In the city of Lya, a place where the streets never rest and the voices of the crowd form a constant melody, a family strolls peacefully. At first glance, it seems like the perfect picture: a father with a confident posture, a mother with a gentle smile, and a small child, Elias, whose contagious laughter breaks any tension in the air. But someone else watches them from a dark corner, someone who doesn't share that same perspective. To him, this family is nothing more than a pretty distraction, just another piece in his personal game.
Elias, like any curious child, slips from his mother's hand in a moment of carelessness. Amid the endless flow of people, his small figure quickly disappears. The mother, realizing this, feels her heart stop for a moment before shouting his name:
—Elias! Elias!
Her voice rises, filled with anguish, but the crowd keeps moving, unaware of her desperation. Then, from the mass of bodies, a young man appears. He is tall and thin, with an ordinary appearance, but his eyes, dark and deep, hold something unsettling if you stare at them too long.
—Ladies and gentlemen, here is your son! —he announces, holding Elias's small hand.
The mother runs toward them, pulling the child into an embrace that seems like it will never end.
—Thank God, Elias! —she exclaims, tears about to spill—. What were you thinking? You can't do this again!
Elias, with his head down and biting his lip, nods silently. Meanwhile, the mother looks up at the young man with a mix of relief and gratitude.
—Really, thank you so much. I don't know what I would have done without your help.
The young man smiles, a brief but convincing gesture.
—It was nothing —he replies, already beginning to move away through the crowd.
His steps are calm, almost careless, but there is something strange about his posture. No one notices how his smile, now that no one is watching, turns into a sharp grimace.
—"As easy as taking candy from a child" —he thinks, as he once again blends into the shadows of the city.
The sun began to hide behind the horizon, leaving a sky tinted with oranges and purples. The cool evening breeze caressed Alqatil's face as he walked along the sidewalk. With his hands in the pockets of his worn jacket, his steps were slow, almost dragging. He observed the trees lining the street; their leaves danced with the wind, while the noise of the city formed a constant murmur around him.
—So much time has passed... —he murmured, barely audible, as if speaking to himself.
The words left his lips, heavy with sadness, and for a moment, his mind was filled with blurry memories: a warm voice calling them to dinner, laughter in the corner of a humble house... and then, silence. He wiped away a tear that had slipped down his cheek, hiding it as if no one could see.
Alqatil stopped his walk in front of a small, dilapidated house made of gray bricks. The garden was neglected, with weeds covering what once was a clear path leading to the entrance. The doorframe hung loosely, and the windows were clouded with dirt. This place, though cold and desolate, was the only thing he could call home.
Inside, the atmosphere was even more depressing. The walls were cracked, with damp stains telling stories of abandonment. A small, wobbly table occupied the center of the room, surrounded by wooden chairs that seemed on the verge of collapsing. In one corner, a mattress rotted by moisture served as a bed. On it, an old blanket with a hole in the center barely managed to protect it from the cold of the nights.
—It's all I have. —He sighed, dropping his jacket onto the only chair that seemed stable.
As he moved toward the worn-out refrigerator to find something to eat, a thought suddenly struck him.
—The rent... —he said, with a lump in his throat.
His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten all day, but the weight of money, or rather the lack of it, pushed him to go out again. With trembling hands, he decided to head to the nearest ATM.
As he crossed a street, his steps led him down an alley. It was then that he heard raised voices. An argument.
—How hard is it to understand it was just a damn job? —a man shouted with fury.
Alqatil stopped. The echo of the man's voice bounced off the alley walls, mixing with the woman's desperate sobs.
—Job? —she responded through tears—. Do you think deceiving me is a job, John? I never want to see you again.
From his position, Alqatil watched as the man, with sudden movements, raised his hand and slapped the woman. She staggered back, but he didn't stop. He grabbed her forcefully, leaning in to kiss her while she struggled to pull away.
Alqatil's cunning began to stir within his chest. He took a step forward, and the sound of his shoes echoed through the alley.
—Hey, enough. —His voice was firm, but not aggressive.
The man, John, glanced at him sideways, his expression one of irritation.
—This is none of your business. Mind your own and get lost.
—She asked you to stop. Listen to her, or I'll call the police.
The woman, seizing the distraction, managed to break free and ran toward the street. However, John didn't seem ready to let things end like that. His gaze fixed on Alqatil, as if all his fury now had a new target.
—You want to play the hero? —he snarled, pulling a knife from his pocket.
The blade of the weapon gleamed under the dim light of the alley. Alqatil took a step back, raising his hands.
—Calm down, there's no need for this. Just relax.
But John wasn't listening. He lunged at him, and though Alqatil tried to dodge, his body wasn't fast enough. He felt the knife pierce his side, a sharp, searing pain that stole his breath.
