Two hundred years ago, the earth ruptured. Continents split apart, and from the abyss, the Moltens emerged.
They were not demons. Not aliens. They were something worse—an endless tide of living infernos, their molten bodies melting steel and reducing cities to cinders. Armies fought, but the Moltens did not die. They collapsed, reformed, and surged forward.
The war ended when there weren't enough people left to fight.
Less than half of humanity survived. And in the wake of near-extinction, something changed.
It began with a single soldier. In his final stand, something ancient stirred within him. A spear materialized in his grasp, crackling with a power older than the Moltens themselves. He struck—and for the first time, a Molten stayed dead.
Then another awakened. And another.
They called it an Ancestral Remnant—a fragment of something buried deep within bloodlines and souls. Some scholars claimed these remnants belonged to forgotten gods, long dead but never truly gone. Each awakening was unique: a warrior might summon a blade to cleave mountains, a protector an unbreakable shield.
Some called it evolution's final gift, a desperate adaptation for survival.
The world rebuilt around these awakened. The Sentinel Order was formed, an organization meant to guide and regulate them. At first, it was an alliance of world leaders, but as time passed, the Sentinels remained the only authority, watching from the shadows, ensuring no awakened became a threat.
With their newfound strength, humanity pushed the Moltens back. Massive walled cities rose, resistant to fire and destruction. Civilization returned—not as it once was, but as something new.
Yet, for all that was gained, something was lost.
The unawakened could not survive.
One by one, they withered away. Some believed the world itself had changed, making it impossible for ordinary humans to exist. Others theorized that the awakened erased the old bloodlines, forcing evolution's hand.
Now, in the year 2225, only the awakened remain.
Everyone is born ordinary. But on their eighteenth birthday, at the stroke of midnight, their Ancestral Remnant awakens.
Everyone except me.
Because I am still waiting.
My name is Abaddon Alabaster.
I have never cried before.
Not when my grandparents died. Not when my childhood dog was crushed beneath a transport drone. Not when I watched families crumble, their loved ones lost to the Moltens.
I understood sadness in theory. That hollow ache in the chest, the weight that makes breathing difficult—I knew it existed. Tears were supposed to be the natural response. But I never felt it.
Instead, I watched emotions play out on a screen.
The altruistic hero who struggled with accepting who he was. The weakling who was subjugated to societal expectations. The orphan searching for warmth.
Their pain felt more real than mine. Their joy, their suffering, their rage—it stirred something inside me, a phantom of emotions I could only borrow. Ironic, wasn't it? That characters—nothing more than words and images—felt more human than I did.
That was human complexity.
Not a singular trait. Not a single theme. Humans were contradictions—selfish and selfless, hopeful and broken. They embodied so many things at once. But stories? Stories simplified them. Characters had purpose, a defined role.
And yet, I wanted to be like them.
Not to be a hero. Not to seek adventure. But to feel. To know, beyond doubt, that the emotions inside me were real.
So, I read.
Every night, beneath the neon glow of Novasurge, the largest of the rebuilt cities, I lost myself in fiction. I imagined myself as the tragic sovereign, the lazy prodigy, the wretched child. I lived their pain, hoping—praying—that one day, I would find something real.
And then, my eighteenth birthday arrived.
I sat on the edge of my bed, watching the clock tick closer to midnight. Outside, the city shimmered—a fortress of steel and energy, built to withstand extinction. Beyond the walls, the Moltens lurked. The Sentinels patrolled, ensuring none breached the borders.
But I didn't care about that.
My hands gripped an old book—one of my favorites. I had read it a dozen times, memorized every line, every tragedy woven into its pages. A story of loss. A story of hope. A character with nothing left but a promise to keep.
What would my Remnant be?
The strong wielded swords and lances. Some summoned beasts of legend; others bent the elements to their will. A person's power was a reflection of who they were, distilled into a single ability.
But I had no identity. No purpose. No emotions of my own.
What would manifest from a hollow person?
The clock struck 12:00, I became 18.
The air shifted.
A pressure wrapped around me, seeping into my skin, my bones. Something ancient, vast, and unknowable whispered through me. It wasn't a voice, but a feeling—a silent recognition.
Then, it happened.
The book in my hands burned—not with fire, but with something deeper. Words bled from the pages, twisting, reshaping, sinking into my flesh.
A tidal wave of emotions crashed over me.
Abandonment. Loneliness. Desperation.
Memories—not mine—his.
A boy standing alone in the rain, watching his father walk away, knowing he would never return.
A hollow house, empty and cold, filled with echoes of a life that no longer existed.
A promise.
"Find people you can call family."
My chest tightened. My breath hitched. Something wet dripped onto my hand.
I looked down.
Tears.
My fingers trembled as they touched my face. My vision blurred, my throat clenched. A sob clawed its way up, raw and unfamiliar.
"Am I… actually crying?"
For the first time in my life, I felt real.
And it hurt.