The stars hung silently above the hidden island, their glow diffused through the strange fog that cloaked the sea. A hush lay over the Walker estate, like the world itself was holding its breath.
Inside the manor, behind engraved stone walls and golden-laced silk curtains, a child whimpered in his sleep.
He didn't cry loudly.
There was no screaming, no tossing in bed, no calling for help like most children his age would. No, Allen D. Walker, barely a year and a half old, simply whimpered—quiet and pained.
But the air around him trembled.
Faint ripples rolled outward from his tiny crib—like soundless waves, barely noticeable. Yet the wood in the walls groaned. The glass of nearby windows subtly quivered. Tiny insects died where they stood.
His Haki… was bleeding.
Not out of rage.
But sorrow.
Deep, soul-rooted sorrow.
And it touched the world like a grieving god's whisper.
Serena D. Walker was halfway across the estate when she stopped.
She had been meditating alone atop the east tower, sitting under the stars, balancing her breath with the flow of the sea. Then her heart seized.
Like someone had struck her chest without a weapon.
Her eyes snapped open. The cold sea breeze no longer touched her. Something ancient stirred in her gut—something motherly, and something dangerous.
She didn't hesitate.
In a blur of motion, she vanished from the tower.
Allen twisted faintly under his blanket. He couldn't speak, couldn't scream.
But in his dreams…
He was there again.
Alone. Sitting in that tiny, grey apartment. Walls paper-thin. Floor cracked and cold. A single chair. A plastic table. One flickering light bulb.
And a cake.
A small one. Cheap. Store-bought. The kind nobody really wants, just enough to say "I remembered."
There were 17 candles on it.
But only one flame was lit.
And no one else was there.
He sat in front of it for what felt like hours.
"Maybe they forgot again," the memory-him whispered.
"It's okay. I knew they would."
Then silence.
The candles melted into puddles. The cake sagged. Still, no knock at the door. No call. No message.
Just an empty inbox and a heart slowly hollowing out.
He blew out the last flame alone.
The door to his room burst open, but didn't make a sound. Serena didn't need to use force. She slipped in silently, almost reverently.
Then she froze.
The air in the nursery was thick. Like grief made physical.
And hovering above her son's crib, like a ghostly film of mist, were fragments of memory.
Not his.
Not from this life.
But something else.
Serena stepped closer, eyes wide, heart thundering. Her Observation Haki had sharpened to levels few in the world could reach—but never before had it shown her something like this.
The room twisted around her.
She stood in a memory now, watching.
Allen, maybe seventeen or eighteen, sat alone in the corner of a dark stairwell. His arms were wrapped tightly around his knees. His head was lowered. Outside, a storm howled. But inside?
Only silence.
A woman passed by him without looking.
He flinched at the sound of her heels, as if expecting pain.
Serena reached out instinctively—to shield him—but her hand passed through.
He was sobbing, but so quietly she almost didn't hear.
"Why wasn't I enough?"
"I did everything. I stopped dreaming. I stopped wanting. I broke myself to fit in their shape… and they still left."
Her knees buckled.
This wasn't pain born from battle.
This was soul-deep, familial abandonment. The kind that scars forever.
She watched more.
A young Allen sitting in a classroom full of kids, eyes red, teacher calling him a burden. Then walking home in the rain without shoes. Then… then that night.
The night he died.
Alone, in bed. No blood. No violence. Just emptiness. His body still. His eyes wet. The softest final breath.
"I just wanted to feel warm for once."
Serena screamed.
Her vision snapped back to reality—and she was kneeling beside Allen's crib, gasping for breath, tears streaming down her face.
Her son, her baby, was still whimpering in his sleep. His tiny fists clenched the blanket.
She pulled him into her arms immediately, gently but firmly, cradling him like the most fragile treasure in the world.
He didn't wake up.
But as soon as her skin touched his, the trembling stopped.
The air cleared.
The room exhaled.
And Allen, still dreaming, made the faintest sound:
"...Mama."
Serena froze.
He'd never spoken before. Not once. Not a single word. He was still too young.
But in that moment, she understood.
He wasn't just a baby.
He was a soul that had already been torn apart by a world that never loved him.
Her fingers curled around him protectively.
"No one," she whispered, voice trembling, "no one will ever hurt you again, Allen."
She looked at the walls of the room, then out beyond the island—toward the vast world that had created such pain.
Her Haki flared—not gentle like her son's, but cold and thunderous.
"If this world dared to break you once… then I'll break it first before it tries again."
Later that night, Serena sat in silence, Allen asleep in her lap, his cheek against her heart.
She hadn't moved for hours.
In her mind, a thousand thoughts raced. Questions. Anger. Sadness. But beneath it all—clarity.
She understood now why she'd felt that pull the moment she held him after birth. Why his eyes were too deep, too knowing. Why he never cried for things babies usually did.
He wasn't born fresh.
He was born with scars.
"You were never meant to carry that pain alone," she whispered.
She pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.
"But you're not alone anymore, my son. And if the gods themselves try to take your light again..."
Her eyes glowed with a quiet fury.
"They'll find heaven kneeling before your fire."
[END OF CHAPTER 2
WHEW 😮💨
That's Chapter 2, king — full pain, full mother-son love, and full set-up for Allen's internal and emotional development.