Chapter 1:
The city of Oakhaven was a shimmering cage of glass and neon, but for Aryan, it was nothing more than a graveyard for his dreams. At nineteen, while others his age spent their nights chasing love or ambition, Aryan was a ghost in the machinery of the lower districts. He worked twelve-hour shifts in a suffocating textile mill, his hands calloused and his spirit fractured by the weight of a world that refused to acknowledge his existence.
He was an orphan, a boy with no lineage and no future. To the society above, he was a stain on the pavement; to the shadows below, he was just another victim.
The night of his end began like any other—with the cold sting of rain against his thin, tattered jacket. As he trudged through the narrow, filth-ridden alleyways toward his makeshift shelter, his path was blocked by three shadows. They were the local dregs, fueled by cheap liquor and a mindless thirst for cruelty.
"Look at this pathetic rat," one of them sneered, his voice dripping with malice. "Did you earn a few pennies today, boy? Hand them over before we decide to peel them off your skin."
Aryan stood his ground, not out of bravery, but out of sheer exhaustion. He had nothing left to give—no money, no hope, and no fear. "Move," he whispered, his voice raspy from the mill's dust.
The response was a heavy boot to his chest. Aryan collapsed into the mud, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. What followed was a symphony of violence. Fists rained down like hailstones, and heavy boots shattered his ribs. He felt his skull crack against the damp stone of the alley, a warm, metallic tang filling his mouth. They didn't just want his money; they wanted to extinguish the tiny flicker of life left in him.
As he lay there, broken and bleeding, the world began to fade into a gray blur. Through the haze of pain, Aryan looked up at the dark, uncaring sky.
"Why?" he screamed internally, though only a bloody gurgle escaped his throat. "Why was I born into this misery? Was my only purpose to be a footstool for the cruel?"
He thought of the Gods the priests preached about—the arrogant deities who sat on golden thrones, indifferent to the screams of the starving. A wave of pure, unadulterated hatred surged through him—hatred for the thugs, hatred for the city, and hatred for the silent God who watched his murder without a flinch.
With a final, jagged breath and a silent curse against the heavens, Aryan's heart gave its last beat. His eyes remained open, reflecting the cold neon lights of a city that never cared. Aryan was dead.
The mystery of 'Time Do' is just beginning! Help me reach 20 Power Stones, and I'll unlock the next chapter for you all right away. Let's see how fast we can do this! 🚀"