The beginning

Before the concept of time itself took form, before the stars were set ablaze in the great void, the almighty Aethor willed into existence three archangels—divine beings of unparalleled power and purpose. Terron, the Titan of Earth, shaped the lands with his mighty hands, forging mountains that scraped the heavens and valleys that cradled the rivers. Caelum, the Architect of the Skies, breathed life into the heavens, painting them with endless shades of blue, adorning them with clouds that whispered secrets to the winds. And Viryath, the Giver of Life, molded the first beating hearts, filling the world with creatures of all kinds, from the smallest crawling insect to the grandest beast, ensuring harmony flourished among them.

This was the dawn of existence. A world untouched by corruption, bathed in peace and prosperity. And it was meant to stay that way… but it did not.

As time moved forward, humanity fell from grace. Greed, hatred, and betrayal took root in their hearts, spreading like a plague. Wars erupted, staining the once-pure earth with blood. Cities burned, their embers rising like sorrowful prayers to gods who would not answer. Children ran barefoot through the ruins, their cries swallowed by the deafening echoes of battle. The elderly, their faith wavering, clasped their hands together and prayed for salvation, yet despair swallowed them whole.

"MAMA! MAMA! DON'T LEAVE ME! PLEASE, WAKE UP!"

A desperate voice shattered the silence of the battlefield.

A boy, no older than six, his black hair tangled and matted with dirt, knelt beside a motionless figure. His tiny hands clutched at the tattered fabric of his mother's dress, his body trembling as he shook her limp form. Dust clung to his tear-streaked face, and one of his shoes was missing, lost somewhere in the chaos. But none of that mattered. Nothing mattered except the cold, lifeless body before him.

He knew. Deep in his heart, he knew she would never wake again. But he refused to accept it.

Sobbing, gasping, he clung to the fragile thread of hope, willing her to stir, to open her eyes, to call his name just one more time. But the only answer was silence. The world around him had already moved on, but he could not.

And so, beneath a sky that had once been a symbol of divine peace, a boy cried for a mother who would never return, as the gods above turned their faces away.

A man, his black hair disheveled and his eyes sunken with exhaustion, knelt beside the boy, his worn military uniform stained with dirt and blood. He looked like a soldier—perhaps once a man of honor, now just another ghost of war. He reached out, gripping the child's frail arm, trying to pull him away from the lifeless woman.

But the boy fought with everything he had.

"LET ME GO! DON'T TAKE ME AWAY FROM MAMA!" His screams were raw, desperate, his tiny fists pounding against the soldier's chest, his feet kicking wildly. He bit down on the man's arm, fueled by sheer desperation. "MAMA, PLEASE! WAKE UP! WAKE UP!"

But the dead do not wake.

The soldier let out a slow, tired sigh, his grip tightening just enough to keep the boy from running back into the abyss of grief. His voice, hoarse from too many battles, too many losses, carried a weight that made even the wind pause.

"This world isn't what it once was," he murmured. "The war spreads faster every second, swallowing everything in its path. No one knows when it will end. You're not the only one suffering… and you won't be the last."

The boy's body trembled, but his sobs quieted just enough for the soldier's next words to strike deep.

"If you want to stay here and die, be my guest." A cold truth, spoken without cruelty. "But if you want to survive in this broken, corrupted world, I will teach you."

Silence. The child's breath hitched. He lifted his tear-streaked face, staring up at the soldier, searching for something—anything. In those tired, battle-worn eyes, he saw not just pity, but something else. Something resembling… understanding.

The boy clenched his fists. His throat burned as he forced the words out.

"I… I want to survive… I want to survive for Mama…"

And with that, the last of his innocence shattered.

He collapsed into the soldier's arms, sobbing until there was nothing left.

From that day on, the man took the boy under his wing. He taught him how to wield a blade, how to track footsteps in the mud, how to fire a gun with steady hands. He taught him to live, to fight, to endure. And in return, the boy—no, the child who should have been nothing more than a casualty—became his son in all but name.

Every day, the man lived as if it were his last. Every day, the boy clung to the fragile warmth of the only family he had left.

But happiness is fleeting.

On the boy's twelfth birthday, the world took from him once again.

A letter. Sealed in crimson wax.

"Sung Kim has fallen in war. Body not recovered."

The boy's hands shook as he read the words over and over, as if sheer willpower could change them. But the ink did not lie.

Sung Kim had no relatives. No friends.

The boy was the only one at his funeral.

A funeral with no body.

Alone once more, beneath a sky that had long since stopped feeling like home, the boy stood at an empty grave—grieving a man who had saved him, only to be swallowed by the same war that had stolen everything.

And just like that, he was alone again.