In the quiet sands of the desert, far from the thriving cities of Egypt, the tribe of Akkaba lived in relative isolation. They were a superstitious people, fearing the unknown and adhering to ancient traditions. When a child was born among them with gray skin, blue lines etched across his lips and face, they recoiled in horror. To the Akkabans, this infant was an abomination, a malformed creature sent by the gods to punish them. His very presence struck fear into their hearts. He was not one of them, they believed, and in their fear, they chose to abandon him to the harsh desert sun.
The elders, their voices shaking with dread, declared the child must die. His mother, too broken to protest, watched helplessly as the newborn was taken from her arms. Left in the scorching sands, the child's cries were lost to the unforgiving winds. To the Akkabans, this was the only solution—a swift death for the child, and an end to their curse.
Yet, fate had a different plan.
While the infant lay exposed to the desert's relentless sun, a band of nomadic raiders known as the Sandstormers descended upon the unsuspecting Akkabans. The Sandstormers were feared throughout the land, their reputation as ruthless warriors known far and wide. They lived by a brutal creed: the strong take what they need, and the weak are left to perish. Led by the fearsome Baal of the Crimson Sands, the Sandstormers had no mercy in their hearts as they stormed the village.
With swords gleaming under the midday sun, the Sandstormers slaughtered the Akkabans without hesitation. The cries of the villagers were drowned out by the clash of steel and the roar of Baal's warriors. By nightfall, the once-thriving village of Akkaba was nothing more than smoldering ruins, its people reduced to ashes and forgotten echoes in the desert wind.
It was then, amid the wreckage of the Akkabans' homes and lives, that Baal heard a faint cry—the wail of an infant, carried on the wind like a whisper from the gods. Curious, Baal followed the sound to the edge of the village where the child had been abandoned, left for dead. The sight of the infant struck Baal, not with revulsion, but with intrigue. This was no ordinary child. The gray skin, the blue lines—there was something almost divine about him, something that spoke of untapped potential.
Where others had seen a curse, Baal saw a promise.
He lifted the child into his arms, cradling the infant against the backdrop of the smoldering village. "En Sabah Nur," Baal whispered, giving the child a name that meant "The Morning Light." He believed the boy to be a harbinger of change, a force destined to reshape the world.
Baal took the infant as his own son, raising him among the Sandstormers, teaching him the harsh lessons of survival. Under Baal's guidance, En Sabah Nur grew strong, absorbing the brutal code of the desert: only the strong survive. In time, the boy would grow to embody this truth, becoming the greatest of them all. But for now, he was just a child, cradled in the arms of a ruthless warrior, spared from death by the whims of fate.
Within the isolated Sandstormer tribe, a strange boy grew up—his skin a deep, unnatural gray, his eyes fierce with a power unknown. His name was En Sabah Nur, but the villagers whispered other names behind his back, for they could sense something wrong about him, though he was but a child.
The Sandstormers were a proud nomadic people, their survival dependent on their unity and strength as they roamed the desert. Among them, strength was respected, but En Sabah Nur was different in more ways than one. His gray skin was the most obvious, a mark of something alien and mysterious. From the moment he was born, people stared at him with suspicion, mothers pulled their children away, and the elders muttered warnings to one another. Many feared him, thinking him a curse or an omen sent by the gods. Others whispered that he was touched by Ra himself, a being of divine significance.
But En Sabah Nur didn't care. Even as a boy, he was fearless. The taunts, the stares—none of it fazed him. There was a fire inside him, a knowledge he couldn't yet name but felt in his bones. Strength was the only truth, and he knew he had more of it than anyone around him. His body, though still young, was capable of feats no other child could match. He ran faster, climbed higher, fought harder. His endurance in the desert's punishing sun was unmatched. In the sparse, unforgiving life of the Sandstormers, weakness meant death, but En Sabah Nur had no weakness.
While others in the tribe were bound by fear, he was bound by ambition. He knew he was different, yes—but he believed that difference was his gift, not a curse. He didn't shrink away from his uniqueness. Instead, he embraced it, feeling in his heart that he was destined for greatness far beyond the life of a nomad.
He would watch the other children as they played or trained, their fragile bodies clumsy and slow in comparison to his own. Some would challenge him, daring to test the strange boy's limits. Every time, they lost. En Sabah Nur never gloated or sought revenge for the cruel looks and whispered slurs. He didn't need to. His victories spoke louder than words, and he knew that someday, no one would dare to challenge him again.
The tribe's leader, Baal, a fierce and respected warrior, saw something in the boy beyond the strangeness of his appearance. Where others saw an outcast, Baal saw potential—a force of nature waiting to be harnessed. Baal became a mentor to the young En Sabah Nur, teaching him the ways of battle, survival, and leadership. Under Baal's guidance, the boy grew stronger, his body honed by the harsh desert life and his mind sharpened by ancient knowledge passed down through generations. Baal did not flinch from the boy's gray skin or strange powers. Instead, he saw in En Sabah Nur the future of the Sandstormers—and perhaps, something greater.
As En Sabah Nur grew older, his place in the tribe became more solidified, not through acceptance but through sheer domination. Those who once mocked or feared him came to respect him, not because they wanted to, but because they had no choice. He was simply stronger, more capable, more determined than any of them.
In the heat of the Egyptian sun, as winds swept the sands into blinding storms, En Sabah Nur would often stand alone, staring out into the vast, endless desert. He knew that his future lay beyond the confines of the tribe, beyond even the desert itself. The world was much larger than the Sandstormers could ever imagine, and he would conquer it all.
Though still a child, En Sabah Nur had already learned the truth of life—only the strong survive, and he was the strongest of all.