Episode 1 - Demon King has emerged.
(In the year 1950)
Silence hit the world first.
Not the peaceful kind. The wrong kind.
The kind that makes dogs hide and babies wake up screaming—And then the sky tore open.
It wasn't thunder. Nor lightning.
A bloom.
A red shape spread across the heavens like a giant flower forcing itself open. The light wasn't natural. It pulsed—slow, heavy beats—like something alive was trying to force its way into the atmosphere.
People froze mid-step.
A butcher in Paris dropped his cleaver.
A soldier in New Delhi ripped his helmet off.
Kids in Moscow stopped playing and stared upward, jaws hanging, popsicles dripping down their hands.
The clouds didn't move.
They burned, edges turning pitch black as they curled away from the thing in the sky.
It didn't look beautiful.
It looked wrong, like a wound.
The heat hit next.
Windows didn't crack—they exploded inward. Birds dropped from the sky like stones, wings twitching. Radio towers sparked violently, sending electric pops across entire cities.
People shielded their faces from the glare. The red glow washed the streets in color, making asphalt shimmer like it was melting.
The air tasted metallic.
Dry. Like breathing in hot iron.
And then—just when the world seemed to stop holding onto reason—
It vanished.
Just gone…
The sky went back to blue, like nothing happened.
But the world wasn't the same.
A woman on a bus clutched her chest, eyes rolling back. A man in a bar dropped to his knees, veins glowing under his skin.
Kids screamed in pain as heat shot through their bones.
And from Cairo to Tokyo, from Rio to Berlin—powers detonated inside people's bodies.
A young boy on a rooftop in Cairo gasped as the trash can beside him disintegrated into dust, the particles spiraling upward like smoke sucked into a vacuum.
A woman in Seoul tried to get out of a taxi—her hand slipped on the door handle and sliced the entire car in half like it was paper.
A homeless man in Chicago screamed as tumors evaporated off his body, and hair grew back in seconds, reversing time inside his cells.
Some didn't survive the change.
Bodies twitched on sidewalks.
Some foamed at the mouth.
Others just… stopped breathing.
But those who lived— their eyes glowed. Their bones hummed. Their shadows moved before they did.
No one understood what was happening.
Scientists panicked. Some fainted. A few never got up again.
Church bells rang nonstop until their ropes snapped.
Governments tried to shut borders, but crashed military jeeps into each other by accident because half their soldiers were convulsing with new abilities they couldn't control.
Fires started. Buildings collapsed. Entire neighborhoods rebuilt themselves, because someone thought too hard and matter bent to their will.
Villains didn't "appear."
They snapped.
The first man to rob a bank didn't even know he could turn into smoke until the bullets passed through him. The first killer didn't mean to crush someone—he just grabbed too hard.
And all across the world, one thought spread quietly, whispered by terrified lips:
"The Rose wasn't a blessing."
Someone else whispered:
"It was a curse."
[Date: Present Time – 2016]
Space bent around him.
Black Mentis hung in the void, unmoving. The dark blue–silver armor hugged his frame like it was welded to his bones, faint circuits pulsing beneath the plating with a slow, steady heartbeat of white light. His eyes… empty. Sharp. Focused. The kind of stare that didn't need blinking to see everything.
He raised one hand slightly—fingers loose, lazy, like flicking lint off a shirt.
Ahead of him, a continent-sized meteor tore toward Earth.
Charging.was insane speed. Breaking through orbit. Shredding satellites. Triggering emergency alerts across every screen on Earth.
People screamed. Governments panicked. Scientists collapsed over computers trying to calculate the impact zone.
And in the cold vacuum around him?
Nothing but silence.
A low violet pulse gathered in Black Mentis' palm.
FVVVMM—
The ripple of gravity rolled outward, slamming into the meteor with impossible force. Cracks exploded across its surface. Entire slabs broke off in slow-motion, drifting like floating continents ripped apart.
The meteor shuddered—
—and then veered off course like it had been slapped by God Himself.
It vanished into the black..
No effort. Nor any explosion
Black Mentis didn't even exhale.
The only movement was the faint sway of his cape, drifting behind him like a torn shadow caught in a current only he could feel.
His voice slipped out, calm and low—too soft for space, yet loud in the way thoughts whisper behind your ear.
"…It's time."
He didn't move for a moment. Just stared into the endless dark. A flicker of something crossed his jaw—nostalgia? Regret? Hard to tell.
"It was fun while it lasted."
He shifted his gaze toward Earth—blue, bright, almost innocent. The way a warrior looks at a battlefield he knows he'll have to walk back onto.
"It'll be them next."
And then he dropped.
Stars smeared into streaks. Atmosphere bent around him, screaming from friction. Ultraviolet arcs snapped across the sky as sonic booms stacked on top of each other.
WHOOOOSH—KRAKKK—
Clouds tore open around him. Lightning burst in every direction.
He descended faster.
F a s t e r.
Until—tap.
Boots touched the ground with barely a sound. Not even dust rose.
The world didn't even know a god had landed.
He stood in a quiet clearing outside the city. Wind pushed against him and lost. His cape flowed behind him—slow, heavy, like a curtain closing on a coffin.
He scanned the horizon. His jaw clenched.
"It seems not every memory is a happy one."
His voice broke the quiet like someone speaking to an old friend's grave.
"For people like us… the days we lose live the longest."
His hand tightened slightly.
"No regrets. Not for this life. Not for the choices we made."
Wind brushed past him, catching the edge of his cape.
"…And if the day comes we're not together—"
He breathed out slowly.
"You'll still shine like the sun in my memory."
The city behind him buzzed faintly. Cars. Distant horns. A world living its life, blind to the monster watching it.
A fortress of chrome and glass cut through the skyline like a blade.
Winchester Industries' main tower gleamed under the midday sun, sunlight bouncing off mirrored glass in sharp, blinding flashes. Inside, the marble floors hummed faintly with vibrations from the automated tram systems beneath. People moved fast — clipped footsteps, rolling laptops, nervous whispers about deadlines.
Voices echoed off polished stone:
"Run those numbers again—"
"I said the Anderson shipment, not the Nevada one—"
"Get me legal—now."
All of it flowed like a machine.
And at the center of it—Ben Winchester.
Dark hair slicked back. Silver streak cutting through the side. Clean-shaven jaw locked in permanent discipline. His fingers tapped the armrest of his leather chair — steady, controlled, synced with the ticking of the titanium chronograph on his wrist.
A junior exec cleared his throat, holding a tablet slightly too high — hands shaking.
"Uh—numbers are up, sir. Five percent across the East Sector. We're, um—looking good."
Ben didn't look at him. Didn't blink.
Didn't even pause scrolling through his augmented data feed.
"That's not growth," he said flatly.
"That's stagnation with lipstick."
Silence suffocated the room instantly.
The exec swallowed so hard his collar shifted. "Y-Yes—sir. I'll, uh—adjust the—"
Ben cut him off with a tilt of his head.
"Double-run inventory checks. Cut third-tier suppliers by ten percent. And tell the eastern regional head if she keeps running my company like a corner store, she'll be selling lemonade by summer."
"Yes, sir."
Ben stood — long, controlled movement, like every motion served a purpose.
He walked out.
His assistant scrambled to follow, nearly tripping over her own heels.
"Mr. Winchester, about the Innovate Tech merger—there's been a rescheduling. The board wants—"
"Push it," Ben said without breaking stride.
"My son's math competition starts in thirty."
"Sir, the board said it's urgent, and that you should—"
Ben stopped walking.
The assistant froze behind him like her soul left her body.
Ben turned his head just slightly — just heaviness that could crush steel.
"Tell the board I'll be back after dinner."
"Yes—yes, of course, I—"
"And tell them—" he adjusted his cuff, "—if they ever schedule over my family again, they can conduct future meetings from a fucking soup kitchen."
He kept walking.
The assistant didn't move for a full two seconds before finally exhaling.
