The soft glow of dawn filtered through the curtains, casting gentle light over the boy's still figure. His breath came steady now, less shallow than before. The pain that had once seized every inch of his broken body had softened to a dull ache—a reminder that his flesh was mending, piece by piece.
His fingers twitched beneath the linen sheets, testing movement that had once seemed impossible. The fabric beneath his fingertips was smooth, foreign, yet comforting.
Slowly, he opened his eyes.
There, sitting vigil beside him as always, was the Empress.
Her silver hair shimmered faintly in the early light, a soft halo framing her serene face. Her delicate hands rested gently on the blanket near his arm, as if protecting him from unseen shadows.
Her eyes fluttered open as she sensed his stirring. A smile, tired but genuine, curved her lips.
"You're awake," she whispered, voice a soothing balm.
He tried to speak but his throat was dry, and all that escaped was a raspy whisper.
She reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, careful not to disturb the bandages.
"Take your time," she said softly. "The world can wait."
Pain and Progress
In the days that followed, the boy's recovery became a slow but steady march. The royal healers—women and men steeped in ancient arts—visited daily. Their hands glowed with soft light as they whispered incantations and laid their palms over his wounds.
Bones knit together with faint cracking sounds. Muscles stretched and relaxed. Tender skin began to bloom beneath the wrappings.
Yet, despite the physical healing, his heart carried scars older than any bone.
One afternoon, when the sun cast long, warm beams across the palace gardens, the Empress found him sitting on a low stone bench. His legs still weak, but steady enough to support him.
They sat in silence, the fragrant scent of blooming star-roses swirling gently in the breeze.
After a long pause, the boy's voice broke the quiet.
"Why… why do you care for me so much?"
Her gaze rested on the flowers.
"I have waited for you all my life," she said slowly. "You are the hope of this broken world."
He looked at her, confusion mingling with something fragile—longing.
"I am not a hero," he whispered. "I'm broken… nothing more."
She reached out, taking his hand in hers.
"Strength is born from brokenness, child. The world does not need perfect heroes, but those who stand despite their pain."
Over the next days, the Empress guided him through the vast palace, unveiling glimpses of the world he had entered.
She spoke of the Seven Kingdoms—nations once proud and mighty, now bruised and weary after decades of war with the demons of the Sixth Realm.
"The demons came like shadows from the abyss, tearing through lands and souls alike," she said, her voice heavy with sorrow.
"But humanity fought back with magic, with courage, and with the Mytherion Armors."
He frowned, curious.
"What are those?"
"The Mytherion Armors," she explained, "are more than mere protection. They are the souls of the bravest warriors, fused with ancient magic and mana—the lifeblood of this world."
She led him to a grand hall, where polished armor sets lined the walls, their surfaces shimmering with intricate runes.
"Each armor bonds to its wearer's soul," she continued. "Their strength grows with the wearer's mana circles—layers of spiritual energy that surround the heart."
The boy listened intently as the Empress described the system.
"Each person's heart can hold up to ten mana circles, forming through years of rigorous training and communion with nature," she said. "Those with more circles are stronger, faster, and more resilient."
His gaze dropped to his hands, still weak, still healing.
"Is it true that I can have more than ten?" he asked quietly.
She smiled gently.
"The prophecy speaks of a boy without limits—one whose soul will stretch beyond what this world has ever seen."
That evening, the boy stood on the balcony overlooking the city below. The vast sprawl of stone and wood stretched to the horizon, lit by lanterns glowing like stars against the darkening sky.
His mind churned.
Could he really be the Chosen One? The savior the world whispered about in fear and hope?
He clenched his fists, the golden mark on his forehead glowing faintly in the moonlight.
"I don't even remember who I was before," he muttered to himself. "How can I save a world I don't understand?"
A cold wind brushed past him, carrying distant echoes—whispers of ancient battles, fallen heroes, and the endless struggle between light and shadow.
Later, when the palace had quieted and the moon hung high, the boy lay awake in his chamber.
His eyes fixed on the ceiling, where shadows danced like memories.
Then, deep inside, a voice spoke—not with words, but with feeling.
It was neither loud nor clear, but ancient and vast.
"Child of the Skytear…"
His heart thundered.
"The path awakens. The Prophecy Stone awaits your touch."
The mark on his forehead flared with a golden blaze, bathing the room in ethereal light.
He sat up, breath ragged.
"Who… who is calling me?"
The Empress entered quietly, her eyes wide with awe as she saw the glowing mark.
"It has begun," she whispered.
She explained that the Prophecy Stone was an ancient relic hidden deep within the Celestial Academy, a place where the strongest souls gathered to prove their worth.
"Touching the stone will awaken your soul's armor," she said.
"But it is no easy trial. Many come to the Academy, but few awaken the power within."
He nodded, determination rising like a tide.
"I will go."
Far beneath the city, in the vaulted chambers of the Celestial Academy, the Prophecy Stone pulsed softly.
For centuries, it lay dormant, waiting for the chosen soul.
Now, its light spread like veins of fire, illuminating ancient runes etched in silver.
The stone's hum echoed through the halls—a call that only the true Chosen One could hear.
The boy stood by the window, watching the stars fade with the coming dawn.
A fire burned inside him now—a promise and a challenge.
The road ahead was uncertain, filled with doubt, enemies, and trials.
But for the first time, he felt the stirring of something he had never known:
Hope.
To be continued :~