Some people might think being named after a god was a blessing.
Not for the boy named Pralaya.
He was named after the god that even the heavens had cast away, a name cursed throughout history. A name that no sane parent would give their child—unless they saw him as a burden.
Standing in front of the worn-out door of his home, Pralaya hesitated. He didn't want to go in. His life inside that house was hell.
An abusive father, whose life revolved around drinking, complaining, and beating him. A timid mother, who stood by and watched, never interfering, never defending him. He had always known they didn't love him. If they did, why the fuck would they name him after a forsaken god?
His father never missed a chance to remind him:
"You ruined my life."
Pralaya never understood what he meant. It wasn't like he had asked to be born.
For twenty minutes, he stood outside, lost in thought, contemplating whether he should even go in. But in the end, he sighed and stepped inside.
---
The overpowering stench of alcohol hit him the moment he entered. He nearly gagged. The air in the small, dimly lit house reeked of cheap beer, sweat, and regret.
His father sat on the couch, an empty bottle rolling near his feet. His eyes, bloodshot and dull, barely flickered in his direction.
"I'm home," Pralaya muttered.
"Get lost."
No anger, no effort—just dismissal.
He was used to this. If he greeted his father, he'd be told to get lost. If he didn't, he'd be beaten. Either way, it was the same bullshit.
Sighing, he walked past the living room and into the small kitchen. His mother was there, cooking. Her posture was as weak and timid as ever. She barely acknowledged him, her hands trembling as she chopped vegetables.
"I'm back," he said.
She didn't reply. She never did.
Pralaya didn't wait for an answer. He had long since stopped expecting one.
To him, she was worse than his father. His father was a violent drunk, but at least he was honest in his cruelty. His mother? She just stood by and watched. Even when he was beaten, even when he screamed for help—she did nothing.
He walked to his small, empty room, closing the door behind him.
There was nothing special about it. Just a bed and a side table. No posters, no decorations, nothing that made it feel his. His family was poor, barely scraping by in the lower class of Gaia.
---
The City of Gaia
People called Gaia the city of dreams.
That was a lie.
Built over a hundred years ago, Gaia was meant to be the city of tomorrow—a place free from national borders, where all could prosper. In the beginning, it fulfilled that promise. But just like everything touched by humanity, it became corrupt.
Now, Gaia was divided into four classes:
1. The Rich & Wealthy – The rulers of the city, living in luxurious high-rises, untouched by crime or suffering.
2. The Middle Class – The struggling workers, constantly teetering between stability and ruin.
3. The Lower Class – The forgotten ones, living in the slums, barely making it through each day.
4. The Slaves – The lowest of the low, people who had lost everything and were sold like property.
Pralaya's family belonged to the lower class, a step away from ruin.
---
When dinner came, they ate in silence. No conversation. No warmth. Just the sound of utensils scraping against plates.
Pralaya didn't bother looking at his parents. He had nothing to say to them.
Then—
BOOM!
A massive explosion shook the house.
The windows shattered. The ground rumbled beneath them.
Pralaya's heart pounded. What the hell was that?!