The scent of home hit first—rosemary chicken, detergent, a hint of fresh wood polish. Laughter echoed faintly down the hall as the front door clicked shut behind him. Ben loosened his tie with one hand, the other slipping his keycard into his jacket pocket. His shoulders finally relaxed.
"Hey, Dad!"
Alan rounded the corner, hoodie half-zipped, a golden trophy tucked under one arm and a cocky grin playing on his face. His voice carried the charge of victory.
"I told you I'd get the trophy."
Ben's lips curled into a grin, arms opening wide in mock surrender.
"Of course you did. They never stood a chance."
Alan approached, still catching his breath from the run. Ben ruffled his hair—though Alan squirmed and rolled his eyes, he didn't pull away. The hand lingered a second longer than it needed to.
From the kitchen, Diana glanced over her shoulder, apron powdered with flour and hair tied in a messy bun. Her voice had that teasing warmth only love could afford.
"You're late, Ben."
He moved toward her, unhurried. Slipped an arm around her waist and leaned into her neck, breathing her in like a memory he needed to keep close.
"Got caught up saving capitalism, Diana."
She chuckled and nudged him with an elbow. "Well, save some of that charm for dinner. Winchester Enterprises isn't going to run itself forever. I've got this—you need to rest."
He smiled—unguarded, free. The kind of smile reserved for exactly two people in the world. But in the brief silence that followed, something flickered behind his eyes. A shadow that never left.
Moonlight spilled through the high windows of his private study, casting long shadows across shelves of philosophy books and awards. The house was quiet now. Alan asleep. Diana reading in the bedroom.
Ben stood before the tall oak shelf by the far wall, eyes fixed on a particular leather-bound volume of The Republic. He pulled it.
The entire shelf groaned, then clicked. With a slow, seamless turn, it rotated inward, revealing a hidden chamber dimly lit by strips of blue LED. At its center stood a sleek manikin, clad in black-blue and silver armor—his second skin. The armor's silver veins pulsed faintly, like breath in a sleeping beast.
Ben stepped forward, wordless. He stripped his dress shirt, revealing a flawless physique shaped by years of discipline.
He slid into the armor piece by piece, practiced and silent. Finally, he reached for the upper half of the mask—dark, angular, emotionless—and placed it over his face.
Black Mentis emerged.
In the next instant, he was gone—a blur of motion slicing through the study window without a sound, vanishing into the Ember City skyline.
HeroCorp Headquarters towered above downtown like a cathedral of glass and steel. Its logo—a stylized phoenix wrapped in circuitry—glowed against the night sky. Billboards flickered with looping footage of heroes in flight, triumphant smiles, civilians clapping in slow motion. In the atrium, a hologram cycled through dramatic headlines:
"BLACK MENTIS SAVES EMBER CITY FROM METEOR STRIKE!"
"NEW HERO RISES TO RANK D: WHO IS HE REALLY?"
"VILLAINOUS SHOWDOWN: LIVE FOOTAGE AT 8PM!"
Inside, the upper levels buzzed with polished smiles and rehearsed soundbites. PR teams and minor heroes chatted mid-hallway, practicing their 'victory nods' and camera-ready expressions.
But deeper down—far beneath the spotless glass—another world stirred.
Concrete walls replaced glass. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Monitors displayed live feed from various fight zones across the city—some clearly chaotic, others suspiciously well-framed for broadcast.
Two media interns rushed past, arms full of flash drives and clipboards.
"We need a fresh script! Make the Mentis footage more dramatic—like the meteor almost hit a school."
Another chimed in, not looking up: "And cut to the new guy fighting that fire-breather. Keep the shaky cam, it'll look raw—audiences love raw."
Down another corridor, lab coats clustered near a machine humming with faint red light. Two doctors whispered while monitoring vitals on screen.
"This treadmill rig—it boosts speed response by 300% if they train six days straight. Pushes their limits."
The other adjusted a vial of glowing serum. "Forget speed. Their blood… there's something evolving. I'm close to mapping the trigger."
Elsewhere, past reinforced doors and retinal scans, sparring chambers rumbled with real fights. Some new heroes tested their strength, knuckles raw. Others fought chained villains, each clash filmed from multiple angles.
Black Mentis passed them all, his presence commanding silence even in shadow.
Not every battle was staged. Not every villain was fake.
But behind the action… behind the lights and headlines… was something far more calculated.
And Black Mentis knew exactly where the truth lived.
Black Mentis sat in the dimly lit conference room deep within HeroCorp's HQ. His armored fingers tapped rhythmically on the metal table. Around him, a semicircle of flickering screens played footage from city zones—emergency calls, villain activity, and the aftermath of his most recent mission: a collapsing overpass, dozens saved, enemy subdued.
He leaned forward, eyes scanning every frame with the cold precision of a surgeon. But beneath that focus, his jaw was tight.
A voice slithered into the silence.
"Excellent work out there, Black Mentis."
Victor Sinclair stepped into view, hands clasped behind his back, suit crisp and charcoal-dark. His grin was shallow, all teeth, no sincerity. His voice, as always, smooth as oil.
"Your actions today have boosted our ratings significantly."
Mentis didn't look at him right away. He waited a beat. Then two. Finally, his head turned, mask reflecting the ambient glow of the screens.
"I don't need your fake praise," he said, voice even but sharp. "If there's another mission, just get on with it… or fuck off."
Victor's smile didn't falter. If anything, it deepened with amusement.
"My, my. Testy today." He strolled casually across the room, pausing to glance at a paused feed showing Mentis shielding civilians. "Richard wants you in his office. And for the record—"
He stepped closer now, just inside Black Mentis's peripheral.
"—you've become quite disrespectful lately. Don't mistake my silence for weakness."
He leaned in, voice lowering.
"You're powerful. No one's denying that. But remember something important: we are the ones in control."
A pause, deliberate.
Victor straightened and turned away, heading for the exit with his usual infuriating calm.
"Oh," he added, almost as an afterthought, "we're changing HeroCorp's system. More heroes. Less exclusivity. Expansion across Europe. Exciting times ahead."
The door hissed shut behind him.
Black Mentis remained still. Only his clenched jaw betrayed the storm brewing beneath the mask.
The memory slammed into him fast—
came back like it was yesterday.
The room around him blurred out.
Years ago, Richard had handed him a sealed packet. No greeting. No emotion. Just a heavy envelope shoved across the desk.
"Need-to-know," Richard said. His tone flat. "You're Rank 1. So now we own you. If you do anything dumb, our deal is over."
A small smirk.
"We should share some of the truth with you. So don't fuck things up, Mentis."
Inside were surveillance reports, lab results, internal directives. Real ones. The kind that made his jaw clench the same way it did now.
HeroCorp didn't manage heroes. They owned them.
After leaving the restricted briefing area, he went deeper—lower levels.
Restricted access.
Mentis had authorization. Rank 1 meant access to anywhere, even if they pretended otherwise. He remembered the weight of the badge in his palm. The scanner hesitated before unlocking, as if the door itself second-guessed letting him in.
Inside:
A private medical chamber. Too white. Too quiet.
A technician adjusted a harness around a young hero-in-training, the kid's face pale and stiff.
"Relax. It's just a reflex test," the tech lied with a fake smile.
Another tech hunched over a monitor, whispering:
"If this compound hits right, we can bump their response time. Makes the next fight look cleaner on camera."
On a side table—papers.
Stacks.
A thick black folder clamped shut with metal teeth.
The kind of file someone shouldn't leave lying around.
Mentis never forgot the title stamped across the top:
PERFORMANCE AUGMENTATION — INTERNAL USE ONLY.
Inside: Charts. Dosage notes. Side effects scribbled out or drowned in white-out.
Hero names replaced with codes. One page stained with a dried streak of blood across the corner.
He didn't take it. He wasn't supposed to. But he read enough.
They weren't trying to "improve" heroes.
They were manufacturing them.
He remembered closing the folder slowly, fingers cold.
After leaving the lab, he walked down another corridor—sterile walls, bright white lights humming overhead. Holding the files Richard gave him tucked under one arm, he moved alone.
Then he heard voices before the executives turned the corner.
