In the year 2090, the world had learned how to divide itself cleanly.
Cities climbed higher, brighter, louder—glass towers stacked on steel bones, air traffic humming like insects in the sky. The rich lived above the noise, the poor beneath it. Walls weren't always physical, but everyone knew where they stood.
Far from all of that, beyond roads that no longer appeared on modern maps, there was a small village in the southern hemisphere, pressed between a forest and a mountain range. No towers. No screens glowing through windows at night. Just land, wood, stone, and time moving at its own pace.
That was where Ethon lived.
He had grown up under wide skies and older stars, raised by hands that smelled of soil and smoke. His grandparents' cabin sat at the edge of the village, overlooking fields they had worked for decades. The land wasn't generous, but it was honest.
That morning, Ethon stood knee-deep in soil beside his grandfather, harvesting what had taken months to grow.
"This year's better," Henderson said, holding up a bundle of crops with quiet pride. "Soil finally listened."
Ethon smiled. "Told you the east side needed more turning."
Henderson chuckled. "You talk like you've been here longer than me."
Ethon wiped sweat from his brow, looking out at the fields. He liked moments like this. The stillness. The certainty. No rushing, no noise—just work that made sense.
From the cabin, Marla's voice cut through the air. "Supper's almost ready! If you two plan on eating before nightfall, now would be the time."
Henderson straightened slowly, resting his hands on his lower back. "That woman's been feeding me for fifty years," he said. "Still thinks I'll forget to eat."
Ethon laughed and followed him toward the house.
As they walked, Henderson's tone shifted, quieter now. "You ever wonder what it's like out there?" He gestured vaguely toward the distant world beyond the mountains. "Cities, travel, people everywhere."
Ethon shrugged. "I know what it's like here. That's enough."
Henderson studied him from the corner of his eye. "You say that now. But you're young. Strong. Curious, even if you pretend not to be. Living out here suits me. Doesn't mean it should cage you."
Ethon stopped walking and looked at him. "You're not caging me. I want to be here. I can help. I like helping."
Henderson smiled softly. "I know. And I'm grateful. But one day, you'll walk farther than this land. That's just how time works."
Ethon didn't argue. He only nodded, a small smile on his face.
Dinner that night was simple and warm. Vegetables from the garden. Bread baked that morning. The house filled with the smell of food and earth, the kind of smell that made a place feel alive.
They talked as they ate—old stories, small memories, moments that didn't matter to the outside world but meant everything inside those walls.
Then came the noise.
A dull thud. Wood scraping against wood.
They froze.
"It came from the storage," Marla said quietly.
Henderson rose first. "Stay here."
Ethon didn't listen. He grabbed a pitchfork from beside the door and followed.
The storage door creaked open.
Inside, on the cold wooden floor, lay a man.
Rugged. Dirty. Clothes torn and dark with dried blood. His chest rose and fell, shallow but real.
"He's alive," Ethon said.
Barely.
They carried him inside and did what they could. Cleaned wounds. Bound what needed binding. Watched the night pass slowly.
Three weeks went by.
The man didn't wake.
Life continued anyway.
Then one afternoon, Marla's voice rang out again—this time sharp with disbelief. He's awake!"
Ethon and Henderson rushed inside.
The man sat on the bed, weak but upright. His eyes moved slowly, taking everything in.
"How do you feel?" Marla asked gently.
Silence.
"How did you even find this place?" Henderson added.
Still nothing.
Ethon stepped closer. "Are you from the city?"
No answer.
"What's your name?" Marla asked.
The man tried to stand. Stumbled.
"Easy," Marla said, reaching for him. "You haven't eaten anything in weeks."
That stopped him.
"Weeks?" he repeated, voice hoarse.
She nodded. "Three."
He exhaled slowly, then finally said, "Arman."
The name hung in the air like a door opening.
They fed him. Leftovers at first. Then more.
Ethon watched him closely. The way he moved. The way strength seemed to sit under the surface, waiting. "You're built like a fighter," Ethon said without thinking.
Arman smirked faintly. "Something like that."
Ethon opened his mouth to ask more, but Marla shot him a look. "Finish your planting," she said. "Questions can wait."
As Ethon stepped back outside, Henderson placed a hand on Arman's shoulder. "You can stay until you're well enough to leave."
Arman nodded, something heavy passing through his eyes. "Thank you." And for the first time since arriving in that quiet place, Arman stayed—to eat.
Time went by, Arman healed faster than he should have.
