The sky was a brilliant shade of blue, stretching endlessly over the city. But as the moments passed, dark clouds began to roll in, heavy and ominous, swallowing the light. The air grew thick with the scent of impending rain, and the once-serene scenery became foreboding. A storm was coming.
The scene shifted seamlessly to a high school classroom, the walls lined with posters of scientific formulas and motivational quotes that had long lost their meaning. The students were gathered in a tight circle around one boy—Astor. At sixteen, he was neither the strongest nor the most influential, but today, he was their target. Their laughter was sharp, each word laced with mockery.
"This should be enough for you. Don't try to overcome us." Ricky, the self-proclaimed leader of the bullies, sneered. His voice was laced with arrogance as he spat the words out like venom. With one final disdainful glance, the group turned and left, their laughter echoing through the classroom.
Astor remained behind, slumped against his desk, his body aching. He exhaled slowly, his fingers curling into fists as his mind spiraled with questions.
"All this... because I got more marks than them?" His voice barely escaped his lips, carrying his pain and confusion into the empty space around him.
The silence was thick until a gentle voice broke through it.
"What happened to you?"
Astor turned to see Mary standing before him. Her brown eyes held concern, her expression soft and full of warmth. She was one of the few people who ever showed him kindness.
"You're better than them. Don't let them get to you," she said simply, offering a reassuring smile.
Astor wanted to believe her. He really did. But doubt clung to him like a shadow. Still, as they walked out of school together, her words lingered. When they reached the crossroads, they exchanged a quiet farewell and parted ways.
At home, the atmosphere was different. The walls felt colder, the air heavier. Astor's parents were waiting.
"Your exam results," his father demanded.
Proudly, Astor handed over his scorecard—95%. It was an achievement most would be thrilled about. But not his parents.
"Why 5%?" his father's voice was razor-sharp. "Why didn't you get a perfect score?"
His mother crossed her arms, her expression void of warmth. "You should be ashamed. What happened to perfection?"
Astor didn't answer. He had learned long ago that arguing was pointless. As his parents turned away, disappearing into their room, he remained in the hallway, staring blankly at his hands. His fingers trembled, but not from exhaustion.
He walked out of the house, the night swallowing him whole. His voice whispered into the darkness.
"This is my life. I think calling it 'life' is wrong. This isn't life. Maybe the life of an insect would be better than this."
The sky had turned almost entirely black now, a void stretching above him. The air had an unnatural stillness, as if the world itself was holding its breath. Then, he heard footsteps behind him.
"Astor!" Mary's voice rang out, warm and full of life.
She was running toward him, her hand raised in greeting, her smile as bright as ever.
And then—
A spear, glowing with dark energy, tore through her chest.
Her body collapsed to the ground.
Blood pooled beneath her, the crimson stark against the dull pavement.
Astor's breath caught in his throat. The world around him twisted into chaos—buildings crumbled, flames erupted, and people screamed in terror. He fell to his knees beside Mary, gripping her hand. Her warmth was fading.
"Mary..." His voice cracked. His vision blurred. His body shook with silent sobs.
From the flames, a shadow emerged.
A tall, menacing figure draped in dark robes stepped forward. His aura radiated raw power. His eyes burned with malice.
Malakar Veilgrave.
"I am Malakar Veilgrave," he declared, his voice echoing across the destruction. "And I will rule this world!"
Astor's grief twisted into something else—something darker. He stood, his body unsteady but his eyes burning with rage.
"So you did all of this?" His voice trembled, but not with fear.
Malakar turned, intrigued. "Yes. And who are you? A survivor or a savior?"
Astor's lips curled into a bitter smile. "I'm no one."
Malakar smirked. "Hmm... So you want me to hire you? Perhaps there's something for you..."
"I don't want anything from you."
The dark lord chuckled. "Oh? A heartbroken boy? What did you lose? Parents? Friends? A girlfriend?" His voice dripped with mockery.
Astor clenched his fists. "You took everything from me."
Malakar leaned in, taunting. "So what do you want now? Want to fight me?"
Astor's voice was sharp as a blade. "No. We both know I can't kill you. So, I want you to kill me. Death will be more satisfying than this kind of life."
