Chapter One: The Night the Sky Broke.
The sky screamed the night Kael was born.
It was not thunder. Not wind. Not the roar of any storm known to man.
The heavens themselves tore open.
Across the land of Eryndor, streaks of molten silver and burning crimson split the darkness, carving wounds into the night sky. Comets fell like judgment, dragging long tails of fire behind them. The stars flickered, dimmed, then flared brighter, as if reacting to something that did not belong among them.
Animals cried out in terror. Wolves howled in the forests. Birds burst from treetops in frantic flocks. Rivers shimmered with unnatural light, their surfaces rippling even where no wind touched them. Magic—ancient, wild, and unseen—shuddered as though awakening from a deep sleep.
Something had arrived.
Deep within the Obsidian Palace, built from black stone and darker ambition, Lord Draven stood beside a blood-soaked bed.
He did not move.
The room smelled of iron and incense, of sweat and fear. Golden braziers burned along the walls, their flames flickering violently as if struggling to stay alive. Protective runes etched into the marble floor glowed briefly—then cracked, one by one, fading into lifeless stone.
The midwives trembled.
In their arms lay the child.
He did not cry.
That alone unsettled them more than the sky screaming outside.
Newborns cried. They wailed, screamed, clung desperately to life. This child did none of those things. He lay still, eyes closed, breathing slow and even, as if merely resting.
His hair was white.
Not pale blond. Not silver.
White—pure, radiant, gleaming faintly like molten moonlight caught in human form. It shimmered softly, responding to the torchlight as though alive.
One of the midwives swallowed hard. "M-my lord… the spells…"
She gestured weakly toward the shattered runes.
"They failed," another whispered. "The moment he took his first breath."
Draven's obsidian eyes narrowed.
Magic failing was not unheard of. Rare, yes—but not impossible. Yet this was different. He could feel it. The air around the child resisted him, pressed back against his presence like an unseen wall.
Lord Draven, ruler of Eryndor. A man whose word bent kings and whose magic terrified demons.
And yet—
He had taken a step back.
The realization angered him.
"So," he said coldly, his voice slicing through the tension, "this is what the heavens were screaming about."
The child stirred.
Tiny fingers curled slowly, clenching nothing.
A sharp crack echoed through the chamber.
A fracture split the marble floor beneath the bed, spreading outward like a spiderweb. Dust drifted into the air. One of the midwives collapsed to her knees, sobbing softly. Another pressed both hands to her mouth, eyes wide with terror.
The braziers flickered.
Then one went out completely.
Silence followed.
Heavy. Suffocating.
The child opened his eyes.
They were not glowing. Not blazing with magic or fire.
They were calm.
Aware.
Draven felt something tighten in his chest—an instinct older than reason, older than ambition. A warning whispered through his blood.
This child would never kneel.
The baby cried then—not in fear, not in pain, but in strength. The sound was clear, unwavering, resonating through the chamber like a single, perfect note struck on an unseen instrument.
The pressure in the air deepened, just for a moment.
Then it vanished.
The crack in the floor stopped spreading. The torches steadied. The world seemed to exhale.
Draven stared at the child for a long moment.
Then his expression hardened.
"Take him," he commanded. "Now."
The midwives obeyed instantly, scrambling to wrap the infant in cloth, terrified of lingering too long in his presence.
"And remember this night," Draven continued, his voice low and lethal. "You will never speak of what you saw. Not the sky. Not the runes. Not the child."
His gaze swept the room.
"Forget—or be forgotten."
They bowed deeply and fled the chamber, carrying the newborn through shadowed corridors.
Outside the palace walls, the comets burned their final paths across the sky before vanishing into darkness. The stars slowly returned to their places.
But the world did not forget.
Far beyond Eryndor's borders, ancient creatures stirred in their slumber. Seals buried beneath mountains pulsed faintly. Forgotten gods shifted uneasily on their thrones of dust and memory.
And deep beneath the Obsidian Palace, far below dungeons and crypts, something old and patient pulsed once in response.
A heartbeat.
A promise.