At first, no one questioned it. Strong men recovered. That was the story everyone agreed to tell themselves. But Ethon noticed. Cuts closed in days. Bruises faded overnight. Strength returned like it had never left.
Within a month, Arman was back on his feet. Within two, he was working.
He didn't talk much about himself, but he never refused a task. He hauled water, mended fences, cleared stone, ploughed fields. Henderson watched him closely at first, then less so, satisfied by effort alone.
"You don't have to push yourself," Marla told him one evening as he stacked firewood. "You're still healing."
Arman shook his head. "Sitting still makes wounds louder."
Marla didn't understand that, but she nodded anyway.
Ethon and Arman worked side by side most days. At first, it was quiet. Then it wasn't.
"You ever leave this village?" Arman asked once, as they rested under a tree.
"No reason to," Ethon replied.
Arman looked toward the mountains. "There's always a reason. Sometimes you just don't see it yet."
Ethon frowned. "You talk like someone who ran too far."
Arman smiled faintly. "Or not far enough."
They trained together sometimes—if you could call it that. Ethon asked how Arman stayed so strong. Arman showed him simple movements. Balance. Breathing. How to let effort flow instead of forcing it.
"Strength isn't loud," Arman said once. "It listens."
By the time a year passed, Arman felt like part of the house.
On Ethon's eighteenth birthday, Marla roasted a boar she'd been saving for a special occasion. The table groaned under food. Laughter filled the cabin. Even Henderson drank more than usual.
"Manhood," Henderson said, raising his cup. "Not about age. About carrying weight without dropping it."
Arman placed a hand on Ethon's shoulder. "You'll carry more than you think."
Ethon laughed. "You say things like that a lot."
Arman didn't answer.
They stayed up all night singing songs of the past, it was joyful, it was funny.
The next morning was clear and quiet. Too quiet, maybe—but no one said it out loud.
They ploughed the fields together. Talk drifted from future plans to small jokes. Henderson teased Arman about his mysterious past.
"Hunting injuries, eh?" Henderson said. "Must've been one hell of a boar."
Arman smiled politely. "Something like that."
Midday, Arman stopped walking.
"You alright?" Ethon asked.
"Yeah," Arman said quickly. "Just… ate something bad earlier."
Henderson laughed. "Wild berries again?"
Arman played along. "Won't make that mistake twice."
That evening, supper felt… off.
The air shifted. A breeze crept through the cabin, cold and wrong. Ethon felt it first.
"Do you feel that?" he asked.
No one answered.
Then the world went silent.
And a voice—deep, ancient, not meant for human ears—cut through the stillness.
"Found you."
Ethon turned toward Arman, and in that split second, a blast of lightning struck the everything in sight, everything ended.
Light erased the night.
Not lightning as Ethon understood it—no warning crack, no rolling thunder—but a vertical wound carved straight through the sky. A pillar of blinding force struck where the cabin stood, swallowing wood, soil, crops, memory. The ground convulsed. Air hardened. Sound vanished.
Ethon blinked.
The world came back wrong.
Cold wind tore across his face. Thin air burned his lungs. Stone bit into his feet. He staggered, heart slamming so hard it felt like it might tear free.
He was standing on a mountain.
"—hhnngh—"
A wet cough cut through the wind.
Ethon turned.
Arman knelt several steps away, one hand braced against the rock, blood trailing from his mouth. His body shook, not from fear—but exhaustion so deep it looked painful. Henderson lay behind him, limp, breathing shallowly.
Ethon's thoughts scattered. "W-what…?" His voice trembled. "How did we—"
He turned.
The land below was gone.
Burning. Ruined.
Gone.
A massive scar carved into the earth, glowing faintly at its edges, steam curling upward like the land itself was still screaming. Fields, trees, the cabin—everything erased in a single, merciless stroke.
Ethon's knees buckled.
"No… no, no, no…"
Arman pushed himself upright. "I moved us," he said, voice hoarse. "As far as I could."
Ethon stared at him like a stranger. Fear finally found shape. "Who are you?"
Before Arman could answer, the air shifted.
Pressure rolled down the mountain like a tide. Clouds above began to twist, spiraling inward, folding over themselves as if something massive was forcing its way through reality.
Ethon swayed. His ears rang. He couldn't hear his own breathing.
"Where's—" His throat tightened. "Where's Grandma?"
Arman didn't answer.
He grabbed Ethon by the shoulder and lifted Henderson with the other arm—effortless, despite the blood, despite the shaking.
"Hold on," Arman said.
The mountain disappeared.
