The sharp clang of steel echoed in the air, cutting through the heavy silence. Dust swirled around two figures locked in a fierce, unrelenting battle. Sparks lit up the shadows with every collision of their blades, the raw force behind each swing reverberating through the ground.
A young man with jet-black hair, matted to his forehead with sweat, gripped his sword tightly. His dark blue eyes burned with an intensity that bordered on feral, a reflection of the resolve etched across his bruised and bloodied face. He wore black armor that hugged his frame, its surface scarred by countless clashes. Thin blue veins of light traced across the metal, pulsing faintly with each labored breath he took.
Across from him stood a golden-haired boy, his blue eyes hard yet filled with conflict. Blood ran in thin rivulets down his cheek, his armor—silver and meticulously crafted—bearing fresh dents and scratches from the battle. Despite the exhaustion written in every line of his posture, he raised his sword again, unyielding.
Their blades met once more, the impact ringing out like a thunderclap. The force sent both skidding back, their boots grinding against the dirt as they struggled to maintain balance.
The golden-haired boy winced, wiping at the blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. His breaths came shallow and quick, but he managed to steady himself. "Stop this!" he shouted, his voice trembling—not with fear, but with desperation. "You don't have to go any further. This isn't the way!"
The black-haired man pressed a hand to his ribs, a shallow cut bleeding through the seams of his armor. His chest heaved as he leaned on his sword momentarily, eyes locked on his opponent.
"Get out of my way," he growled, his voice rough, each word sharp as the blade in his hand.
The golden-haired boy tightened his grip on his weapon, his knuckles white against the hilt. "I'm not letting you go any further." His tone softened briefly, almost pleading. "Don't cross this line. It's not too late to turn back."
The black-haired fighter's expression darkened, his teeth clenched. He straightened, dragging his sword free from the ground and pointing it forward.
"That line was crossed the moment they took everything from me." His words hung in the air, heavy with rage and sorrow.
For a moment, neither moved. The golden-haired boy's face faltered, his resolve flickering as he processed the weight of those words. But his grip on his sword didn't loosen. "Then I'll stop you myself," he said quietly, though his voice betrayed the hesitation he felt.
The two fighters charged, their swords clashing with such force that the ground beneath them cracked. Dust exploded outward, forming a swirling curtain around the battlefield. Their movements were calculated yet ferocious, their blades striking with precision as the battle raged on.
Each swing carried the weight of their convictions, each parry a testament to their will. Neither gave an inch, though both bore the scars of their struggle. The golden-haired boy's breathing grew more labored, his strikes losing a fraction of their speed. The black-haired fighter pushed forward, his blows heavy despite the pain radiating through his body.
As their swords locked once more, the tension between them crackled in the air. Their eyes met, unspoken words passing in that fleeting moment—a clash of ideals as much as steel.
Without a word, they broke apart, only to charge again, their blades cutting through the swirling dust like flashes of lightning. The battlefield bore the marks of their fight, scars etched into the earth itself.
And yet, they fought on, driven by forces neither could fully contain.
***
Present Day
The distant hum of traffic mingled with the gentle rustling of trees, their vibrant green leaves swaying softly under the warm afternoon sun. Baldur City's outskirts were quieter than its bustling center, where towering skyscrapers gleamed with advanced technology. Here, the streets were simpler, lined with modest buildings and shops that exuded a sense of familiarity.
Ren, a 16-year-old boy, strolled down the narrow cobblestone path, his hands tucked into the pockets of his plain jacket. His black hair fell messily over his dark blue eyes, and a thin necklace hung loosely around his neck, the red stone embedded in its center catching the faint light. Behind him, a sleek, flexible tail swayed slightly with each step, a subtle but constant reminder of what set him apart.
The streets were alive with small chatter and the occasional hum of passing hovering cars. A shop caught Ren's attention, its wooden sign swinging lazily in the wind. The scent of herbs and potions wafted through the open door, drawing him in.
Inside, shelves lined the walls, crammed with jars and vials of varying colors and sizes. A burly man stood behind the counter, his arms crossed over his apron. His graying beard framed a face that was weathered but kind, his piercing eyes softened by years of serving his small community.
Ren approached, pulling out a few coins from his pocket. "One mana potion, please," he said, placing the money on the counter.
The shopkeeper raised a thick eyebrow, scrutinizing Ren for a moment. He sighed, picking up the coins and dropping them into the till. "You know," he began, his voice deep but gentle, "you really should be using this money for yourself. The school gives you funds for a reason."
Ren's expression faltered, his eyes drifting downward.
The man continued, "Giving mana potions to your mother won't cure her, kid. Her illness isn't something magic can fix." His tone wasn't harsh, but it carried the weight of experience.
"I know that," Ren replied, his voice quiet but firm. He hesitated, gripping the edge of the counter. "But… it helps her feel better. Even if it's just for a little while."