Two suits—polished shoes, too confident—whispering fast.
He stepped into a shadowed alcove, silent.
"We need the media to push this next one hard," one muttered, tapping a tablet showing a staged fight. A B-rank swinging slow, sloppy punches at a "villain" who clearly didn't want to be there.
"The public eats that shit up. Danger sells."
The second man snorted. "Everything sells. Networks, ads, merch—preorders are insane. We could drop a hero plushie farting lasers and it'd chart."
Mentis' grip tightened around the files.
Everything is a fucking lie… This world is beyond fixing.
"Scripts done?"
"Yeah. Writers finished last night. Things are too calm. Need tension. A scare. Keep the audience hungry."
Their laughter echoed as they stepped into the elevator.
Only when the doors slid shut did Mentis step out of the shadows.
BACK TO PRESENT
Black Mentis blinked once—sharp, controlled—as the memory snapped out.
His reflection stared back at him from the elevator doors: blank mask, cold glow, no hint of the storm boiling under the armor.
His fingers flexed once.
A low growl vibrated under his breath.
"…I'll make you all pay for this."
Too quiet for the cameras. Too deadly to be misunderstood.
The elevator chimed.
DING.
He stepped inside.
The doors slid shut, slicing his reflection in half
But behind it, his eyes burned.
He didn't know how long he'd have to keep playing this game.
But one day soon, he would stop pretending.
And when that day comes… there'd be no script.
Only reckoning.
Black Mentis walked through the hallway, his expression unreadable, barely acknowledging the cluster of new heroes gathered near the reception area. The receptionist, a poised woman with a crisp, professional demeanor, was in the midst of explaining the ranking system to the wide-eyed recruits.
"Alright, listen up," she began, her voice steady and authoritative. "HeroCorp's ranking system is divided into several tiers, each representing a different level of skill and achievement."
One of the new heroes, a young man with spiky hair, raised his hand. "What's the highest rank?"
"The highest rank is SSS," the receptionist replied. "This is an exclusive designation reserved for the foremost hero in the organization. This individual has showcased unparalleled prowess and achieved remarkable feats. Currently, that spot is held by Black Mentis."
The recruits' eyes widened as they glanced around, half-hoping to catch a glimpse of the legendary hero. Black Mentis, already halfway down the hall, kept walking, uninterested in the adulation.
"Following SSS," the receptionist continued, "is Rank SS, which includes the second-best hero. These are individuals who have proven themselves exceptional and garnered high respect for their capabilities."
A woman with bright blue hair nodded thoughtfully. "And what about the rest of the ranks?"
"Ranks S, ranging from positions 3 to 10, comprise the elite tier," the receptionist explained. "These heroes are renowned for their extraordinary skills and significant contributions to society's protection and well-being. Their names resonate far and wide, inspiring others with their courage and dedication."
Another recruit, a muscular man with a serious expression, leaned forward. "What about heroes who are not in the top 10?"
"Heroes ranked 11 to 30 are classified as Rank A," the receptionist said. "These individuals have formidable abilities and have gained prominence for their heroic endeavors, though they haven't yet reached the upper echelons of recognition. Each Rank A hero is further segmented into A-1 to A-30."
"And then?" a petite woman with glasses asked, jotting down notes.
"Rank B includes heroes numbered 31 to 50, designated from B-1 to B-50. These heroes are skilled and integral to maintaining peace and order, though they may still be on the journey to attaining higher levels of proficiency and acknowledgment."
The spiky-haired young man chimed in again. "What about the rest?"
"Rank C encompasses the 51st to the 100th hero, with designations from C-1 to C-100," the receptionist answered. "These heroes are capable but have yet to achieve significant recognition. They often serve as the backbone of the hero organization, diligently working to protect and assist society."
"And finally, we have Rank D," the receptionist concluded. "This rank designates heroes numbered from 101 to 200, with designations from D-1 to D-200. These individuals are typically newer or less experienced heroes who are in the process of honing their skills and working towards establishing their names within the hero community."
As the recruits absorbed the last of the briefing, Black Mentis reached the door to Richard's office.
He paused—only a second—jaw tight behind the mask. Then he breathed out once, slow, and pushed the door open.
Inside, Richard Thornfield's office stretched wide, wrapped in floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the HeroCorp island. The ocean wind pushed waves against the cliffs far below. Sunlight bounced off the high-rise towers scattered across the island—housing blocks, training arenas, med-labs. A whole fake paradise for manufactured heroes.
Richard sat behind a dark wooden desk, back leaned casually against a leather chair, a half-full glass of whisky in his hand. A thin trail of smoke curled from the cigar burning in the crystal ashtray. He looked relaxed. Too relaxed.
Black Mentis walked in with steady steps, his armored boots tapping lightly against the marble floor. His suit absorbed the light, mask hiding the tightening of his eyes.
"You called for me," Mentis said, voice flat, irritation leaking through. "What do you want now? I told you—I'm retired. I only intervene when it's absolutely necessary."
Richard's smirk twitched upward, the kind that always made Mentis' knuckles itch.
"Retirement," Richard said, swirling the whisky lazily, "is a luxury you can't afford. Especially not you."
He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, cigar smoke drifting between them like a barrier.
"You're The Top Dog. You don't get to walk away."
Mentis exhaled sharply through his nose—more annoyance than sigh.
"Just get to the point, old man."
Richard chuckled quietly, tapping ash off the cigar.
"I need you to do something for me—and who better than my most 'trusted' ally, hm?"
He raised his glass in a mock toast. "Your expertise is irreplaceable. HeroCorp needs you. I need you. Retirement is just a fantasy you tell yourself to sleep at night."
Mentis' eyes glowed faintly—not enough to light the room, just enough to warn.
His voice dropped. "Gwt to the damn point. Now."
Richard leaned back again, letting the leather creak. He looked out the window, then back at Mentis.
"Our S-Rankers—Rank 2 through 10—are departing for the Mars mission today. They won't be back for a while."
He took a slow sip of whisky before continuing.
"In their absence, we need someone to oversee the training of our top A-Rankers. Promotion tests are coming. Ember City still needs protecting."
A beat.
"And since the S-Ranks won't be here… you're the only one with enough authority—and power—to keep things from falling apart."
Mentis raised an eyebrow behind the mask. His arms crossed over his chest, stance shifting.
"So what—you want me to babysit a bunch of kids? 'Train the next generation'? Come on, Richard. You and I both know that's not the full story."
Richard smirked again—slight, calculated.
"These 'kids' climbed the ranks faster than any batch before them. They're dangerous. Talented."
Another sip. "Some of them might rival S-Rankers one day. Maybe even you."
Mentis scoffed under his breath.(Yea, right.)
Richard continued, voice steady:
"You'll train them. Keep them sharp. Keep the island and the city safe. If something big happens—something they can't handle—we'll call you in. Simple."
Mentis held his stare for a long moment. Then a slow shrug.
"Fine. Sounds easy enough."
He turned toward the door, steps controlled, but his shoulders tense under the suit.
"Whatever you say," he muttered, not bothering to hide the sarcasm.
He exited without looking back, leaving Richard sipping whisky in the silence.
The hallway outside was colder, quieter.
As Black Mentis walked, his mind sharpened instantly.
They're hiding something. The timing was too perfect. Sending all S-Rankers off-world? That wasn't logistics. That was a distraction. Or a setup. Or both.
His jaw clenched behind the mask.
What game are these idiots playing?
He moved through the corridor, boots echoing against polished metal floors. A cleaning drone zipped by, lights flickering in its reflection.
Mentis didn't slow.
For Ben Winchester, breaking away from HeroCorp wasn't rebellion—it was survival. He'd only stayed close enough to keep his family protected. Alan… powerless Alan… living in a world where the strong chewed up the weak and smiled for the cameras doing it.
His wife. His daughter. His son.
None of them existed to HeroCorp. And that was the only reason they were still safe.
Mentis had carved his distance carefully. Enough cooperation to avoid suspicion. Enough defiance to stay free.
The media still painted him as a loyal ally. HeroCorp let them. It was good PR.