—Damn it... —he whispered, pressing a hand to his side as he dropped to his knees.
The world around him began to fade. From the ground, he saw John run off and disappear into the shadows. The crowd that had gathered watched, murmuring among themselves, but no one came to help.
His thoughts were a whirlwind. "Is this how it all ends? Without anyone remembering me? Mother... I'm sorry." Tears rolled down his face as the cold of death began to take over.
When the paramedics arrived, his body was nearly lifeless. They rushed him to the hospital, but despite their efforts, they couldn't save him. Hours later, in a cold room with no one asking about him, a doctor filled out the necessary paperwork to have his organs donated.
Even after his death, Alqatil's body was treated as just another resource in an indifferent society. No one came to claim it. No one mourned him.
When he opened his eyes again, the world around him was strange, alien to everything he had known. The absolute void of darkness enveloped him, a stillness that echoed in his mind. He didn't recognize his body; he didn't understand what was happening. But deep within his being, something was changing, something primal was awakening.
I have been reborn... The thought crossed his mind like a whisper, and although it was incomprehensible to him, he could feel it in every fiber of his existence. Something had mutated, something was transforming him into someone different. The pain he felt, indescribable, pulled him deeper into this new reality.
Suddenly, the air grew lighter, as if an invisible pressure was released. His body began to float, to move, as if it were part of something greater. Without warning, hands surrounded him forcefully, a physical contact that pushed him mercilessly towards the outside. Discomfort and cold hit him immediately, causing him to writhe. Every inch of his body burned, as if a thousand needles were piercing him. The pain was unbearable, a sensation that made him want to scream, but he couldn't. He was trapped in a form he couldn't understand, a body that wouldn't respond.
What the hell is going on? he thought, as his consciousness overflowed with the brutality of his arrival in this new world. A heartbreaking cry escaped from his throat, a hollow sound, unable to express all the chaos crumbling inside him.
"Congratulations, Abigail Rosenov! You've given birth to a beautiful boy," said a trembling voice, like someone who had witnessed the same event for years. The old woman handed the baby, now wrapped in blankets, to a woman with blonde hair and green eyes. Her fragility was so evident that it seemed she could crumble with just a breath.
Trapped in the form of a newborn, Alqatil could only think of one thing: What have they done to me?
The woman, exhausted, could barely lift her gaze. Her face, pale and tired, was on the edge between life and death.
"Thank you... my son, my precious Alqatil," she said, as if those words could heal all the exhaustion consuming her.
But Alqatil wasn't listening. In his mind, there was only space for one image, one image that relentlessly pursued him. John... That name flooded him, growing louder with each passing moment. John... I won't forget that name, I'll never forget it.
In that instant, a flash of fury grew within him. He knew that, somehow, he was destined for something greater than this fleeting life. His heart beat strongly, not for the life he had begun, but for the vengeance that would consume him. What have they done to me, damn it?
John... The word rang in his mind like a curse, and something deep inside him knew it: I won't forgive him.
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─────────Two years later...──────────
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Alqatil had already begun to comprehend the magnitude of the world he had been reborn into. Zalos, the Empire of the Zolens, was not just a kingdom. It was an unstoppable force, a colossal entity that stretched its dominion across more than twenty kingdoms, each one subjugated by the majesty of its emperor and the imposing dynasty that ruled over it. Zalos not only conquered, it absorbed, integrating every piece of territory into a vast machinery whose gears never stopped.
The sun always seemed to shine brightly over the imperial capital, Azelanor, a city so monumental that its walls, covered in ancient glyphs, rose like giants of stone. The palaces, built with a mix of marble, jade, and gold, reflected the splendor of the empire, while the streets, always full of life, resonated with the sound of carriages, bustling markets, and the firm footsteps of soldiers guarding their realm. The city was a center of power that connected all the kingdoms Zalos had conquered, where different cultures merged under the rule of the Zolens, but always with the imperial crown at the highest.
Zalos was not only a militarily invincible empire; its culture, influence, and spiritual power were known throughout the continent. The people worshipped their emperor as a deity, and it was not without reason. His ability to cultivate qi had elevated him above any other being in the entire empire. The masses knelt before his name, while the nobles and courtiers competed for the honor of approaching him, hoping to gain favors from a man whose power was said to be able to undo mountains or make the most barren fields bloom with a single gesture.
The Zolens ruled with an iron fist, but they knew that the stability of the empire depended not only on military strength but also on the wisdom of those who held the highest ranks. Every member of the royal family was trained in the art of cultivation, and their skills were so vast that there was no doubt that they were the root of all the power emanating from Zalos. The emperors were not just leaders; they were visionaries, almost mystical beings who communicated with the qi of the world itself, controlling the flows of spiritual energy that maintained the balance of the entire empire.