The shopkeeper sighed again, shaking his head. "You've got a good heart, but if you keep going like this, you won't have anything left for yourself. You've got a chance, you know? To join the Academy, to make something of yourself. Don't throw that away."
Ren's grip tightened on the counter. His voice trembled slightly as he replied, "She's my mom. I can't just… leave her like this."
The shopkeeper studied him for a long moment before his expression softened. "You're stubborn, just like your old man was." He turned and reached under the counter, pulling out a small vial of shimmering blue liquid along with a small pouch of herbal medicine.
"Here," he said, sliding them across the counter.
Ren blinked, surprised. "But—"
"Just take it, kiddo," the shopkeeper interrupted with a wave of his hand. "Call it a favor. You remind me too much of your father to let you walk out empty-handed."
Ren hesitated before bowing his head deeply. "Thank you," he said earnestly, his voice filled with gratitude.
"Yeah, yeah," the shopkeeper muttered, waving him off. "Now get out of here before I change my mind."
Ren gave a small, grateful smile before tucking the items into his bag and stepping out of the shop. The afternoon sun bathed the quiet streets in a golden glow as he made his way back home.
Ren's small apartment was tucked away at the edge of the district, nestled between other modest homes. The building was worn but sturdy, its metal walls scuffed and weathered by time. A narrow staircase led up to his unit, and the faint hum of nearby machinery filled the air.
As he approached the door, Ren dug into his pocket, pulling out a small key. He unlocked the door with a soft click and stepped inside, closing it behind him. The apartment was small, consisting of a kitchen, a single bedroom, and a cramped bathroom. The walls were plain, with only a few personal items scattered around—a family photo on a shelf, a cracked vase holding dried flowers, and a faded rug beneath the small dining table.
Ren set the mana potion and the pouch of medicine on the counter, letting out a quiet sigh. The kitchen was simple, with outdated appliances and a single burner stove. He rolled up his sleeves, his tail flicking slightly as he prepared to cook.
Opening a cabinet, Ren pulled out a small pot and a few ingredients—some vegetables, dried herbs, and a handful of grains. He worked methodically, chopping the vegetables into small pieces and heating water on the stove. As the soup began to bubble, he uncorked the vial of mana potion. The faintly glowing liquid inside swirled like molten sapphire.
Carefully, Ren poured the potion into the pot, watching as the soup took on a faint shimmer. He stirred it gently, the aroma filling the apartment.
When the soup was ready, he ladled it into a small bowl, grabbed the pouch of medicine, and made his way to the bedroom.
The room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn to block out most of the sunlight. On the bed lay a frail woman, her black hair spread across the pillow like a dark halo. Her blue eyes, though dulled by sickness, lit up when she saw Ren enter.
"Mom," Ren said softly, his voice tinged with both warmth and worry. He set the bowl and medicine on the bedside table, pulling a chair close to the bed. "I made soup for you."
His mother smiled weakly, her hand trembling as she reached out to touch his head. She patted his hair gently, her touch light as a feather. "My son…" she murmured, her voice raspy. She paused to cough, her frail body shuddering with the effort.
"Mom, don't push yourself," Ren said quickly, his brow furrowed in concern.
"I'm sorry," she said after a moment, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry for putting you through this… for being a burden."
Ren's hands clenched into fists, his knuckles turning white. "That's not true!" he said, his voice cracking slightly. "You're not a burden at all! You're my mom. I'll do whatever it takes to take care of you."
Her lips curled into a faint smile, wrinkles lining her face. "You've always been so kind… so strong," she said, her eyes glistening. "I just wish… I could do more for you."
Ren shook his head. "You don't need to do anything, Mom. Just focus on getting better."
She coughed again, this time more violently. Ren quickly reached for a cloth, wiping away the small traces of blood that appeared at the corner of her mouth. His heart pounded in his chest as he watched her struggle to breathe.
"I'll get a doctor," he said, his voice urgent as he stood.
"No…" She grabbed his hand with surprising strength, her grip firm despite her frailty. "There's no need… cough…"
"Mom, your symptoms are getting worse!" Ren protested, his voice rising in desperation.
Without waiting for her reply, he bolted out of the room and grabbed the phone in the kitchen. His fingers trembled as he dialed the number for the nearest clinic.
"The number you have dialed is currently switched off," the automated voice replied.
Ren stared at the phone in disbelief before trying another clinic, and then another. Each time, the response was the same. His frustration mounted as he looked at the signal indicator on the device.
"No signal?" he muttered, his confusion growing. "What the hell is going on?"
Before he could process the situation, a deafening explosion shook the apartment. The walls rattled, and a glass on the counter shattered.
Ren rushed to the window, his eyes widening at the sight before him. Smoke billowed into the sky, and flames engulfed the street below. At the center of the chaos was a massive aircraft, its sleek frame crumpled and torn. Sparks flew from its shattered hull, and small fires dotted the wreckage.
People ran in all directions, their screams piercing the air as panic spread like wildfire.
Ren's breath caught in his throat as he stared at the scene, his mind racing. "What… is happening?"