. "I asked who."
There was a pause.
"…I handled it," the younger brother muttered.
Zaro said nothing more. He reached into his pocket and handed over a small wrapped piece of cloth.
The younger boy stared at it. "Food?"
"Eat."
"You didn't eat yet."
"I will later."
A lie. They both knew it.
The younger brother took it anyway, turning his face away so Zaro wouldn't see the faint smile he failed to hide.
Later that day, the streets erupted with noise.
"M7! It's M7!"
People poured out of alleys and doorways like a flood. Merchants abandoned stalls. Children climbed onto crates. Even the hardened men who usually watched the streets with suspicion straightened their backs.
Black armor moved through the main road in perfect formation. Crimson-lined cloaks fluttered behind them. At their head rode a captain—helmet under his arm, gaze sharp, presence heavy.
The Soldiers Group.
Zaro stood still as they passed.
He didn't cheer.
He didn't wave.
He watched.
This wasn't awe.
This was study.
"These guys…" the younger brother muttered beside him, "…they really think they own the world."
"They protect it," Zaro said.
"Only when it benefits them."
Zaro shook his head. "No. They protect it because someone taught them to."
"Taught them?" the boy scoffed. "By who? A ghost?"
The words landed harder than intended.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Everyone knew the story.
Seven years ago, during the worst war the continent had seen in generations, the General himself had led the front lines. When entire regions collapsed, he had chosen to stay behind—holding the line while others escaped.
After that battle…
He never returned.
Some said he died.
Some said he was imprisoned.
Some said he abandoned the world.
Zaro didn't believe any of it.
"He's alive," Zaro said quietly.
The younger brother looked at him. "You don't know that."
"I know," Zaro replied. "Because if he were dead… the world would've fallen apart by now."
The captain's eyes briefly swept the crowd—and for just a second, they met Zaro's.
It felt like standing before a storm.
That night, Zaro trained alone.
A dull blade.
A broken shield.
No teacher.
Each swing tore at his muscles. Each breath burned. His body screamed for rest—but he ignored it.
Strength wasn't just power.
It was endurance.
It was discipline.
It was not stopping.
"Still doing this?" the younger brother called from the doorway.
Zaro didn't stop swinging. "Go sleep."
"You're insane."
"Probably."
The younger boy hesitated. "…If you ever get in there," he said, voice quieter, "don't forget this place."
Zaro paused.
"I won't," he said. "That's why I'm going."
The boy looked away. "Tch. Idiot."
High above them, in a palace bathed in torchlight, a young woman watched the same towers from a balcony of marble.
Her posture was perfect. Her expression proud. Her name carried weight wherever it was spoken.
Mimi.
Born of royalty. Raised above commoners. Taught that power was inheritance.
And yet—
"That organization…" she murmured, fingers tightening on the railing.
Stronger than armies.
Stronger than crowns.
One day, she would stand among them.
Not as a symbol.
But as authority.
And somewhere far away, in shadows untouched by torchlight, a presence stirred.
A man whose name had once been spoken with reverence.
A man whose belief in people had been shattered.
The world called him missing.
But destiny had not finished with him.
Not yet.
And neither had the boy who kept looking at the tower.
To be continued...