But Mentis knew the truth. And so did Richard.
He reached the balcony overlook, wind coming in through the vents. He stared down at the island—training fields, holographic arenas, hero housing blocks. A whole city built on lies.
His thoughts grew darker.
The timing feels off. Something isn't right. My gut hasn't screamed this loud since five years ago… the time I wasn't there to stop it.
He clenched a fist.
What are these fools planning?
The wind brushed past him. His mask reflected the skyline—cold, unblinking.
He didn't move.
He only thought:
I'll find out. One way or another.
Five years ago, Ember City was alive.
Traffic horns. Vendor calls. Echoes of kids kicking a ball against a wall. Neon signs flickering on even in daylight. Suits rushing to work, teenagers glued to their phones, couples leaning close under the sun-washed glass towers.
Then— The sun disappeared.
It wasn't behind clouds. Nor an eclipse.
It was stolen ?
A shadow swallowed half the sky, crawling fast, unnatural, as if someone draped a burial shroud over the world. Warm air turned sharp and cold; people stopped mid-sentence, mid-step.
Someone muttered, "What… what the hell?"
Thunder rolled. But no rain. Just from the pressure—heavy enough to make ears pop.
And then he arrived.
Megalodon.
The Infernal Leviathan tore through the clouds like a planet falling. His presence alone shook skyscrapers; his shadow flickered around his form like living smoke, the air ripping as his Aura bent reality. His eyes—Six burning, hell-red voids—locked onto the city as if judging it.
People didn't scream at first. They were too stunned.
Then a woman dropped her bag.
Someone choked out, "D-Demons? RUN!"
It all snapped at once—
Panic detonated.
People shoved, tripped, clawed at each other to get away. Cars slammed into poles, metal folding like paper; drivers crashed through windows trying to escape. Mothers grabbed their kids and sprinted. A man got pinned under a fallen streetlight and screamed for help while the crowd trampled past him.
And behind Megalodon, two horrors descended.
One—massive, molten, obsidian skin splitting with streams of lava. The other—skeletal, twitching, tendrils writhing, its face melting between agony and malice.
Their claws dripped black energy that hissed when it hit air.
The ground trembled.
Megalodon's voice rolled across the city like God speaking from a grave.
"They're noisy. These worms… are a waste of space."
He raised one finger.
The air bent— Then collapsed.
BOOOOOOM.
A pressure shock ripped outward. Whole buildings imploded as if punched by an invisible titan. Windows didn't just shatter; they vaporized. Streets split open, swallowing screaming crowds. Cars flipped into the air—some burst on impact, some slammed into other buildings like burning torpedoes.
Everyone caught in the shockwave didn't even have time to suffer. They turned to dust mid-scream, erased by raw force.
Ember City fell apart.
But two figures stayed standing as the storm hit.
Tempestia and Moon Light stood in the street, debris swirling around them, hair and clothes whipping in the chaotic wind. They braced—their power flaring against the destruction.
Tempestia lifted a hand sharply left to right— And the shockwave bent around them like water hitting a cliff.
She took one step forward, eyes glowing silver-blue.
Moon Light exhaled slowly beside her, shadows and light flickering off his skin like broken neon.
"Oh man," he muttered, voice thick with dread. "Do we really gotta deal with this shit all by ourselves?"
Tempestia didn't look at him.
"We don't have a choice. Black Mentis isn't on Earth. We hold the line. Other heroes will evacuate who's left."
Moon Light rolled his shoulders, his aura twisting.
"Yeah, no pressure. If we screw this up, it's not like the whole damn planet gets flattened. Great. Fantasy demons. Why the fuck do they exist?"
Tempestia's tone sharpened.
"They do. And they're not jokes. Don't underestimate them. This is bigger than anything we've faced."
Moon Light cracked his knuckles, energy flaring.
"Fine. Let's send them back to whatever hell spat them out."
Smoke drifted across the ruined street. Ember's skyline burned behind them—falling towers, smashed monorails, exploding fire hydrants spraying boiling water.
Megalodon didn't move.
His massive head tilted.
"Are you both done yapping?"
He raised a claw, pointing lazily at them.
"Molvok. Nyzzor. Kill these two foolish fodder. After that… we find Omnithon's vessel. And absorb his essence."
The demons bowed.
"As you wish, my lord."
"Yes, sire…"
Molvok roared—lava bursting from cracks in his arms—then smashed both fists into the street.
The entire block turned into flowing magma.
"DRAWN IN HELL, BITCH!"
The molten wave surged toward Tempestia—cars melting instantly, pavement bubbling and hissing.
Tempestia vanished.
"What?! Where did—"
"Too slow, asshole."
She appeared above him, silver-blue eyes blazing. One flick of her fingers—space folded.
Time froze around Molvok.
His lava blast hung mid-air like a painting.
His arms locked mid-swing.
Tempestia whispered,
"It's already too late for you. Time has stopped and frozen in this area. It's removed."
She punched.
BOOOOOOOOM.
A cosmic-charged blow cracked reality. The entire Earth shook. The solar system felt it.
Molvok shot into the sky like a fired shell—breaking sound, atmosphere, clouds—in one motion.
Tempestia extended a hand.
(Hmph)"It's over."
Her telepathy crushed him, dragging him down at hypersonic speed—
KRAAAAAAASSSH.
He slammed through a fully evacuated tower, demolishing it into steel dust.
Moon Light whistled.
"Hot damn. You took one down. Hope the other two go down like pie.'
Tempestia:"Wanna show me what you got?"
From across the battlefield, Megalodon crossed his arms, unimpressed.
"How disappointing. I thought your kind was much stronger… better even faster."
Nyzzor shrieked, tendrils writhing.
"No! Molvok… you whore—I'll kill you for that!"
He lunged at Tempestia, claws slicing through warped air. She dodged—pivot, slide, flicker—barely moving but untouchable.
"These attacks aren't bad," she muttered. "But I'm more worried about their leader. He's not even reacting."
Before Nyzzor could reach her again—
Moon Light appeared in front of him, body pulsing between darkness and light.
He lifted one leg—And the world paused.
In an instant too fast for human eyes, he delivered dozens of kicks—ribs shattering, limbs twisting, tendons snapping, black blood spraying like ink through frozen air.
Time snapped back. Nyzzor flew backward like a broken arrow—
CRUUUUNCH.
He hit the monorail station, bones cracking like glass, skull denting, shoulder exploding into a black splash.
Moon Light exhaled.
"Tempestia… I think sending both of us was overkill after all. Also—taxpayers are gonna destroy us. We'll never hear the end of this shit…"
But the demons didn't stay down.
Molvok rose from the rubble—armor shattered, molten core glowing hotter, his roar shaking the city. Two horns burst from his skull. His heat warped the air. Buildings nearby started melting.
"I… AM… GOING… ALL OUT! YOU BITCH—THAT HURTS—IT HURTS A LOT!"
Tempestia teleported. One step—gone.
She reappeared behind him—
"Elbow."
KAAA-THOOOOOM.
Her strike hit his spine. Lava sprayed upward like a geyser.
"Divine nullification."
She extended her hand and trapped him in a sphere of swirling water. The bubble tightened, pressurized.
"It's over. You're not breaking this. It'll strip your demonic energy slowly and surely."
Across the battlefield, Nyzzor flickered between dimensions, horns now protruding from his skull. He appeared behind Moon Light, claws aimed for the jugular.
But Moon Light smiled without turning.
"My eyes can see it all."
Time slowed in Moon Light's mind—his Sight igniting, every thread of Nyzzor's movement unraveling in advance. Moon Light ducked, chest brushing the cracked street, then twisted sharply. His fist phased out of reality—reappearing through Nyzzor's face with a wet crunch—then vanished again. Another strike materialized inside the demon's chest.
A pulse detonated.
A violent shockwave shredded the air, the atmosphere itself splintering like broken glass.
Before Nyzzor even screamed, the world warped— And the entire battlefield collapsed into a different plane.
The color of reality inverted. Gravity twisted sideways. The air buzzed like a dying machine.