He moved.
Not running—skipping across space itself. He leapt from ridge to ridge, stone exploding beneath his feet, wind ripping at Ethon's face so hard it stole his breath. The world blurred into streaks of dark land and pale sky.
Ethon screamed, but the sound never reached his ears.
In seconds—seconds that felt like an entire lifetime—Arman skidded into the mouth of a cave carved deep into the mountainside. He ducked inside just as a shockwave tore past the entrance, flattening trees outside like grass.
The cave shook violently. Dust rained from the ceiling.
Arman lowered them gently to the ground.
Ethon collapsed, shaking, his thoughts spiraling. "You… you brought this here."
"Yes."
"You knew."
"Yes."
The honesty hurt more than a lie ever could.
Arman leaned against the cave wall, chest heaving. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I couldn't save her."
Ethon's breath caught. "Grandma…?"
Arman bowed his head.
Henderson stirred weakly, a faint groan escaping his lips.
Arman knelt and pulled something from his coat.
A shard.
Jagged, crystal-like, unnaturally dark—light bent around it, refusing to touch it. It pulsed faintly, a dull red glow beating like a distant heart.
"Take this," Arman said, pressing it into Ethon's hands. "I cannot tell you everything now but this... will protect you, keep it on you at all times, you hear me? When you can, head south—across the waters. There's an island—"
The air collapsed before he could finish speaking.
Arman froze.
His eyes lifted slowly toward the cave entrance.
The voice returned—closer now, heavier, ancient.
"Of all places...you chose to hide on this...worthless, unworthy Realm?...You cannot escape the Master's sight, Fallen Warrior".
The cave walls cracked.
Outside, the clouds split open.
A figure descended.
Not falling. Arriving.
Its presence alone crushed Ethon's chest, blurred his vision, made his bones ache like they remembered something older than fear.
Arman stepped forward, placing himself between Ethon and the sky as he summoned a glowing golden spear.
"Run," he said. "And don't look back."
The figure raised an arm.
The sky answered.
A blast of lightning—larger than the first—ripped downward.
Arman leapt.
He collided with the strike midair, the impact tearing the clouds apart. Shockwaves screamed outward, obliterating the cave, shredding stone like paper.
Ethon, who held his grandfather, were thrown into the air by the massive shockwaves down to a forest.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Pain dragged Ethon back as he awoke. Time had passed, and the sight Infront of him was unbelievable.
He gasped, choking, vision swimming. His body felt heavy, distant. A burning pressure throbbed through his thigh.
A piece of wood pierced straight through it.
He should have been dead.
His trembling hand brushed against the crystal. It was warm now—its faint red glow fading back into absolute black.
Ethon turned his head.
Henderson lay nearby.
What remained of him, a broken bloody body, with missing legs and left arm.
Ethon crawled forward, hands shaking, mind screaming this isn't real. Henderson's eyes fluttered open—just barely.
"Grandpa…?"
Henderson's voice was a whisper soaked in blood. "Go…"
Ethon sobbed. "No—no, I can't—"
"Live," Henderson breathed. "well…my child"
His eyes softened.
Then they were empty.
Ethon screamed until his throat tore raw.
Later—he didn't know how long—he forced himself to stand. The sky still flashed in the distance, booms echoing like a god's heartbeat.
He looked once more at his grandfather, who had protected him, taught him, loved him—lay motionless, the life slowly draining away. Tears welled up in Ethon's eyes. He whispered a farewell he didn't know how to voice, one last "thank you" for a lifetime of care, for everything his grandfather had been.
His eyes shifted to the dark crystal in his hand. Its presence felt heavy now, ominous. Fear gripped him. What if it brought more death? What if it carried the weight of what had destroyed everything else? Without thinking, he hurled it aside.
Then movement caught his attention. Shadows streaked across the distance—fast, strange, mechanical shapes slicing through the night. Ethon had never seen anything like them. In his entire life, he had known only forests and mountains; these weren't birds, not planes—he had no name for what they were. But they were heading straight toward him.
Summoning the last remnants of strength, he forced his body forward. Step by step, each one heavier than the last, he staggered toward the lights, toward hope, toward anyone who could save him.
The ground shifted beneath him, the weight of shock and exhaustion blurring his vision. He stumbled. Darkness crept in around the edges of his sight.
And then—just before he fell—he saw it. A figure. Standing. Watching. Still.
Its features were unclear, shrouded in shadow, but it held his gaze. And with that fleeting, impossible stare, Ethon's world went black.