LIN ONGRO

The protests rage on, shaking the ground beneath us as ordinary beings rise up in defiance. Among them, a monstrous figure appears—muscles rippling beneath his grey skin, his eyes burning with rage. He roars, and suddenly, ten thousand bloody creatures pour onto the streets, tearing through the crowds. The world becomes chaos, soaked in the blood of the fallen. Ordinary beings, millions of them, perish under his wrath.

I watch in horror as the uprising is crushed, but my father doesn't flinch. His face, hardened with resolve, turns toward the battlefield. He raises his hand, calling upon the higher beings, summoning them into the fight. His voice cuts through the chaos like a blade.

"Assist Path Finder," he commands, his tone resolute. "I will stop Garma. This war ends now. I've heard enough."

Without hesitation, his body begins to change, growing larger, more powerful. His wings, immense and dark, unfurl from his back. In a single motion, he soars into the sky, heading toward Grandfather—Garma, the very one who set all of this in motion.

I'm not myself anymore. My older self is in the heat of battle, fighting off gods who've chosen the path of evil. The air around me pulses with power, the sound of my wings beating heavy in my ears. I look up just in time to see my father—a massive figure against the sky, flying straight for Garma.

Panic hits me like a wave.

"Dad, wait!" I scream, but he doesn't hear me. "Dad, please, don't leave!"

I jolt awake, gasping for air, as if I've been drowning. My heart races, my breath comes fast. The words keep tumbling from my lips. "Dad, wait! Don't leave me!"

Before I can say more, my father is by my side, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. His other hand cups my head, calming me, grounding me.

"I'm here, my love," he whispers softly, pulling me closer. "I'm not going anywhere. It was just a dream. It's not real."

"No, it felt real. Too real," I say, my voice shaking. "I couldn't watch the end because I was too scared."

Tears sting my eyes, and I bury my face against his chest.

"Don't cry," he says gently, brushing my hair with his fingers. "Your mom and I are here. We'll always protect you. Now, lie down and rest."

"No, Dad," I plead, clutching his arm. "I need you to tell me a story."

He sighs softly, smiling. "When the sun rises, sweetheart. For now, just rest."

I reluctantly lay back down, but the fear still clings to me. Sleep doesn't come easily, and my eyes stay wide open.

When the first rays of sunlight peek through the window, bathing the room in soft, warm light, I leap out of bed.

"Dad! It's morning!" I cry, shaking him awake. "You promised a story!"

He groans, turning over, still heavy with sleep. But before he can protest, Mom sits up beside him, her eyes barely open.

"Come on, sweetheart," she says gently, "let him sleep a little longer."

"No, Mom! He promised!" I insist, tugging at his blanket. I keep at it until finally, he sits up, rubbing his eyes.

"Alright, alright," he mutters with a chuckle. "I'm up."

I grin and greet them both. "Greetings to you, Dad. Greetings to you, Mom."

"Greetings to you, my daughter," they both reply, their voices still thick with sleep.

"Dad, do you remember your promise?" I ask eagerly.

He smiles. "Yes, but first, take your bath and go get the other children."

In a flash, I take my bath and dash out, rounding up the others in a small old house. The elderly women spread out mats for us, and we all gather around my father, our eyes wide with anticipation. He sits tall, his presence commanding even in this small, peaceful moment. To us, he's not just our father—he's a warrior, a protector.

"Are you ready to listen to my story?" he asks, his voice warm and inviting.

"Yes!" we all shout in unison.

"Good. Today, I'm going to tell you about our home—our planet."

A younger child raises his hand timidly. "What's a planet?"

My father smiles patiently. "A planet is a large, natural object that orbits around a star. Understand?"

The child nods, and my father continues.

"Our planet is called Megan. It's much larger than Earth, with mountains, ravines, oceans, and vast cities. Its soil is blue, and the air is heavier than what you're used to here. It has two moons and orbits a red sun, far from this solar system. Long ago, Megan was home to some of the most dangerous creatures in the universe. To survive, the beings of Megan created Erebus, the son of Emperor Pontius, through forced evolution. Until its destruction, many dangerous animals, including Vicious Predators, still existed on Megan. Gods, Bloody scars and humanoids, weaker species had to use their advanced technology to survive."

I raise my hand, curiosity getting the better of me. "Dad, who are the gods and Bloody Scars you mentioned?"

He looks at me thoughtfully before answering. "Gods are beings with extraordinary powers—abilities that can shape entire cities, even planets. Some use their powers for good, while others, like Garma, use theirs for destruction. You, your mother, and everyone here—we're gods too."