They weren't on Earth anymore.
Nyzzor had dragged him into his pocket dimension.
Moon Light smirked, wiping blood from his lip with his thumb.
"You're not the only one who can slip into other dimensions. You move your body into random layers of the galaxy, huh? Cute. You picked the wrong opponent, bitch."
Nyzzor screeched—panting, twitching—dark mist spilling from his ribs where Moon Light's fist had blown a hole.
"How—HOW can a human have such power?! How are you THIS strong?! WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!" he shrieked.
Their fists collided.
The entire dimension quaked.
The sky cracked like a shattered mirror.
Chunks of reality peeled away, revealing screaming void beneath.
Every impact weakened Nyzzor's realm. His own powers rebelled against him, tearing pieces of him apart.
Moon Light grinned.
"Is that all? All bark, no bite.
Tch—pathetic."
He powered up— Energy ripping across the broken dimension— "Aaaaaaaah!"
Nyzzor tried to flee into subspace—
Moon Light grabbed his face.
"Take this."
A beam of chaotic light erupted point-blank, atomizing the demon.
Nyzzor didn't burn. He erased. His dimension shattered behind him like stained glass hit by a bullet.
Moon Light stepped forward—And reality snapped.
He reappeared back on Earth, feet skidding across scorched pavement. Rubble settled around him.
"…I'm back? Welp… that was easy. Too easy."
Above, Megalodon watched with crossed arms, expression unreadable even through the smoke.
"What a shame… both demons slain. So easily. Though… they were the two weakest. Children playing at war."
Moon Light spat blood into the dirt.
"Only the arrogant bastard left, and he's strong as hell. Bro lifted a finger and nuked multiple blocks."
Megalodon chuckled—a deep, vibrating sound that rattled broken glass.
"Arrogance is natural for someone like me. I am superior. Beyond you. Beyond comprehension."
Tempestia stepped forward, electricity trembling in her clenched fists.
"The battle's just starting. Moon Light—go all out. I've got a bad feeling about him."
Moon Light didn't hesitate.
He launched upward—arms spread—his entire body flickering between shadow and strobe-like flashes. He unleashed a barrage of chaotic blasts, each one cracking with cosmic energy.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Explosions tore across Megalodon's torso, shockwaves sending cars flying and snapping streetlights in half. The air filled with smoke and burning metal.
When it cleared—Megalodon hadn't moved.
Not even a scuff.
He casually brushed dust off his shoulder.
Moon Light's jaw clenched.
"Really? That's bullshit. Not even a scratch?!"
Megalodon sighed.
"Is that all you can muster? You showed more strength fighting my minions."
The world blinked—
And Megalodon appeared in front of him.
He lifted two fingers beneath Moon Light's throat, tilting his chin upward to force eye contact.
Moon Light's pupils shrank.
He warped away—But the wind from Megalodon's hand movement alone blasted him backward, smashing him through three buildings. Concrete collapsed behind him as he skidded into the rubble coughing blood.
Tempestia screamed, "DON'T FORGET ABOUT ME!"
She teleported above his head, swinging a kick straight at his neck—
He didn't dodge. He just took it.
The impact cracked the atmosphere—
But Megalodon remained unmoved.
A casual energy burst shot from his palm toward where Moon Light had landed.
Moon Light caught it with both hands—arms trembling, blood dripping from his teeth.
Tempestia vanished before Megalodon could grab her leg.
She reappeared high in the smoke, both arms raised—and slammed them downward.
The sky ripped apart.
A pillar of lightning crashed down—white-hot, rage incarnate—melting the ground beneath Megalodon.
When the dust cleared…
Megalodon emerged slowly—smoke rolling off him—fresh scratches already sealing shut.
Tempestia's eyes widened.
"W-what? No way… he healed that fast…"
Megalodon laughed.
"Annoying fallen… you think that little storm matters?"
His mouth opened—
A blast of concentrated dark energy exploded outward.
"Take this!"
Tempestia slammed her heel into the ground—earth rising into a massive shield—
BOOOOM.
The shield disintegrated instantly, throwing her into a collapsed tower. She bounced off iron beams before hitting the ground, coughing blood.
"Damn… damn this demon… he's way stronger… can't use that form yet… punishment would be worse…"
Her thoughts echoed, trembling:
We can't keep this up… my healing isn't instant. If we keep taking hits… we're dead.
Moon Light limped back beside her, wiping blood off his mouth with the back of his hand, then spitting into the dirt.
"We're not beating him with brute force. Physical and magical attacks aren't doing shit. You got anything else?"
Tempestia steadied her breathing.
"We have to seal him with my strongest spell. But I need one minute."
Moon Light froze.
"One minute? Are you fucking insane? A minute is a lifetime against this freak. One wrong move and I'm a smear on the pavement!"
He stared at Megalodon—who was casually cracking his knuckles.
"God damn… he's moving faster than me. And he's toying with us. If I do this—you owe me. And if I die, I swear I'll haunt your ass."
Tempestia slapped his ass.
"Stop whining. I'll try my best to keep you alive. I need time to gather the energy. Even if it means destroying this whole sector to save the rest."
She placed two fingers on his forehead.
"Here—buffing your physical abilities."
Moon Light exhaled.
"Thanks for the buff…"
Megalodon opened his arms, amused.
"Aww, are you two done making plans and chit-chatting over strategies? Then let's end this."
Moon Light shot upward—cosmic energy erupting from his palms.
Tempestia enclosed Megalodon's head in a sphere of swirling water—pressurizing it.
"Drown, you ugly bastard!"
Moon Light froze time. He moved faster than light—blows raining from every angle.
But then— Horror filled his face.
Because Megalodon's head turned.
Slowly.
Inside the frozen world.
"You think stopping time is enough to bind me? I exist above such limits."
He grabbed Moon Light's neck with one hand—then used his other three to pummel him repeatedly. Bone cracked. Blood sprayed.
Moon Light screamed as Megalodon twisted both his arms backward—
"Moon Light, was it?" Megalodon lifted him by the mouth. "For a human… you're intriguing. You might be useful."
His six eyes glowed bright—
And he hurled Moon Light through several destroyed buildings like a skipping stone.
Tempestia's eyes burned with fury.
She spread her arms wide—voice rising into an incantation that made the air vibrate.
"Lux et umbra, una in uno,
Ferus daemonium, obdormiscas!
In lapidem vinculum, obrutus!"
Golden runes spun around her, growing in size, weaving like chains of light.
Her thoughts tightened:
You'll pay for hurting him.
Megalodon roared.
"DIVINE SEALING?! Impossible—how does a fallen know THAT spell?!"
He lunged— But the first wave of chains wrapped around his arms, legs, torso.
He shattered them— But more appeared.
(Yelling)"Demonic nullification!"
Black energy burst outward, breaking more chains— But still they multiplied.
A blinding light exploded across the battlefield—runes spiraling faster—pulling Megalodon's body downward as his limbs trembled and turned rigid.
"I will be back! I'll hunt the one you love— and kill him in front of you! That's a fucking promise."
His body flared— Red and curse energy blasting outward from two arms aimed at Tempestia and two toward Moon Light.
" I'LL CURSE YOU WITH EVERYTHING I'VE GOT!"
Tempestia's eyes widened.
"Shit—SHIT—SHIT!"
She conjured dozens of shields— They shattered one by one— Moon Light barely protected behind her barriers.
But Megalodon's real attack hit where he aimed from the start.
At her.
The second blast tore through her weakened defenses— Slamming into her chest and stomach.
Tempestia screamed as she hit the ground, coughing blood. Marks burned into her skin—curse sigils twisting like living brands.
(Coughing and gasping for air)"W..what the… hell did y…you do to m..me, demon?!" she gasped
His voice rumbled as his body hardened into stone:
His laughter deepened. "I've cursed you. If you try to use your powers anymore your bones will break. This curse cannot be undone with your current state—only I can lift it."
"Have fun!" (chuckles)
His last laugh echoed—Then the spell turned him to stone.