Kael slept peacefully in the arms of terrified servants, unaware of the fear he inspired, unaware of the power coiled within him. His breathing was steady. His expression calm.
Yet even in sleep, the air around him hummed faintly.
The night he was born would be remembered.
Not as the arrival of a savior.
But as the moment the balance of the world began to tilt.
Chapter Two: Shadows in the Palace
The marble halls of the Obsidian Palace gleamed with gold and black stone, polished to a cruel perfection. The torches along the walls cast long, wavering shadows that slithered like living things. Servants hurried through corridors, faces pale and eyes downcast, fearful of attracting the attention of Lord Draven, or worse—his child.
Kael moved silently among them, a shadow within shadows. His white hair glimmered faintly under torchlight, brushing the floor like molten silk as he walked. To anyone who looked, he was fragile, just a boy. But the air itself betrayed him; the faint hum of energy that followed him made grown men stumble backward when they accidentally crossed his path.
From a young age, Kael had understood the rules of survival in this palace: never be seen, never be questioned, never be weak. Each glance from his father carried the weight of a blade. Every word whispered in the corridors could shift the tides of life and death.
Tonight, Kael's curiosity drew him to a wing of the palace long abandoned. The corridors were lined with dust and faded tapestries depicting battles and conquests, long forgotten by those who had lived them. The air smelled of stone, ash, and old magic. Broken wards flickered weakly along the walls, futile against the power coiled inside him.
He paused at a crumbling archway and listened. The palace slept, but the tension never truly left these halls. Mages whispered in dreams, guards shifted nervously, and somewhere, the echoes of suffering cried out in silence. Kael had learned to hear those whispers as clearly as the voices of those standing beside him.
A sudden movement caught his eye. Shadows twisted unnaturally along the walls, forming shapes that flickered with dark energy.
Kael's lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile.
"It's time," he whispered to himself.
From the darkness emerged a construct—a monstrous fusion of steel and shadow, limbs jagged and uneven, eyes glowing crimson. Its teeth were shards of obsidian, its claws capable of slicing through armor as though it were paper. Magic pulsed around it, black and corrosive, as if the palace itself had birthed a nightmare to punish him.
Kael crouched lightly, feeling the familiar surge of adrenaline that came with confrontation. He did not fear. He had learned that fear was a tool for the weak. Power, focus, and patience—these were what separated survival from oblivion.
The creature lunged.
Kael moved before it could reach him. Faster than the eye could follow, he flipped over its shoulder, landing silently behind it. The constructs' claws shattered against the air where he had been moments before. Spells intended to immobilize him dissolved on contact, as though they had been nothing more than illusions. Arrows shot from hidden alcoves bent uselessly aside.
He struck.
A single fist collided with the construct's chest, sending sparks flying as its metal frame cracked like glass. The creature roared, swinging wildly, but Kael was gone—leaping over debris, spinning midair, landing precisely where he needed to strike again. Within moments, the construct collapsed, its body dissolving into smoke and shadow, leaving no trace of its existence.
Kael's hair flickered in the dim light, not from pride, but from the thrill of justice.
A faint sound made him stop. Footsteps. Light creaking across the hall. Someone had been watching.
A court mage stepped from the shadows, eyes wide with shock. "Y-you… you are extraordinary," he whispered. "Impossible… yet real."
Kael's gaze was calm. "I do not seek recognition," he said. "But those who threaten the innocent… they will know me."
The mage nodded, fear and awe battling across his features. Kael turned and vanished into the shadows, as silent as the wind brushing against the palace walls.
Hours later, he ascended to the palace towers, looking down on the lands of Eryndor bathed in silver moonlight. Villages slept peacefully, rivers glimmered like molten glass, forests whispered in the night. Beyond the horizon, distant mountains and plains stretched untouched by cruelty. Yet Kael knew that peace was fragile, and shadows could reach even the farthest corners.
He closed his eyes. He could feel the heartbeat of the land beneath him, the pulse of life and suffering intertwined. Somewhere below, hidden in the catacombs, a blade waited for him. The Sword of Eradication, older than kingdoms, more powerful than the strongest magic, pulsed faintly in recognition of its rightful master. Kael would claim it. One day. Not for vengeance—but for justice.
