The city of Future Pride no longer glittered with confidence.
It pulsed with fear.
In the aftermath of the "Ghost of Darkness" incident, the skyline flickered under surveillance drones. Billboards that once streamed hero endorsements now displayed government warnings:
REPORT UNREGISTERED POWER USERS IMMEDIATELY.
DEPARTMENT OF META AFFAIRS — PROTECTING YOU FROM THE UNKNOWN.
Every street corner gleamed with scanner drones, each one tuned to detect traces of anomalous energy. The people whispered — about the phantom from the storm, about the curse that came with light and shadow.
The Department of Meta Affairs — DMA for short — had taken over. Their sleek, black transports hovered through the smog, their insignia burning crimson under the neon rain. Agents in obsidian armor marched door-to-door, sweeping the lower sectors, scanning every face. They were efficient, ruthless, and utterly without mercy.
And Ronak Mehta was on their list.
He hid in the undercity — a labyrinth beneath Future Pride where failed experiments, banned tech, and forgotten people were buried. The tunnels echoed with the hum of illegal energy cells and the murmur of outcasts surviving between the cracks of civilization.
Every few hours, his body betrayed him.
A spark in his fingertips.
A shimmer of light beneath his veins.
A drop of water hanging too long in midair.
He tried to suppress it, biting his knuckles until they bled. The more he resisted, the more unstable it became. The elements whispered to him — not with voices, but instinct. Fire wanted to burn. Water wanted to flow. Lightning wanted to move. Darkness wanted to consume.
"What am I becoming?" he muttered into the dark.
He dreamed of the storm. Of that voice.
One soul for all. All for one soul.
And every time he heard it, the line between man and energy blurred a little more.
Far above, on a rooftop overlooking the fractured skyline, a man watched him through a cracked visor.
His name was Urja — though once the world had called him Ultra Man, the living reactor, the man who channeled the planet's core energy itself. A legend of the Storm Wars, gone missing a decade ago, presumed dead after the final blast that saved the city but annihilated half his team.
Now, he was a ghost among ghosts — his armor dented, his body scarred, his power dormant but his instincts sharp as ever.
He saw in Ronak's chaos something he hadn't seen in years: balance trying to be born from disorder.
"He doesn't even know what he is," Urja whispered, watching as Ronak struggled to contain a burst of lightning in his palms. "But the energy does. It's choosing him."
A second voice crackled through Urja's comm-link — female, calm, authoritative.
"You're not supposed to interfere, Urja. The DMA has jurisdiction now."
"Jurisdiction?" He scoffed. "They'll dissect him before they understand him. And when that happens, the balance dies — again."
He turned off the comm-link and stood, his figure outlined by the holographic stormlight above.
"No," he murmured. "Not this time."
Meanwhile, in the shadows of the undercity, Ronak's reflection flickered on a pool of water at his feet — but it wasn't his face anymore. Six colors pulsed within it — water, fire, earth, light, lightning, and dark — all swirling around a single heartbeat.
And somewhere deep inside, something ancient stirred — as if the ALL IN ONE force was watching him too.
By dawn, the DMA's scanners narrowed in on the district. Drones locked onto a faint energy trail.
"Target reacquired," a voice reported.
"Proceed with containment."
Sirens wailed as light swept through the alleys. Ronak ran — not knowing where, only that every step brought sparks to his heels and shadows to his back. He was the storm and the silence between it.
And on the rooftops above, Urja leapt into motion — his eyes burning faintly with old power.
"Hold on, kid," he whispered into the wind. "You have no idea what's inside you... or who's coming for it."