Malakar's amusement grew. "As you wish."
He raised his staff, dark energy crackling at his fingertips. Astor stepped forward, his breathing heavy, his voice raw with emotion.
"But remember this. If I get another chance... I will be the one who kills you."
Malakar's smirk widened. "Okay. See you then."
The spell erupted from Malakar's hands. A brilliant light filled the space. The last thing visible was Astor's face—his red eyes glowing with unrelenting fury.
Then, everything faded to white.
A brilliant white light filled the void, and as it faded, a new world came into view. The sky loomed heavy with dark clouds, flashes of lightning illuminating the horizon. A small village nestled between rolling hills lay below, its peaceful existence threatened by the coming storm.
The camera—or rather, the eye of fate—drifted toward a modest wooden house. Within, the muffled cries of a woman in labor pierced the air. Inside the dimly lit room, flickering candlelight cast long shadows as a midwife and a doctor worked tirelessly. The woman, her face glistening with sweat, let out a final, agonizing scream before a sharp cry filled the space.
The doctor's face broke into a warm smile as he held the newborn in his hands. "It's a boy!" he announced.
The exhausted mother gazed at her child with loving eyes as her husband beamed with pride. The baby was placed gently in her arms, and with a soft smile, she whispered, "He is Starmon."
At that very moment, a thunderous roar erupted from the heavens, and a flash of lightning illuminated the room. Outside, the storm raged as if the universe itself acknowledged the significance of this birth.
Sixteen years had passed.
Morning light bathed the village in a soft glow, birds chirping as the world stirred awake. Inside a small, neatly kept room, a young boy sat at a wooden desk, quill in hand. The soft scratching of ink against parchment echoed in the stillness. His voice rang in his mind as he wrote:
It's the 24th of June, 1466. I'm Starmon, and I'm 16 years old. I was living a happy life with my loving parents… until that happened.
The ink blurred as memories from a decade ago surged forward.
A younger Starmon laughed joyfully as he played in the front yard of his home. His parents watched with adoration, their smiles filled with warmth. But suddenly, a distant scream shattered the peace. Starmon's father rushed to the window, his face paling as he took in the horror unfolding outside.
The camera followed his gaze.
Atop a colossal, grotesque beast stood a man draped in a dark cloak, his presence radiating malice. Behind him, five ominous figures—his generals—surveyed the terrified village. His voice boomed across the land, chilling and absolute:
"I am Malakar Veilgrave, and I will rule this world!"
His laughter sent shivers through the villagers, who scattered in terror. Young Starmon clutched his mother's sleeve, his innocent eyes wide with confusion.
"Mom... Dad, who are those guys?"
His father's voice trembled. "Those are... bad guys."
Starmon swallowed hard. "Will they hurt us?"
His mother forced a reassuring smile, though fear shimmered in her eyes. "No, don't worry. They won't."
But Starmon, wise beyond his years, glanced at the scene unfolding beyond the window and whispered, "In stories, when bad people come, a hero appears to save everyone."
His mother stroked his hair, holding back tears. "Yes, a hero will come... He has to."
Starmon clenched his small fists, looking up at the stormy sky. We're waiting for you, Hero.
The vision faded, and Starmon found himself once more at his desk, quill frozen above parchment. He sighed and continued writing.
Now, ten years have passed, and no one has come to help us. No one believes anymore that a hero will come. But my heart says, 'No. Someone will come.'
His mother's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Starmon! Come out and help us."
He quickly shut his diary, tucking it beneath his bed before hurrying outside.
As Starmon stepped into the daylight, the clouds momentarily parted, casting a golden hue over the fields. A cheerful woman with striking yellow hair waved at him, her warmth unmistakable.
"She is Alice, my mom," Starmon thought.
Nearby, a tall man with black hair and a rugged beard wiped sweat from his brow. He caught Starmon's gaze and gestured for him to join in the labor.
"And he is Steve, my father. Though we are farmers, we work under one of Malakar Veilgrave's generals, Zarek Duskbane."
The weight of their servitude was a silent burden, but Starmon pushed forward, determined to help his family however he could. As he toiled under the sun, a familiar chorus of voices called out to him from the edge of the field.