Night after night, he trained. Faster than wind, higher than towers, stronger than stone. Every movement refined, every breath calculated. Every lesson, every hardship endured, sharpened him.
But he was not naive. Even as he grew, Lord Draven's shadow loomed over him, long and unyielding. The day would come when the tyrant would strike—not just at Kael, but at everything he held dear.
Kael's fists clenched. His white hair glimmered brighter in the cold night. "Then I will be ready," he whispered. "Not for revenge. For justice."
And in the silence of the palace, unseen, untouchable, the boy who would become the Wonderful Man trained—relentless, unstoppable, unbroken.
Chapter Three: The Sword Awakens
Beneath the palace, the air smelled of damp stone, dust, and something older—something ancient, almost alive. The catacombs twisted and turned like veins beneath the marble floors, hidden for centuries, forgotten by most of the kingdom. Kael's steps echoed lightly, almost in rhythm with the faint pulse he felt underfoot.
He had spent years learning the palace's secrets: every hidden corridor, every forgotten passage, every sleeping ward and trap. But tonight was different. Tonight, the catacombs whispered to him in a way they never had before.
The Sword waits.
Kael's fingers itched with anticipation. His white hair shimmered in the torchlight as he moved cautiously through the narrow passage. Every carved rune, every faded inscription along the walls, seemed to recognize him, glowing faintly in acknowledgment. Some depicted battles of old, heroes who wielded great power—and all of them had fallen. Yet none had called the sword to life until now.
He paused at a vast stone chamber. The ceiling arched high above, lined with stalactites and ancient carvings of kings, warriors, and magic beasts. At its center, on a pedestal of blackened marble, lay the Sword of Eradication. Light radiated from the blade in pulses, faint at first, then growing brighter, as though the sword itself were alive, aware, and impatient.
Kael stepped forward slowly. His breath echoed in the chamber. He reached out a hand, and the moment his fingers touched the hilt, a surge of energy shot through him. The world around him seemed to dissolve. For a fleeting moment, he could feel the suffering of Eryndor in every heartbeat: starving children, enslaved magical creatures, villages crushed under Draven's rule.
And he felt power—raw, endless, a connection to the blade that was older than kings. The sword hummed faintly in response, resonating with him as though saying: I have been waiting for you.
But before he could lift it fully, a sound echoed from the darkness.
A low, guttural growl, unlike anything human.
Kael's body tensed. From the shadows, a demon emerged—a monstrous, writhing figure, grotesque and enormous. Its eyes glowed with malice, its skin a mix of scales and charred flesh. Spikes protruded along its back, dripping with dark magic that seemed to devour the light.
"You should not have come here, child," the demon hissed, voice like molten rock scraping against stone.
Kael gripped the sword. "I'm not afraid of you," he said, his voice steady. Every word carried the weight of centuries of observation, training, and purpose.
The demon lunged.
The clash was instantaneous. Shadows collided with light, fire met steel, and the chamber trembled as Kael moved faster than thought. The sword sang through the air, cutting through the demon's limbs with a brilliance that left scorch marks on the stone walls. Spells of darkness, conjured by the creature, shattered the moment they touched his skin. Arrows of corrupted energy bent uselessly aside.
Kael's movements were poetry in violence. He leapt over the demon's spiked tail, spun midair, and struck its chest. The demon screamed—a sound that would have paralyzed any ordinary human—but Kael remained calm. Strike after strike, block after block, he dismantled the creature, pushing it back until finally it collapsed into shadow and ash.
The chamber went silent.
Kael's chest heaved, not from exhaustion, but from the thrill of justice delivered. His white hair glowed faintly, reflecting the pulsing light of the sword.
He had taken the first step toward becoming the Silent Guardian.
But the world outside the catacombs was far from safe.
News of his deeds, though unspoken, began to spread. Crops poisoned by Draven's enforcers flourished overnight. Villages that had been terrorized found protection from shadows that appeared and vanished without warning. Whispers circulated of a boy whose hair shone like molten moonlight, a being that acted unseen, unstoppable, and merciless against darkness.
