Two hundred years back, the earth exploded in a cataclysm. The land tore asunder, continents split wide open—and from the chasm, the Moltens surged forth.
They weren't demons. They weren't visitors from another world. They were a living, seething tide of infernos—molten bodies that devoured steel and crumbled whole cities into blackened ash. Armies clashed with them, swords and spears meeting an unyielding, ceaseless force. They fell—only to collapse, reassemble, and storm forward once more.
The war ended in silence. There were too few souls left to fight.
Less than half of humanity made it through that endless night. And in the wake of their near-extinction… something awakened.
It started with a lone soldier, standing against fate.In his final, desperate stand, something ancient stirred within him. A spear materialized in his grasp, its energy crackling—a power older than the Moltens themselves. He struck… and for the first time, a Molten lay dead.
Then another stirred. And another.
They called it an Ancestral Remnant—a shard of forgotten blood, buried deep in the soul. Some whispered these remnants were echoes of long-dead gods, remnants of divinity that refused oblivion. Each awakening was unique: A warrior cleaved mountains with a summoned blade; a protector formed an unbreakable shield from nothing but will. Evolution's final gift, some said—a desperate adaptation in a dying world.
In the aftermath, the world rose anew. The Sentinel Order was born—a secret council of awakened leaders, watching from the shadows, regulating the burgeoning power of a new humanity. At first, nations united under this alliance. In time, the Sentinels alone stood as the last authority, silently guarding against any remnant who might become a threat.
With their newly awakened might, humanity pushed the Moltens to the edge. Massive walled cities, forged from fire-resistant stone and steel, rose like bastions against the monstrosities. Civilization has risen once more.
Yet, for every victory, a sacrifice was paid.
The unawakened fell away one by one. Some believed the world itself had shifted, no longer hospitable to ordinary flesh. Others murmured that the awakened had erased the old bloodlines.
Now, in the year 2225, only the awakened walk this scarred earth.
Everyone is born common—ordinary. But come their eighteenth birthday, at the stroke of midnight, the Ancestral Remnant bursts forth.
Everyone, except me.
Because I'm still 17.
My name… is Abaddon Alabaster.
I have never cried before.
Not when my grandparents passed. Not when my childhood dog was crushed under a transport drone. Not when I watched whole families shatter.
I knew the theory of sadness. I knew of that hollow ache in the chest, the crushing weight that steals breath. Tears were meant to flow naturally. Yet, I never cried.
I observed emotions like images on a screen.
The altruistic hero struggling with acceptance of himself.
The fragile soul crushed under society's expectations.
The orphan, desperate for even a spark of warmth.
Their pain was raw… more real than my own. Their joy, their suffering, their unbridled rage—something I would never feel.
Ironic, isn't it? That characters were mere words and images and they felt more human than I ever did.
That was the truth of human complexity.
Not one singular color, but a canvas drenched in contradictions. A palette of clashing hues, splattered and smeared. Selfish yet selfless, hopeful yet shattered. They were endless in their contradictions.
But stories—stories reduced them. Pinned them down. Gave them names, roles, purposes. They took the spectrum and chose just one color to paint with. Yet somehow, even that one color burned bright—vividly. More than I ever could.
And I longed to have that color.
Not to become a hero. Not to chase grand adventures. But—to feel. To know, beyond all doubt, that I too was a painting, or at the very least a singular color.
So, I read.
Every night, beneath the pulsating neon of Novasurge—the largest of the new cities—I lost myself in fictions of pain and hope. I imagined a life as the tragic sovereign, the hero who continued to descend into hell, the child whose mother had lied to him. I devoured their agony, yearning, praying that one day I'd feel something genuine.
Then, my eighteenth birthday arrived.
I sat at the edge of my bed, eyes fixed on the clock as midnight drew near. Beyond my window, the city shimmered. Outside those walls, the Moltens brooded. While the Sentinels patrolled.
But I cared little for that.
My trembling hands gripped an old, cherished book—the one I'd read until every word was seared into memory. A story of unbearable loss, of a promise clutched in the depths of despair.
What would my Remnant be?
The strong summoned blades and lances, beasts of myth, or even commanded the raw elements. A person's ancestral remnant was the very reflection of who they were.
Yet, I possessed no identity. No purpose. No genuine emotion of my own.
What could emerge from this hollow shell of mine?
As the clock struck midnight, I became eighteen.
The air shifted.
A pressure wrapped around me—seeping beneath my skin, into every bone. Something ancient, vast, ineffable whispered within.
And then it happened.
The book in my hands ignited. Words bled off the pages, twisting and reshaping, sinking deep into my flesh.
A tidal surge of emotions crashed over me.
Abandonment. Loneliness. Desperation.
Flashes of memories—not my own, but his.
A lone boy in the rain, watching his father's back recede into darkness, knowing he'd never return.
An empty, cold house filled with echoes of a bygone life.
A promise.
"Find people you can call family."
My chest clenched. My breath caught. Something wet, unfamiliar, dripped onto my hand.
I looked down.
Tears.
My fingers quivered as they brushed my cheek. My vision blurred. A raw, ragged sob clawed its way up, unfamiliar yet profound.
"Am I… truly crying?"
For the first time ever, I felt alive.
And it hurt.