The stone statue of Megalodon slammed into the ground like a meteor—cracking the street—then fell silent.
The battle was over.
Smoke drifted. Buildings lay folded and broken. Cars burned. Bodies everywhere—crushed, ripped apart, incinerated—victims of the Leviathan's arrival.
The army arrived hours later— Guns raised.
Search teams combing through ruins.
They found destruction. Dead civilians. Collapsed buildings.
But no bodies belonging to Tempestia or Moon Light.
They were gone.
Listed as Missing. Presumed dead.
Heroes lost to the greatest battle Ember ever saw.
A statue of Megalodon now stands in the center of the ruins—untouched, heavily guarded.
A silent warning:
Never break it. Never wake what sleeps inside.
The legend of Tempestia and Moon Light became a story whispered in schools, cities, hero academies—
A tale of sacrifice.
A reminder that saving the world always comes with a cost.
Present day…
Morning sunlight bled through the tall windows of Crestfield Academy, slicing through the hallway in thin gold beams. Students flooded every corner—laughing, shoving, flirting, half awake. Lockers slammed. Shoes squeaked. A couple made out near the stairwell. Someone spilled their iced coffee and cursed. Phones were out everywhere.
The usual morning chaos.
Alan Winchester slipped through it quietly, shoulders slightly hunched, backpack hanging low. He moved like someone used to staying unnoticed. Kids parted around him without even realizing it—like he wasn't really part of the same world.
He didn't stop. Didn't talk. Didn't smile.
He was just surviving.
Then—
A shoulder slammed into him, sharp and deliberate.
"Watch it, Winchester," Jason Harper said without even looking back, his buddies laughing behind him.
"C'mon, Jason, don't waste your time on a damn loner."
Alan's jaw flexed. But he didn't turn. Didn't rise to it. He just twisted the lock on his locker, forcing himself to breathe slow.
Under his breath, barely audible: "…fucking assholes…"
Click.
The locker door swung open to a chaotic mess of notebooks, folded blueprints, scraps of tech ideas. A few loose papers slid out and hit the floor. Alan caught one mid-fall, his movements clean and precise—reflexes sharper than anyone would guess for a powerless kid.
He flipped a page.
Exosuit schematics. Energy routings. Encryption drafts.
Science was his battlefield. Knowledge was the only thing he could fight with.
"Morning, Alan."
He looked up.
Anna stood there, shifting her weight, smiling softly. Her books hugged to her chest, hair bouncing slightly when she moved.
"H-Hey," he said, closing the locker halfway.
"Thanks for helping me with the physics assignment yesterday," she said, brushing hair behind her ear. "I actually understood it for once."
Alan Shrugged. "It's just patterns. Anyone can learn them if they look from the right angle."
She giggled. "Maybe for you. Not everyone is a genius like you (Smiling)."
For the first time that morning, he smiled a little.
"Alright, see you in class then, Al."
She turned, then paused as his voice followed her:
"Hey—uh, you see Rose and Damian today?"
Anna pointed toward the hall. "Yeah, their teacher's holding them back thirty minutes or something."
"Ah… alright. Thanks." He tapped his chin lightly. "Guess I'll wait for them in the library."
"Yeah, no problem!" she replied with a warm smile before walking off.
A group of girls intercepted her instantly.
"Yo, giiiirl, come on, let's grab snacks before class starts!"
Anna laughed. "Hell yes, you can't have too many snacks during long-ass classes. Let's goooo!"
Her voice faded into the hallway noise.
Alan inhaled deeply. Peace returned for two seconds—
Then died.
Two figures leaned against the opposite lockers, arms crossed.
Mark and John.
A pair of walking headaches.
Mark nudged John with his elbow, eyes glued to Alan like he owned him.
"Look at this motherfucker," Mark muttered. "Nerd's all happy and shi. Let's go get some lunch money."
John cracked his knuckles—loud, intentional. "Thank fuck, bro. I'm starving. Let's teach his ass real quick."
They moved before Alan could even notice them.
"Hey, dumbass—heads up."
Alan turned his head—"huh?"
WHAM.
A punch slammed into his back, knocking the wind from his lungs. His books exploded out of his arms, smacking the floor and skidding across the hallway.
Students gasped. Phones came up instantly.
Someone yelled, "Yo, Mark just sucker-punched Alan!"
Another kid snorted, "Eh, he had it coming. Bro thinks being top of the class makes him better than everyone."
Alan gritted his teeth, slowly straightening. His vision blurred from the impact, but the shape of Mark's stupid grin was clear.
Mark stepped closer, shadow falling over Alan.
"What's wrong, Winchester? Looking for something down there?"
John added, "Yeah, heard you've been running your mouth lately. Talking trash and shit. Cute. But you forgot to pay your dues. School food's ass… so cough up."
Alan's fists curled tight. His heartbeat wasn't fear—just anger, calculation, pressure.
He didn't want a fight. But the fight wanted him.
"…fuck it…" Alan muttered. "You assholes think you can do whatever you want? Huh?"
The hallway stirred.
Mark and John blinked.
Then burst into loud, stupid laughter.
Mark held his stomach. "Ooohhh shit—he thinks he can fight us?! That's adorable."
John wiped tears from his eyes. "Bro broke him with that hit. Look at him. Dude looks like he's gonna murder us or something. Scaryyy."
Alan inhaled through his nose. He was outmatched. Powerless. But he wasn't backing down.
He raised his head. His voice was steady.
"Just don't mistake my silence for weakness. I didn't fight because I didn't want trouble. But if you disrespect me… I'm done letting it slide."
Mark and John blinked again.
Then smiled.
Mark rolled his shoulders. "Reaaaally, and what a loser like you gonna do huh?"
John lunged first—fast, sloppy. A punch straight at Alan's ribs.
Alan dodged—barely—and swung back. Missed. Fuck.
Mark came in with a hook—
Alan ducked—And that was the opening they wanted.
John swept his legs—fast—
CRACK.
Alan hit the ground hard.
"Got your ass now, bitch," John sneered, kicking him in the side.
"Ugh—shit—" Alan gasped as pain shot through him.
He rolled away, panting, forcing himself up.
Students cheered. Some recorded. Some walked off. Someone whispered, "Fight's ass, man, hurry up."
Mark's smile faded. "Annoying little shit—"
John shoved Mark's arm away. "Let me handle this—"
He grabbed Alan's collar and yanked him back.
A punch landed in his gut.
Alan's breath vanished.
John's voice dripped venom.
"You think you can fight me? You powerless pathetic little fuck?"
Another hit—ribs. Another—jaw. Another—kidney.
Alan stumbled, fighting to stay conscious.
"Yoi think you have a chance lowlife, Still wanna act tough?" John hissed.
Mark grabbed John's arm. "Dude, chill—you're gonna seriously hurt him—"
John shoved him away. "Move."
A knee slammed into Alan's stomach, folding him.
He collapsed on the cold floor, gasping.
Blood slipped down his lip. He tried to crawl—John stomped his arm.
Mark crouched beside him.
"That's enough. He won't snitch. Look at him. I… couldn't hold John back so try to think before you speak next time nerd."
John Laughed. "Pathetic."
He reached into Alan's pocket. "Lunch money tax."
Coins jingled. Their footsteps faded.
The crowd dispersed. (Students)
"Show's over."
"Bro didn't do shit."
"What a loser."
"Should've stayed quiet, man."
"Let's dip."
Laughter.
Alan didn't move for a moment. His breath rattled. His back throbbed. His ribs screamed every time he inhaled.
Finally, he pushed himself up—fingers trembling—gripping the locker for support.
"…Come back you assholes…" he whispered under his breath.
Students walked past him without looking. Not out of cruelty—out of indifference.
John's voice echoed from down the hall:
"I still can't believe this weakling dodged some of our hits."
Mark laughed back.
"He had me for a sec. Thought he'd pull some hidden bullshit. Guess not."
Their voices faded.
Alan's hands shook as he wiped blood from his lip. He stared down at the floor—scuffed tiles, dust, dropped papers.
Then his eyes hardened.