"Starmon! Let's go!"
His friends stood, waiting eagerly. He turned to his mother. "Can I go?"
Alice smiled. "Okay. But be careful in the forest."
"I will!" He waved as he dashed off, unaware of what awaited him.
The dense forest glowed under the setting sun, its golden rays weaving through the thick foliage. Birds scattered as the sounds of battle rang out.
Starmon stood amidst a circle of snarling goblins, his sword gripped tightly. Sweat dripped from his brow, but his stance remained firm. With a swift strike, he felled two goblins before dodging another's attack.
A flash of light seared through the air, and the goblin behind him collapsed, lifeless. Starmon turned to see a young man, his sword glowing faintly, standing confidently.
The leader of their group smirked. "Don't let your guard down, Starmon."
Starmon exhaled, nodding. "Got it, Mark."
A girl landed gracefully nearby, slicing through a goblin with a single motion. She scowled. "Can't you two stop chatting during a fight?"
Mark and Starmon exchanged sheepish glances. "Sorry."
The mage of their team, Elisa, shouted from behind, "Watch your heads!"
Magic burst forth, obliterating the remaining goblins in a single, powerful blast.
Starmon smiled as they regrouped. We are not strong enough to defeat Malakar Veilgrave—not yet. But one day, when the hero arrives, we will stand beside him and fight.
As they returned, laughter faded upon spotting armored guards patrolling the village entrance. These were Zarek's enforcers, a constant reminder of their oppression.
If they catch us with weapons, it's death.
Stealthily, the group dispersed, slipping back into the village under the cover of darkness. Starmon reached his home, waving goodbye to his friends before stepping inside.
A warm glow from a lantern revealed a man standing in the living room. He had a mid-length beard and a sturdy build, holding a wooden box. His eyes twinkled as he grinned at Starmon.
"Yo, Starmon! How was your day?"
Stephen was Starmon's uncle—his father's elder brother. Once a great warrior, he had taught Starmon how to wield a sword. He had survived the battle against Malakar not because of skill or strategy, but because an illness had left him too weak to fight that day. The shame of not being able to protect his people still haunted him, which was why he had devoted himself to training the younger generation in swordsmanship and magic.
Starmon grinned, tossing his sword aside as he spoke with enthusiasm. "It was fantastic! I killed seven goblins today! Mark was amazing too, and Sofia and Elisa—"
Stephen raised a hand, chuckling. "Hold on, lil' champ. Save the stories for the dinner table."
Starmon nodded eagerly. "Okay!"
That evening, the family gathered around the dining table, the flickering candlelight casting a cozy glow over them. Starmon animatedly recounted his adventures, his voice brimming with excitement. His uncle listened intently, nodding and occasionally asking questions.
As the night deepened, the camera of time panned upward, leaving behind the warmth of family and settling on the moon, watching over the village. A gentle breeze rustled the trees outside, whispering the promise of another day.
The next morning, the sun cast golden rays over the village. Starmon stood outside his small home, beside his father, Steve, who gestured toward a cart loaded with boxes of fresh crops.
"Starmon, these need to be delivered today. Make sure everything reaches on time."
Starmon nodded confidently. "Don't worry, Dad. I've got this."
With a stretch, he grabbed the cart's handle, a sturdy two-wheeled wooden structure meant to be pulled by hand. A grin crossed his face. "Alright, time to be professional."
A cheerful tune filled the air as Starmon pulled the cart through the village streets, delivering boxes to various homes and businesses. Children ran alongside him, laughing, while he waved to familiar faces.
He wiped his brow after unloading a package and glanced at the remaining cargo. "Three more to go. Next stop: Elisa's Café."
The scent of freshly baked goods and brewed coffee greeted Starmon as he entered the café. He scanned the room and spotted Elisa behind the counter, chatting with Sofia, who leaned casually against it.
"Wow, what luck! I came to deliver crops and found both of you here," Starmon said with a smile.
Sofia grinned. "I was bored at home, so I decided to drop by."
Starmon placed a box on the counter. "Here's your delivery."
