It was a time of fear. The colonies, once under the rule of the Vurmilion Empire, now lived under the iron grip of the Zenonites of Vurmora. Oppression was their new reality, and though history had shown that people would always rise against tyranny, this time, fear kept them silent.
But one man refused to cower.
He was a warrior, a remnant of a nearly extinct people—the Vurmilions. Most of his kind had gone into hiding, scattered across the colonies like whispers of a forgotten past. But he did not hide. He fought.
They called him Vurmilion Man.
To protect his identity, he donned a striking suit, one that bore a version of the Vurmilion Empire's ancient sigil. His attire was a deep, regal purple, a color that once signified power, now a beacon of defiance. A flowing gold cape trailed behind him as he moved through the battlefield, a ghost of an empire long thought dead. On his chest, a bold emblem: a V and M, intertwined, with a halo resting above the M. The V stood firm at the bottom, the M above it, all encased within a diamond outline—a symbol of resilience, of unbroken legacy.
At first, the colonies did not know what to make of him. They had once fought for their freedom from Vurmilion rule. And yet, as the Zenonites crushed them under their heel, they found themselves cheering for a man who embodied everything they had once resisted. The irony was not lost on them. They had despised their old rulers, but compared to the horror they now endured, the past suddenly seemed like a golden age.
And so, Vurmilion Man became more than a warrior. He became hope. The last symbol of an empire the colonies had rejected—yet now, perhaps, they needed him more than ever
Sun Joad sat at his desk, adjusting the flow of helium in his oxygen tank with a practiced hand. He felt the heat creeping up his spine, a slow burn that signaled something was wrong. His fingers trembled slightly as he double-checked the gauge.
Empty.
His heart pounded. Without the helium suppressing his abilities, his body temperature would start rising fast. He could already feel the sweat pooling at the back of his neck, his skin prickling like he was sitting under a sunlamp.
"Wow, Sun, you're burning up. You see what I did there?" Helmuth's voice cut through the hum of the office.
Sun ignored him, gripping the handle of his tank and making a beeline for the bathroom. He needed to cool down—fast.
Helmuth, ever the chatterbox, followed. "You feeling okay, man? You look like you ran a marathon in a furnace."
Sun shoved the bathroom door open and dragged his tank inside. He tried to slam it shut behind him, but Helmuth caught it with his foot. "Jeez, hostile much?"
The heat inside Sun flared. His shirt clung to him, the fibers darkening as sweat soaked through. Then, a faint wisp of smoke curled from his sleeve.
Damn.
The fabric ignited with a sharp fwoosh.
Helmuth's eyes widened. "Uh—dude—"
Sun reacted instantly, twisting the faucet and shoving his arm under the cold stream. Steam hissed off his skin as he yanked his shirt off and dunked his head under the water. The relief was instant but fleeting.
Behind him, Helmuth took a step back—then stopped. His gaze locked onto something beneath the wet, half-burned fabric.
A deep purple suit. Gold trim. A sigil emblazoned across the chest.
"What the hell is that?" Helmuth muttered.
Before Sun could stop him, Helmuth grabbed the burnt shirt and ripped it open.
Silence hung between them.
Helmuth's mouth opened and closed, his brain catching up with what his eyes had just confirmed. "No way." He blinked, then laughed in disbelief. "No freaking way."
Sun clenched his jaw.
Helmuth's voice dropped to a whisper, his face a mix of shock and awe.
"You're Vurmilion Man."
Sun Joad froze. His heart pounded harder than it ever had in battle. Of all the ways to be exposed, this was the worst. Not on the battlefield. Not captured by the Zenonites. But in a cramped office bathroom, with Helmuth—the nosiest guy in the department—staring at his suit in wide-eyed shock.
Helmuth's eyes darted between Sun's face and the unmistakable purple fabric beneath his torn shirt. "No way," he muttered. "No freaking way."
Sun's mind raced. His body was already burning up from the lack of helium in his tank. He could feel the heat rising beneath his skin, threatening to turn into something much worse. If he didn't get out of there soon, his entire disguise—his entire life—was about to go up in flames.
"Helmuth," Sun said, his voice hoarse, "you didn't see anything."
Helmuth blinked. Then grinned. "Bro, are you serious? You're him? Vurmilion Man?" He practically shouted the name.
Sun lunged forward, slamming a hand over Helmuth's mouth and dragging him into a bathroom stall. "Shut up!" he hissed. He could already hear footsteps in the hallway. If anyone else heard—if the wrong person overheard—he was done for.
Helmuth pulled Sun's hand away and whispered, "Dude, I knew there was something weird about you. The oxygen tank? The way you always disappeared when stuff went down? But this? This is insane."
Sun turned toward the sink, yanking his tie off and splashing more water on his face. The burning sensation dulled slightly, but he needed helium. Fast. He adjusted his tank, hoping to scrounge up whatever residual gas remained.
Helmuth leaned against the stall. "So, uh… what now?"
Sun took a deep breath. "Now? You're going to pretend this never happened."
Helmuth smirked. "Or?"
Sun turned to him, his eyes dark and serious. "Or I throw you out that window and make it look like an accident."
Helmuth chuckled, then saw Sun wasn't joking. His smile faded. "Right. Got it. Never happened." He zipped his lips. "But—"
Sun shot him a glare.
"Okay, okay, shutting up now." Helmuth took a step back. "But for the record? This is the coolest thing that's ever happened to me."
Sun sighed. This was going to be a long day.
Sun clutched the sink, his breathing ragged. The water dripping from his hair did little to cool the furnace inside him. He needed something stronger.
"You need to help me," Sun said, his voice tight with urgency. "I need something to cool me down."
Helmuth blinked, still reeling from the fact that his sweaty, tax-clerk coworker was Vurmilion Man. But to his credit, he recovered fast. "Uh—yeah, okay. What do you need?"
"There's a fireroom. Vurmilions used it back in the day—there should be something there."
"On it."
Helmuth rushed out, weaving through the office. People stared as he rifled through old storage closets and hallways no one had touched in years. When questioned, he grinned and threw out absurd excuses—"Oh, just looking for buried treasure," or "Boss said we're finally getting a spa." Luckily, no one thought much of it. He was always acting weird.
He returned to the bathroom with an armful of old fire-resistant gear—jackets, flame retardant spray, and cooling gel packs. "Found a bunch of stuff. Hope none of it's expired."
Sun grabbed the spray first, dousing his clothes in fire retardant. The chemical scent stung his nose, but the instant relief on his skin was worth it. He filled the inside of a fire jacket with more spray before shoving his arms into the heavy fabric.
Straightening, he wiped his forehead. "Okay. Let's get out of here."
Helmuth peeked into the hallway. "Might be tricky. You look like you just went twelve rounds with the sun."
Sun stepped out of the bathroom, his damp hair plastered to his forehead, fire jacket hanging awkwardly over his office clothes. The smell of chemicals clung to him.
People definitely stared.
Helmuth cleared his throat. "He, uh—soiled his clothes."
Murmurs of "Oh," and a few looks of pity followed them as they walked toward the elevator.
Once inside, Sun sighed, pressing a hand to his forehead. Helmuth just grinned. "See? I'm good under pressure."
Sun shot him a look. "Drive."
They got into Helmuth's car, and he pulled out of the parking lot, still sneaking glances at Sun. "So… you're really him, huh?"
Sun leaned his head back against the seat, exhaustion setting in. "Just drive, Helmuth."
Helmuth chuckled. "Man, this is wild."