Chapter 3: Awakening

Zehroon's eyes snapped open, his body drenched in cold sweat. His breathing was uneven, his heart pounding as if it had been caught in a raging storm. The dim light of dawn seeped through the cracks in the walls of his tiny, crumbling room. His hand instinctively reached for his neck, fingers tracing over the strange mark just below his ear.

"Why does it burn...?" he muttered.

A dull heat pulsed from the mark, spreading through his body like a slow, creeping fire. It had been there for as long as he could remember, but tonight, it felt different—alive.

Outside, the world moved on as usual. The marketplace was buzzing with traders shouting, laborers hauling supplies, and armored warriors discussing their next battles. But Zehroon was nothing more than a shadow among them. He had no family, no strength, and no future. The weak were discarded, forgotten—just like him.

The Dream That Felt Too Real

His mind blurred, and suddenly, he was there again.

A battlefield.

Thousands of soldiers clashed, their weapons dripping with fresh blood. The air was thick with the scent of death, and the ground beneath him was soaked in crimson. Screams of agony rang in his ears, the sound of steel meeting flesh echoing through the chaos.

Zehroon stood in the center, a bloodstained sword gripped tightly in his hands. But it wasn't just any battle—this felt different. He was fighting. He was winning.

A deep voice cut through the madness.

"You cannot run from what you are, Zehroon."

He turned sharply. A figure stood before him, cloaked in shadows, its body pulsing with a dark, eerie glow. The figure's face was blurred, its eyes burning red like molten lava.

"Who… who are you?" Zehroon's voice was barely a whisper.

"I am the part of you that you refuse to acknowledge."

A sudden surge of power rushed through him, filling every vein in his body with energy that felt both terrifying and exhilarating. His heart pounded as he took a hesitant step forward. The battlefield around him seemed to shift, the bodies of the fallen warriors vanishing like mist.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, the vision shattered.

Reality or a Warning?

Zehroon gasped as he was pulled back to the present. His room was still the same—a broken, miserable space, barely large enough to lie down in. But something inside him was different. The mark on his neck pulsed again, and for the first time, he felt it.

Power.

A knock at the door.

Zehroon turned, his muscles tensed. The door creaked open, revealing a figure cloaked in black. Their face was hidden beneath a hood, but their presence was suffocating.

The figure extended a scroll toward him.

"You seek strength, don't you?"

Zehroon's breath caught in his throat. His fingers trembled as he reached for the scroll. The moment his skin touched it, the burning in his neck exploded into unbearable pain. His vision blurred again, flashes of war, blood, and fire searing into his mind.

The voice from his dream returned, colder this time.

"This is only the beginning."

Zehroon collapsed to his knees, gasping for air. He didn't know what was happening to him, but one thing was clear—he was no longer the same weak boy they all mocked.

Something inside him had awakened.

And the world would soon find out.

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