Our eyes widen in awe. I can't help but smile at the thought. "So, I'm a goddess? I can be that powerful?"

"Yes, but power isn't everything," he warns. "You must train, learn to control it. Without training, power is dangerous. As for the Bloody Scars, they are warriors, cruel and armored. Their skin is scaled, usually arranged in a regular pattern and are covered with thick, bony sections called plates, and they use weapons to conquer. Trust me, you don't want to meet them."

I wrinkle my nose. "That sounds terrible."

"It is," he agrees. "And the humanoids—while weaker—are smart. They built machines and weapons to survive on Megan. It's why they're still around."

He leans back, a thoughtful look on his face. "Megan was a paradise once, but with power comes greed, and soon, the gods began to fight. It's a story as old as time."

Marger, my cousin, interrupts. "But what about Erebus?"

My father smiles, shaking his head. "That, my boy, is a story for another day."

The other children groan and scatter, but I stay behind, thinking about the story. It feels... off, like one of those fairytales my mom or grandma used to tell. It doesn't seem real. I step forward, wanting to ask Dad about it, but my cousin, Drax, jumps in first.

"Excuse me, Dad—" I begin.

Drax cuts me off. "You haven't told us your name, sir. What's your name?" he asks, almost too eagerly.

Dad smiles, his voice calm but strong. "Radnak. My name is Radnak, the god of light."

My mind races. *Radnak.* The name rolls around in my thoughts, and I feel a little embarrassed. I'm six years old, and yet I never knew my father's name until now. But at least now I do. It sounds... important, like something I should've known all along.I approach my father, still curious.

"Is all of this true?" I ask quietly.

He kneels down, looking me in the eye. "Yes, my love. Every word."

I hesitate, then whisper, "But… I'm not sure if I believe it."

He chuckles softly. "You believed the part about being a goddess, didn't you?"

I nod. "I should be a goddess. It's my destiny."

He takes my hand, his grip firm but gentle. "And when you turn ten, your training will begin."

The promise in his words sends a shiver down my spine. My destiny is just beginning.

Four years later

I close my eyes and steady my breath, standing before Drax. His voice is a steady rumble, a constant reminder that I am far from perfect, but closer to something strong. The training grounds, with their endless stretch of smoldering embers, feel like an extension of him—unforgiving and relentless.

"Lin," Drax growls, his voice full of weight and expectation. "No powers. No weapons. Just your fists."

I try not to show my hesitation. My fists? I've always been able to create weapons when I need them. But with Drax, there's no room for shortcuts. It's only me—no powers to lean on. He believes that strength comes from within, and right now, he's forcing me to find it.

I charge forward, aiming for his midsection, my fists clenching. But he's already moving before I can blink, sidestepping my attack with ease. I swing again, harder this time, but he grabs my wrist like I'm nothing. With a swift pull, I'm off balance, and his knee drives into my stomach, knocking the air from my lungs. The pain is sharp, but not unfamiliar.

"Sloppy!" he snaps, dropping me to the ground. "You've been relying on your powers for too long. Learn to fight without them. Again!"

I stagger to my feet, gasping for air. This is nothing new—days, weeks, months of the same. Every bruise, every fall makes me stronger. Drax pushes me, harder than anyone else could. His lessons aren't kind, but they're necessary. Slowly, I learn to anticipate, to move with intent. The earth beneath my feet, the air around me—everything becomes sharper, clearer. I'm no longer fighting blindly; I'm reading his movements, striking with purpose. Even without my powers, I become a weapon.

Years pass, and now I face Marger. His energy is wild, electric—so different from Drax's steady flame. He tosses two gleaming blades to me, and I catch them, feeling their weight in my hands. It feels strange after years of fighting with just my fists. I study the blades, trying to understand how they fit into my body's rhythm.

"Show me what Drax taught you," Marger says with a smirk.

I attack, swinging the blades with everything I have. But Marger's movements are fast, like a storm. He dodges effortlessly, weaving through my strikes like lightning avoiding the ground. In an instant, he taps my shoulder lightly, sending me stumbling forward.

"Too slow," he laughs. "You must move like the storm—unpredictable, fast."

Frustration rises in my chest, but I push it down. I tighten my grip on the blades and try again. This time, I let go of the rigid movements I was taught and start flowing. The blades become an extension of my body, and as Marger throws more rapid strikes my way, I begin to meet them—matching his speed, adjusting to his rhythm.

Weeks become years, and I grow more fluid, more dangerous. Marger pushes me harder, always forcing me to adapt. Under his guidance, the weapons I wield become as natural as my own hands. I learn to channel my instincts through them, to let them become part of me.

To be continued....