'Adulthood is one of the most biggest challenges to face as a man in life. So many dream to fulfill, many responsibility, looking for where to fit in, and too much expectations from your family.'
Adulthood has a quiet way of revealing what no one tells you when you're young: that the bonds you thought were unbreakable start to loosen with time. The friendships that once defined your days now flicker out slowly, not with conflict but with the distance that grows in silence.
Conversations fade, becoming memories of a time when life felt simpler. Dreams, once burning with urgency, dim as the weight of responsibility presses harder. You stop chasing the impossible and settle for what's within reach. Slowly, you realize that growing up isn't about discovering new things, but accepting what's been lost along the way.
'The sad truth is that, reality is not friendly with everyone'
'The sad truth about adulthood is that, over time, the world seems to lose its magic. The endless possibilities once felt in youth fade into obligations and routines. Dreams shrink, becoming things you tell yourself were never practical to begin with.'
'Friendships thin as responsibilities grow heavier, and connections, once effortless, require planning, coordination, and energy that often run dry. The weight of expectations—both self-imposed and external—turns ambition into survival, as days blur into years, and before long, you're left wondering where the wonder went. Even joy feels measured, fleeting, swallowed by the constant pull of what comes next.'
Tom Crowley was no stranger to failure. It clung to him like a shadow, a constant reminder that he didn't belong in this world. While others: his siblings, his peers, the elites of the city—rose to power and wealth, he stumbled through life, lost in the cracks.
But the gym was different.
For a few hours, the cold weight of being a failure lifted, and he could pretend. Here, surrounded by the rough, musty smell of sweat and blood, Tom could imagine himself as something more. A fighter. A man with purpose.
He'd always loved boxing, not because he was any good at it—he wasn't, but because it gave him something. A chance. Maybe not at success, but at proving to himself he could take a punch and keep standing. Yet today, even that illusion was about to be shattered.
His heart pounded in his chest as he laced up his gloves, staring at the grimy boxing ring in front of him. The dim lights of the gym cast long shadows, making everything look dirtier, more desperate. Marcel, his opponent, stood in the opposite corner, towering over him. Muscles rippled under his sweat-slicked skin, his eyes cold and calculating. A real boxer. A real fighter.
Tom swallowed hard. His family had no idea what he was doing here tonight. Hell, they wouldn't care if they did. His brothers and sister, who are knights, and also the pride of the Crowley name—had already eclipsed him. To them, Tom was nothing more than the eldest disappointment. The failed son.
But tonight, he'd show them. Or so he hoped.
The bell rang, its shrill echo cutting through the air. Tom moved first, stepping into the center of the ring, fists raised. Marcel waited, like a predator eyeing weak prey. Tom threw the first punch, a wild jab aimed at Marcel's midsection. It missed. Marcel dodged with ease, his body moving like liquid, effortlessly avoiding the hit.
Before Tom could reset, a fist slammed into his ribs, sending a sharp, sickening pain up his side. He gasped, stumbling back, trying to catch his breath. Another punch came, this one crashing into his jaw. The world spun, colors blurring together as he staggered, trying to stay on his feet.
Marcel didn't let up.
A barrage of punches followed, each hit landing with bone-crushing force. Tom barely registered the pain; all he could think about was how stupid he'd been to believe he had a chance.
The final punch sent him crashing to the mat.
The world narrowed to the cold, rough surface beneath him, the cheers of the few onlookers fading into white noise. He lay there, chest heaving, blood pooling in his mouth, and wondered if this was what his life had always been leading to—a mess on the floor, barely worth a glance.
The referee didn't even bother to count. The fight was over.
"Get up, loser," Marcel sneered, stepping over him as the small crowd dispersed. No one offered a hand. No one cared.
Tom staggered to his feet, every part of him screaming in pain. He spit blood onto the mat, trying to catch his breath. His vision swam, his head pounding. The gym lights flickered above him, casting his shadow long and thin, like a ghost of himself.
He was a loser. The thought settled in his gut like lead.
---
Later, in the sterile, lifeless hospital room, Tom lay still, staring at the ceiling. His body was bruised and broken, a reflection of his shattered pride. The faint beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound, steady and indifferent.
The door creaked open. His mother, Ellen Crowley, rushed inside, her face pale with worry. She reached his bedside and gripped his hand tightly, her eyes brimming with tears. "Tom, thank the gods you're alright," she whispered, her voice shaking.
He tried to offer her a weak smile, but it felt hollow. She was the only one who had ever cared, the only one who had never turned her back on him. The rest of the world—including his father—had already written him off.
Speaking of his father.
Martin Crowley stood in the doorway, his face a mask of disappointment. He didn't approach. He didn't even look at Tom. Instead, he motioned for his wife to follow him outside.
Tom's heart sank. He knew what was coming. He could feel it in his bones.
Their voices were muffled, but the walls of the hospital room were thin. Too thin.
"He's a disgrace, Ellen," his father's voice came, cold and sharp. "A failure. How long will you keep pretending he's worth something? Look at his siblings...three knights, pillars of this city. And him? He can't even win a stupid boxing match. He's a curse on our family. How I wish he'd just..."
"Stop it!" His mother's voice trembled with desperation. "He's still our son."
Martin's reply was a scoff. "Our son? He's nothing. He should've died in that ring tonight. At least then he wouldn't be a constant reminder of the shame he brings to the Crowley name."
Tom squeezed his eyes shut, willing the words to disappear, but they lingered, cutting deeper than any punch Marcus had thrown. The worst part? He believed them. Every single word.
---
That night, sleep didn't bring peace. It brought something far worse.
Tom found himself standing in a dark, endless void, the air heavy with a suffocating weight. The silence pressed against his ears, deafening in its intensity. And then, out of the blackness, a figure emerged.
He was tall, draped in dark, ancient armor, his eyes burning with a cold, relentless fury. Tom's breath hitched as the man stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, like the embodiment of something primal and dangerous.
"You are weak," the man's voice echoed, cold and unfeeling.
Tom opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Fear gripped his chest like a vice.
The man raised a hand, and from the darkness, something appeared—a small, glowing orb, pulsing with an eerie light. It hovered between them, the energy radiating from it sending shivers down Tom's spine.
"This is power," the man said, his voice low and menacing. "Power that has been sealed within you, waiting. You are the heir to a strength that could reshape this world. But you are weak. Unworthy."
Tom's hand moved on its own, reaching for the orb. The light drew him in, a strange, hypnotic pull that he couldn't resist. Just as his fingers brushed the surface, a searing pain shot through his body. He cried out, the agony ripping through him, but the man's face twisted into a cruel smile.
"You are not ready," the man whispered, and the orb vanished into the void, leaving Tom gasping for air.
He woke with a start, drenched in sweat, his heart racing. The hospital room was dark, the silence oppressive. But the dream lingered, the man's voice echoing in his mind continually every seconds, as if he was still there.
Weak. Unworthy. Same words the people around him always use for him, that always hurt his feelings.
For a long time, Tom lay there, staring at the ceiling, the weight of his failures crushing him. Something inside him had shifted, something dangerous and dark. He didn't know what it was, but he could feel it—like a storm waiting to break. All he just wants is to escape his reality.
And for the first time, he wondered if maybe... just maybe...there was a way to change his fate.