Several years had passed since the war against the shadow monsters ended. Full military control now stretched across the lands reclaimed from the Shadow Demons. The echoes of battle lingered like a stubborn stain upon the earth. Chaos still ruled across wide stretches of the world; in some parts, shadow-beasts prowled—waiting, lurking. But special units hunted them: relentless squads trained to track, to strike, to burn away the remnants of the nightmare.
At times, those units were joined by students—not ordinary ones, but gifted prodigies from hidden academies. Sorcerers, vampires, werewolves, and other beings touched by magic. Each trained under unique rites, shaped for a war that had never truly ended. The veil between steel and circuitry and the old realm of magic had been ripped apart.
Now, creatures spoken of only in campfire tales walked openly among humans. Not all chose the light. Some remained hidden; some preferred the shadows. Across the world, rifts yawned open—tall gates of cold metal, wrapped in shifting energy. They were not crafted by wizards but by machines—technology forged by the Shadow Lords, the enigmatic tyrants who once commanded the Shadow Demons. Through these gates, they crossed between worlds.
No human hand had ever built such marvels. Only the Luminaris had known those secrets, and they were long gone—along with their brilliance, their soaring cities of light, and their knowledge that once bridged the heavens. Whispers spoke of their lost archives; of records erased after the Shadow Catastrophe. Most gates had been seized by the United Alliance and now stood behind walls of unbroken firepower. But not all. Some remained hidden—deep in ruins, guarded by shadowed groups, waiting for the right hour.
The city ahead was no different from those swallowed by the war. Or perhaps it was. It wore the mask of calm—but unnaturally so. A stillness clung to its streets like a low fog, pressing against every cracked tower leaning like wounded giants. Laughter had abandoned the avenues long ago. Dust drifted where crowds once thrived. Only the hushed movements of the few remaining souls stirred the quiet.
The homeless drifted between ruins; museums lay hollow; schools shattered; places once filled with promise left to crumble. Nature crept in to reclaim it all: weeds splitting the concrete, rust hollowing bicycles left to rot, chains snapping like old memories. And along the main road, a boy walked alone.
His name was Max. Fourteen years old. Short black hair. Striking blue eyes that seemed too old for such a young face—eyes carrying storms no one else could see. His bag hung from one shoulder, swaying with each step. His expression still, almost unreadable, though sorrow flickered beneath the surface.
He passed a bakery—one of the few places that refused to die. Steam fogged the windows with warmth. The scent of fresh bread drifted into the cold morning, mocking the broken city around it.
Then—voices.
"Is that him…" one of the townsfolk murmured, his gaze darting toward the boy like a guilty shadow.
"They say he was in the accident… the one that killed his parents," another whispered, pity and hesitation tangled in her words.
The whispers slipped through the bakery door. Quiet. Careful. But Max heard them. He always did. Even though he wished he hadn't.
His shoulders stiffened; fists curled inside his pockets. Still, he walked on. No glance back. No break in pace. He fixed his eyes on the ground and pushed forward through the falling-ash whispers.
He'd lived with these murmurs for years. But they still cut. Still reopened wounds that had never healed.
School was worse. When Max reached the gates, the world sharpened. Eyes locked onto him—some filled with disdain, others with pity, all intrusive. Their stares pressed into his skin like thorns.
He kept walking. No words. No reaction. His head lowered, shoulders squared, breath steady. Each step echoed louder than the students' chatter.
Clusters of teenagers whispered near the entrance. Some smirked openly; others muttered insults just loud enough to slice at him.
"Ignore it… just ignore it," he breathed, the strain cracking faintly through his voice.
He moved through the hall like a ghost—tangible only to those who wished to hurt him. The bell rang; the corridors erupted into noise—laughter, chatter, chaos. Max slipped through the storm like the tide pushed him away.
No one noticed him. No one except the bullies. And they never missed.
He reached his classroom. The door hung open. He slipped inside and claimed the seat far in the back, as though the shadows offered shelter.
A note landed on his desk. Folded. Mocking. He didn't open it. He didn't need to. The snickers from the row ahead told him enough.
"Not today," he whispered, fury tight beneath the words.
His jaw locked. He crushed the note in his fist, shoved it into his pocket, and stayed silent. He buried the fire inside—so deep no one else could see it.
The teacher entered. Noise vanished. She placed a thick history book on her desk, her tone carrying a patient, quiet hope.
"Today, we will continue with how communities rose after the victory of the United Alliance… after the Shadow Demon invasion."
She spoke of heroes. Of unity. Of courage. Of rebuilding from ruin.
But Max drifted away. A memory ripped him back. A dark road. Flickering signs. Shadows stretching like claws. Headlights—blinding. Tires screaming. And his mother—
"Max!!"
Her final cry rang out—then shattered into nothing. He blinked. The bell fractured the memory like glass.
Lunch break. Max rose slowly, movements heavy as if chains tugged at his limbs. He shook his head, trying to scatter the jagged fragments clinging to him. But they stayed. They always stayed.
Every heartbeat throbbed with echoes he wished he could forget. Each step felt necessary—and almost unbearable. He crossed the threshold into the great hall; the vast emptiness swallowed the soft fall of his footsteps. Beyond it, the world lay still and indifferent, pressing against him with quiet weight.
Max exhaled; the air carried dust and faint echoes. He bore the invisible weight of memory on his shoulders—shaping every gesture, every breath. Then, slowly, he lifted his eyes and stepped outside.
Silence followed him. Patient. Constant. And watchful.