From the kitchen, Jacob, Elisa's father, stepped out and smiled warmly. "Thank you, son! You've been a great help."
Elisa chimed in, "Why not stay and eat here today? My treat."
Starmon shook his head politely. "Thanks, but I've still got deliveries to finish. Maybe next time."
Sofia stretched and stood. "Alright, then I'll go with you. I'm done here anyway."
They waved goodbye to Elisa and Jacob and stepped outside—only to be met with an unwelcome sight.
Two of Zarek Duskbane's guards stood near the cart, eyeing it with contempt. One sneered and kicked the cart hard.
"Whose cart is this? Who the hell left it here?"
The force sent the boxes tumbling, spilling their contents onto the ground.
Anger flared in Starmon's eyes. He strode forward. "Hey! What's wrong with you?"
The first guard turned to him, unimpressed. "So, you're the owner of this piece of junk?"
Starmon squared his shoulders. "Yeah, I am."
The guard stepped closer, towering over him. "You can't park your cart here without permission."
"Permission? The owner of this café gave me permission," Starmon retorted firmly.
A crowd had begun to gather, drawn by the commotion. Elisa and Jacob emerged from the café, concern evident on their faces.
Without warning, the guard punched Starmon hard in the stomach. The blow forced the air from his lungs, doubling him over in pain. Before he could recover, a second punch struck his face, sending him sprawling to the ground.
"Starmon!" Sofia rushed to his side, kneeling beside him. "Are you alright?"
Gritting his teeth, Starmon nodded weakly. "I'm fine..."
The guard sneered. "This is Lord Zarek's territory. Next time, don't park here without his permission. And don't raise your voice at me, or you'll lose that pretty face of yours."
The second guard waved dismissively at the crowd. "What are you all staring at? Get lost!"
Reluctantly, the villagers dispersed, casting sympathetic glances at Starmon as they left.
Sofia placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and began casting a healing spell. A soft glow surrounded him as she spoke. "Maybe this will help a little. Don't worry, we'll figure something out."
Jacob walked over and waved a hand, using magic to restore the fallen boxes and repack the cart. "There, that should do it."
Starmon and Sofia thanked him.
Jacob simply smiled. "Consider it payback for all the good you've done for us."
The rest of the deliveries were completed in a determined silence. By the time they reached Starmon's house, Sofia patted his shoulder. "Don't dwell on what happened. Just take some rest. And please, don't get into another fight with them."
Starmon forced a faint smile. "Thank you... for your concern and for your help."
As she left, he stepped inside, only to be met with his mother's worried gaze. "Starmon, what happened? Are you alright?"
Seated in the living room, he recounted the day's events. His parents and Uncle Stephen listened intently.
Stephen sighed. "It's good that you're standing up for yourself, but now isn't the time. You need to stay under the radar until you're ready."
His father, Steve, spoke firmly. "You're too precious to us, son. Don't provoke them again. It's too dangerous."
Starmon nodded silently, absorbing their words before heading to his room.
Moonlight filtered through the window as he sat by his desk, staring out at the quiet village. His voice was barely above a whisper.
"Where are you, Hero? Why haven't you come yet? I thought I'd grown strong enough to fight them, but I'm not. We still need you... please, help us."
Exhaustion claimed him, and he fell asleep at his desk.
Morning came with urgent whispers outside his room. Rubbing his eyes, Starmon stepped out to find his father and uncle in the hallway, speaking in hushed, grim tones.
"What's going on?" he asked.
His father turned, face dark with worry. "There's been a murder."
Starmon's heart skipped a beat. "Who?"
Stephen's voice was grave. "Two of Zarek's guards. Someone killed them."
The words hung heavy in the air. Starmon's mind raced before he rushed out toward the village square.
A large crowd had gathered. At the front, Zarek himself stood, radiating fury. Behind him, the lifeless bodies of two guards hung impaled on poles, a battle flag behind them smeared with blood.
Two letters stood out in crimson: "YT."
Starmon froze, his breath catching. His mind flashed to the previous day—it was the same guards who had attacked him.
"What the...?" he whispered, unable to look away.
Zarek's furious gaze scanned the crowd.
The village held its breath.