The humiliation burned. But something inside him burned hotter.
"I swear to God…" he whispered, voice trembling with fury. "…I'm done being weak. I'll remember this. Every word. Every hit."
His fists tightened." I'll become the best my bloodline has ever seen. I'll use my rage to gain strength.
Breathing through his nose:" Strength is the only thing that matters in this world. Anything else is just a delusion for the weak. There is one certainty in life—a strong man stands above and conquers all."
His heartbeat steadied.
And the rage settled into something colder—Determination.
Three Months Later
Metal clanged. Breathing echoed. Sweat dripped onto the gym mats in slow, heavy beats.
Alan's fists slammed into the heavy bag—sharp thud… thud… THUD. His knuckles didn't look like they belonged to a rich kid anymore. Rough. Red. Hardened. His shoulders flexed with every strike, the months of punishment carved into them.
He wasn't huge. He wasn't a bodybuilder.
But he wasn't fragile anymore.
No more shaky stance. No more flinching. No more waiting for someone to save him.
His feet glided across the floor—light, precise. Tap. Pivot. Slide. Counter.
The bag jolted back violently as he drove a right hook into it, his breath ripping from his throat.
He stepped back, chest heaving. Three months of this. Three months of pushing until his muscles screamed and his head spun.
His reflection on the gym mirror looked back—jaw sharper, posture confident, not a trace of the helpless kid from the hallway.
He wiped sweat from his brow with a towel, breathing hard.
Then he stopped. Closed his eyes. Remembered John's knee slamming into his stomach. Remembered Mark whispering "know your place."
His jaw tightened.
"Never again…" he muttered, voice low.
He grabbed his towel, slung it over his shoulder, and left the gym.
Later…
The hidden library of Winchester Manor greeted him with its usual chill—old parchment, dust, and quiet. A dim lamp flickered weakly beside a tall, scarred desk. Shelves towered over him like watching giants.
He wiped the last of the sweat from his neck.
"Man… I could use a book or two," he muttered. "Something to kill the rest of the day. Maybe something about heroes without powers…"
He scanned the shelf. Titles passed by—Ancient Threats, The Rise of Ember, Hero Laws…
"My father's secret door should have the old books," he whispered, pushing aside a bin.
Creaaaaak.
The shelf slid open, revealing the hidden chamber inside.
The air felt colder here—older. Black Mentis's suit hung on the wall like a shadow waiting to move. Weapons lay organized on racks. Stacks of books and files covered the tables.
Alan walked slowly, his fingertips brushing the spines of old journals.
"Let's see… maybe something from the pre-hero era… something Dad wrote…or an interesting book."
He stopped. A dusty box sat tucked in a corner under an old cloth.
"…what is this?"
He dragged it onto the desk, lifted the lid—
Papers. Hundreds of them. Some typed. Some handwritten. All stamped with the same insignia:
HEROCORP — Internal Use Only
Alan's heartbeat quickened.
He read the first page.
Then the second.
Then the third.
His face drained of color.
"…what the fuck…?"
Heroes.
Test subjects
Drugs.
Forced enhancements.
Failed experiments.
Bodies.
Some files listed heroes by codename. Others just showed numbers.
"So they really… experimented on them?" he whispered, flipping another page.
"This is insane… Dad hid this? Why…?"
He kept reading.
Power suppression trials.
Forced evolution tests.
Psychological conditioning.
Termination reports.
Alan's stomach twisted.
He slammed the papers down. "They aren't helping heroes. They're USING them. Breaking them. Killing them. Monsters…"
He stared down at the pile, breathing hard.
"I have to talk to Dad. I—I need answers. Why hide this? Why keep quiet? Why pretend everything is okay?"
He gathered the papers in his arms and stormed out of the hidden room.
(Ben's Study)
Ben sat in a leather chair near the window, reading quietly, a glass of untouched whiskey on the table beside him. The room was dim except for a yellow lamp casting long shadows across the oak desk—documents, notes, small scattered tools.
Alan stepped inside, tension radiating off him.
"Dad."
Ben looked up.
"I found these in the hidden room," Alan said, placing the stack on the desk.
"HeroCorp is experimenting on heroes. Torturing them. Ruining lives. And you hid this? Why?"
Ben's expression went cold instantly.
"What the hell are you doing going through my things?" he snapped, rising from his chair. "Are you questioning me now?"
Alan's body stiffened.
Ben stepped closer, voice sharp.
"Since when do you think you can snoop around? Are you trying to piss me off?"
"I'm trying to understand!" Alan shot back. "HeroCorp is doing awful shit and you just—you hid it? Why?!"
Ben's jaw clenched.
"Give me those."
He snatched the papers from the desk and flicked his hand—opening a small dimensional rift. The documents vanished inside.
"You don't get to poke your damn nose into matters BIGGER than you."
Alan took a step back, frustration boiling.
"But—"
"No 'buts.'" Ben barked. "Go to your room. Now."
The room shook slightly from the force of his voice.
But then— Something in Ben's shoulders softened. His eyes looked tired. Not weak—haunted.
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.
"Look… kid…"
His tone lowered—not calm, but strained. "You have no idea how dangerous this shit is. You're sixteen. If HeroCorp even suspects you touched those files, they'll hunt you until there's nothing left to bury."
"You never know how life's gonna play out, kid. But if you keep your head open and your heart steady, you'll find your own path.
Just… not this one. You weren't meant to be a hero. So stop trying to act like one."
Alan's heart pounded. He understood the danger—but anger cut through it.
"And what about those heroes?" Alan asked. "What about the people they hurt? Someone needs to stop them."
Ben closed his eyes briefly.
"Don't let your emotions drown out your intelligence," he murmured. "I've spent YEARS keeping this family hidden. YEARS watching my back. I'm not going back into that hell."
Alan's breathing quickened. For a moment, Alan caught something in his father's eyes — fear. Not of HeroCorp. Of losing him.
"You're supposed to be the strongest," he said quietly. "Why aren't you doing something?"
Silence.
Ben didn't answer.
Alan swallowed hard.
"What if… what if WE work together? When I'm older… when I'm ready—"
Ben's fist slammed into the wall. The plaster cracked, leaving a crater.
His eyes flared red for a split second—furious, dangerous—then faded back.
"That's EXACTLY the type of bullshit that gets whole families killed," he growled. "There is no WE. No 'together.' These people will tear you apart. They'll tear your mother apart. Your sister. Everyone you love."
He pointed at him, voice trembling with anger.
"The heroes in those files? They're already dead. It's too late. DROP IT."
A cold shiver ran down Alan's spine.
Ben turned away.
"Get out."
Alan stared at him—hurt, confused, furious.
"Fine," he snapped, voice cracking. "I won't dig anymore. Happy?"
He walked toward the door. His steps were steady, but his hands were trembling.
In his mind: What a fucking loser… I admired you. I wanted to be like you. But you're just… useless.
He slammed the door behind him.
Outside the Study
Ben leaned over the desk, palms pressed against the wood, breathing hard.
"Do you think I like what they did?" he muttered under his breath. "I've been praying every damn day they don't find us. And now this stupid kid is pulling us right back into hell…"
Ben sank into the chair, exhaling like the fight drained something out of him.
Alan heard him. Stopped mid-hallway.
His chest tightened.
So Dad was protecting them. But that didn't make it easier.
Alan threw himself onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling.
"I can't just work some shitty job and pretend life is normal," he muttered. "I can't just wait around while the world walks all over people."
His mind churned.
Fear.
Anger.
Purpose.
"If I can't expose HeroCorp now… if I can't defend myself against the idiots at school… then what the hell am I doing with my life?"
He grabbed his phone. Scrolled through articles. Clips of martial arts. Old documentaries. Monk training videos.
His eyes narrowed.
"…China, huh?"
He sat up slowly.
"Yeah. Maybe I should go there. Train properly. Become something more. If power won't come to me… I'll build it myself."
His grip on the phone tightened.
"I'm done being weak."
