The sky burned with streaks of orange and gold, its beauty a stark contrast to the young man standing on the cracked pavement below. Arin's crimson eyes stared at the horizon, misty with emotions he refused to release. His slender fingers clutched the handles of two grocery bags, trembling slightly. The black shirt he wore bore the bold words Grim Lord, almost mocking the frail figure underneath. His jeans were faded, and his worn-out sneakers scraped against the pavement.

"It's that time of year again…" he muttered to himself, his voice thick with sorrow.

The headphones hanging around his neck buzzed faintly with a melancholic tune, the kind that amplified the ache in his chest. Today wasn't just another day; it was the anniversary of his family's death.

He sniffled, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve. "Let's just get this over with," he whispered. "The sooner this day ends, the better."

As he stepped onto the dimly lit pathway leading away from the convenience store, his mind replayed the horrific memories of his past—the screams of his family, the flames that consumed everything, and the cold, accusing stares of the people who once called them neighbors.

Arin had been born into a world teeming with supernatural marvels: cities protected by towering heroes, streets patrolled by flying vigilantes, and beasts that could obliterate armies with a swipe of their claws. It was a world where abilities defined your worth, where even a minor power could mean the difference between respect and ridicule.

But for Arin, there was no such privilege. He was an anomaly, a freak. No powers. No mutant cells. Nothing. He was the sole powerless being in a world designed for the extraordinary.

When calamity struck his family, the villagers didn't mourn. They pointed fingers.

"It's because of him," they had whispered. "The cursed child. He brought this upon them."

Long before the tragedy, whispers had haunted the house of the Varlins. Arin's parents, Erynn and Cale, were well-loved by the village. His father was a skilled carpenter, and his mother, a healer whose gentle touch had saved countless lives. But the moment Arin was born, the warmth of the community turned cold.

"He has no aura," the elders had said when they examined him as a baby. In their world, even newborns displayed faint traces of latent power—an invisible energy that marked their potential. But Arin had none. He was a void in a world brimming with life, and to many, that void was unnatural.

"It's not right," the villagers whispered. "A child with no aura is a bad omen. He'll bring ruin to his family."

At first, his parents dismissed the murmurs. They held their son close, protecting him from the growing unease of the community. But as the years passed and Arin showed no signs of developing any powers, the whispers grew louder, harsher.

"He's cursed," they said. "Get rid of him before it's too late."

Villagers would approach Erynn at the market, their voices dripping with faux concern. "You're a kind woman, Erynn," they'd say, shaking their heads. "But keeping that boy… It's dangerous. For all of us."

Cale faced even more direct threats. Men from the village would corner him at his workshop, their faces grim. "You have a duty to your family, Cale," one of them said, slamming a fist on the table. "A man protects his kin from harm. And that boy is harm."

But no amount of pressure could break their resolve. "He's our son," Cale would say, his voice firm. "Whatever he is, we'll protect him."

The Night of the Calamity

The night was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that felt unnatural. Arin, just six years old, sat on the floor of their modest home, stacking wooden blocks in a futile attempt to distract himself from the heavy tension in the air. His mother sat by the window, her eyes scanning the darkness outside. His father was in the next room, sharpening an old blade—a precaution, he said, though against what, he didn't know.

"Mom?" Arin's small voice broke the silence. "Why are the villagers so mad at me?"

Erynn turned to him, her heart breaking at the sight of his innocent face. "They're just scared, sweetheart," she said, forcing a smile. "Sometimes, people fear what they don't understand."

Before Arin could ask more, the ground beneath them began to tremble. It started as a faint vibration, but within seconds, it turned into a violent quake. Dishes fell from the shelves, shattering on the floor. The walls groaned as if under immense pressure.

"Cale!" Erynn shouted, grabbing Arin and holding him close.

"I'm here!" Cale burst into the room, his face pale. "We need to get out!"

But before they could move, a deafening roar filled the air. A massive crack split the ground outside their home, and from it erupted a surge of molten fire. It wasn't a natural disaster; it was something otherworldly. The flames seemed alive, twisting and writhing as they spread through the village, consuming everything in their path.

The villagers' screams echoed in the distance, but none came to help.

"It's him!" a voice shouted from outside. "The boy! He's brought this upon us!"

Through the window, Arin saw their faces—twisted with fear and hatred—as they pointed toward their home.

"They're blaming us," Erynn whispered, her voice trembling.

Cale grabbed Arin by the shoulders, his eyes fierce. "Listen to me, son. You stay with your mother. No matter what happens, you stay with her."

"No!" Arin cried, tears streaming down his face. "I want to stay with you!"

But Cale was already moving, grabbing a heavy wooden beam to barricade the door as the flames closed in.

The fire reached their home within minutes, the heat unbearable. Erynn clutched Arin tightly, her hands trembling as she whispered prayers to gods she wasn't sure existed. Cale stood between them and the inferno, his makeshift barricade doing little to stop the relentless flames.

When the roof began to collapse, Erynn made a choice. She wrapped her body around Arin, shielding him with her own flesh. "Don't look," she whispered, pressing his face into her chest as the heat grew unbearable.

"Mom… Dad…" Arin sobbed, his small hands clutching her shirt.

Cale turned to them one last time, his face etched with despair and love. "We love you, son. Never forget that."

The last thing Arin saw before darkness consumed him was his father stepping into the flames, a desperate attempt to hold them back.

When Arin woke, he was surrounded by rubble. His parents were gone, their bodies reduced to ash. The villagers stood at a distance, their faces a mix of horror and resentment.

"He survived," one of them muttered.

"Of course he did," another sneered. "The cursed ones always do."

No one offered him comfort. No one helped him as he staggered to his feet, his body covered in burns and ash. They left him there, a broken child amidst the ruins of his life.

"It's his fault," they muttered, spitting at the sight of him. "If they'd abandoned him like they should have, they'd still be alive."

The label of curse stuck, and from then on, Arin was no longer just powerless—he was hated.