(Few Days Later
The house felt too quiet—the kind of quiet that made every small sound snap in Alan's ears. He moved through the living room with slow, restless steps, fingers tapping against his thigh, the way they always did when he'd been thinking too long. The tension from days earlier still clung to him, not as anger this time, but as a weight he needed to cut loose. He just needed to talk to them. Needed them to understand where he stood.
When he stepped into the room, his parents were already there—Diana curled beside Ben on the sofa, the soft glow of the TV painting the room in warm, shifting light.
Alan stopped in the doorway. Exhaled once.
:" Time to do this."
He cleared his throat.
Diana glanced up first, her eyes softening. Ben's head turned a beat later, unreadable.
Alan swallowed hard. "Mom… Dad… uhm—summer vacation's coming soon and I—was thinking about traveling to China for a few months. If… that's okay."
Ben's brow ticked down. Diana straightened, closing her book with a soft thump.
Diana raised a brow, half-smiling. "China, huh? That's… a jump. What sparked that?"
Ben leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers interlaced. His eyes were too sharp, too aware: "Yeah, boy… what spiked your sudden interest?" The tone didn't match the words—he already knew there was more.
Alan shifted his weight, fighting the urge to look away. "I want to study martial arts there. Real martial arts. Not gym hobbies. Not the watered-down stuff in clubs here." He inhaled through his nose. "It's not just about fighting.
Ben tapped two fingers against his upper lip—the same habit he used whenever he was digging for the truth behind someone's bullshit. (Hmm)
:" Why China?" he probed. "There's a dozen gyms here. Hell, I could hire ten instructors to come train you in the backyard."
Diana watched him with a softer gaze. "Yea, it's so far, sweetheart. Why not study here?"
Alan moved to sit across from them. His knee bounced until he forced it still. "I'm trying to understand myself better. You told me to find my own path, right? Well… I'm trying. China feels right."
Alan leaned forward. "And also it's because I need distance. Because I need the culture, the teachings, the whole thing.—it's all there. Not here." His voice wavered, but he didn't drop eye contact. "It's… discipline. Focus. I think it's something I need right now. To… just get my head straight."
A long silence.
Ben's jaw tightened, a vein ticking faintly in his temple. "You sure you're not just running away? 'Cause it sounds a hell of a lot like you're running."
Alan shook his head sharply. "I don't run. I just… want to grow. And I can't do that if I stay stuck here waiting for something to magically change."
Ben rubbed his temples, breathing out through clenched teeth. "I've seen people try to 'change themselves.' Seen how that ends. Most don't walk away smiling." He looked up at Alan, eyes heavy. "But… fine. I'll play along. If this is what you want—I'll play along for now.."
Alan exhaled in relief. "Thanks. Seriously."
Diana placed a hand on her husband's arm: " "He's not a kid anymore. Let him learn. And you still have that unfinished project at Winchester Enterprises waiting—maybe this trip helps all three of us breathe a little."
Ben shot her a side-eye. "…If you're okay with this, then fine. I'm in."
Diana smiled. Alan finally let his shoulders relax.
"…Alright," Ben said, leaning back. "We'll figure it out. But you're not doing anything reckless. Trust is a fragile thing once you break it, it's hard to fix, Understand?"
Alan nodded again. "Yes, sir."
Diana chuckled. "Good. Then it's settled. We'll start prepping everything." She tugged Ben's arm teasingly. "And after we drop him off. We could use the excuse to visit Jade for a bit. You promised you'd check on her new project."
Alan laughed weakly. "She's probably building robots that'll take over the world by now."
"Oh absolutely," Diana smirked.
Ben leaned back, crossed one leg over the other, and reached for the remote.
The TV clicked back from commercials to Ember City News.
The screen flashed with chaotic footage—shaky camera work, civilians screaming, debris scattered across neon-lit streets.
The screen brightened as the Ember City News logo faded into view.
Anchor Camille Rivers stood before a large holographic map dotted with blinking red markers.
Camille: "Good evening, Ember City. Crime has risen sharply across Avalora and its connected cities. Multiple regions are reporting large-scale villain incidents, putting enormous strain on local hero teams."
The screen behind her cut to footage—
• a street in Bluestone City collapsing under a bright white flash,
• Solar Flare dragging civilians out of debris, then a violent purple shockwave ripping through a shopping district.
Anchor: "Bluestone City faced a catastrophic energy detonation earlier today after a clash between Solar Flare and the villain known as Dark Matter. Emergency crews are still searching through rubble."
Solar Flare turns sharply and blasts Dark Matter through a skyscraper—the explosion swallowing three blocks in a blinding shockwave. Fire alarms. People running. Sirens everywhere.
Camille's tone dipped. " The Officials estimate hundreds injured. Parts of the city remain inaccessible."
Cut to Solstice City.
Footage of Aquanaut struggling in a collapsing dam, water swallowing streets like a living creature.
The news shows another drenched street in Solstice City— water slamming through buildings, boats drifting between streetlights, Aquanaut barely holding back a tidal surge.
Anchor: "Solstice City continues to battle rising flood levels caused by the villain Torrential…"
The screen split again—Elysium
Elysium burning red, buildings crumbling under waves of flame.
Anchor: "Meanwhile, Elysium endured mass evacuations earlier after the supervillain Pyroclasm ignited an entire district…"
Footage jumps to shaky phone recordings— shadowy figures tearing through Elysium streets, civilians running, camera shaking violently. Civilians dragged others out of burning cars.
Camille lifted a tablet, her expression grim.
"Authorities are urging caution as attacks intensify ... .Most of these cities we've shown are all facing severe villain activity, with casualties and property damage still rising by the hour."
Camille: "In response, major hero organizations—including the Guardian Guild, Shielded Sentinels, United Heroes Alliance, Celestial Champions, Galactic Peacekeepers, and Herocorp—have launched a continent-wide collaboration. Their efforts don't stop at fighting back. They're organizing public charity events, rebuilding hospitals, repairing schools, and assisting families affected by recent battles."
Camille's expression softened as she swiped to another hologram.
The footage shifted to calmer visuals—
Large white tents, rescue drones dropping supplies, heroes signing autographs at charity booths, crowds cheering at fan events.
"These groups also continue their outreach programs: musical events, meet-and-greets, fan conventions, and community fundraisers. While often marketed as charity, they remain essential for supporting civilians and rebuilding cities impacted by the recent surge in crime."
Clips flashed:
– Heroes standing shoulder to shoulder
– Medical tents
– Rescue drones
– Crowds cheering during charity events
– Merchandise stalls filled with masks, capes, action figures
Camille forced a smile.
"Not only that but on the brighter side, collaborative efforts have resulted in new hospitals, schools, and community centers… including specialized academies for teens' awakening abilities."
The camera panned over cheering crowds at a Hero Fan Convention—fans waving banners, kids wearing capes, heroes posing for pictures under blinding spotlights.
Camille's voice softened.
"Behind every disaster, there are those trying to rebuild hope."
Ben muted the TV with a small groan.
He lowered the remote, rested it on his thigh, and finally spoke.
"Listen, kid… you saw all that." His voice went lower. "But that's the pretty version. The version they pay millions to polish."
"Alan turned his head toward him, waiting.
Ben shifted in his seat, voice low and tired.
"What you're seeing on the news? That's marketing. A performance. A beautifully written script. Heroes, villains—they're pieces on a board. Some good, some rotten to the core."
Alan swallowed. "So… the system's broken?"
Ben scratched the stubble on his jaw, sighing: "Flawed. Corrupt. Manipulated. And full of people who think they're the main character."
He paused. "I'm not saying all heroes are bad. Some want to help. Hell, I used to be one of them. But you can't save everyone. And sometimes trying costs more lives than doing nothing."
Alan looked down at his hands, absorbing every word.
Ben sighed, rubbing his face. "Just… be smarter than I was. The world isn't what it pretends to be. Don't fall for every shiny thing they flash at you. Stay grounded. Stay human."
Alan nodded slowly.
The room fell quiet except for the low hum of the TV lights flickered over all three of them as the living room fell quiet, the weight of reality settling in.