Kael did not seek recognition. He did not want fame. All he wanted was justice.
Night after night, he trained. He wielded the sword until his arms ached. He ran faster than the wind, leapt higher than the tallest towers, and learned the subtle art of moving through shadows unnoticed. He healed instantly from wounds that would have killed men ten times his age. And though he could not die, he learned the weight of immortality: the loneliness that came with being untouchable, the isolation of power that no one else could match.
Yet even in isolation, Kael found allies. Magical creatures long enslaved left subtle signs of gratitude. Villagers whispered prayers of hope in the night. And somewhere, quietly, a rebellion began to stir—its flame small, but growing.
The first true challenge would come sooner than expected.
One night, as Kael soared above the palace towers, practicing flight, a shadow flickered beneath him—a figure cloaked in darkness, moving with unnatural speed and intent.
He descended silently.
From the shadows, a blade flashed, aimed directly at his heart. Kael twisted, deflecting it with the Sword of Eradication. Sparks flew. The figure struck again, and again. Faster, stronger, relentless. Kael realized this was no ordinary adversary. Whoever it was, they knew him. They had studied him.
"You're hiding in the dark, boy," the figure said, voice low and mocking. "But even shadows have limits."
Kael narrowed his eyes. "Then you'll find mine are endless."
The battle began in earnest. Steel clashed against magic, sparks lit the night, and the wind howled around them as if frightened of their power. Kael's body moved instinctively, faster than thought, stronger than any force his opponent could muster. And yet, he realized something terrifying: this was just the beginning. Whoever had sent the assassin knew his abilities. They had planned, watched, and prepared.
As the night stretched on, Kael realized that protecting Eryndor would require more than strength. Strategy, patience, and cunning would be necessary. And he would need allies.
When the figure finally vanished into the shadows, leaving Kael alone on the tower, he whispered to the wind:
"This is only the beginning. And I will be ready."
The Sword of Eradication pulsed faintly in his hands, as though affirming the promise. Somewhere deep beneath the catacombs, ancient magic stirred, recognizing that the boy who would become the Wonderful Man had begun his journey—and that nothing could stop him.
Chapter Four: Betrayal, War, and the Rise of the Wonderful Man.
The shadow of Lord Draven's wrath fell across Eryndor like a storm that devoured everything in its path. Entire villages burned under the onslaught of corrupted mages, enchanted beasts, and constructs born from Draven's cruel magic. The cries of the innocent pierced the night, blending with the roar of destruction as forests smoldered and rivers turned to steam.
Kael stood atop a cliff overlooking the kingdom he had watched over for centuries. His white hair glowed faintly in the wind, the Sword of Eradication in hand, radiating light that cut through the darkness. His eyes scanned the horizon: villages aflame, armies of darkness spreading, magical creatures fleeing in terror.
His heart ached, but it did not falter. He had trained for this moment—every leap, every strike, every lesson endured in silence had prepared him.
Draven's cruelty had no bounds. Entire forests were reduced to ash. Innocents were slaughtered simply for resisting, their screams echoing in Kael's mind. Yet he moved forward, determined, silent, unstoppable. Every village he entered, he left healed. Crops restored, magical creatures freed, the wounded tended. He became a ghost of hope: seen by few, remembered by all.
But grief was relentless. A messenger arrived with news that struck Kael harder than any blade: his mother, defiant against Draven's cruelty, had been executed. Pain, deeper than anything Kael had ever known, surged through him.
For a moment, the immortal boy felt the sting of mortality.
Yet he did not yield. Not to grief. Not to rage.
He channeled every ounce of emotion into purpose. His strikes became sharper, faster, precise. His glowing hair shone like molten silver against the night sky, reflecting both sorrow and unwavering determination.
But Kael knew raw strength alone would not defeat a tyrant like Draven. He needed wisdom, strategy, and allies—both human and magical.
He sought counsel from the ancient remnants of Eryndor's past rulers: beings older than kingdoms, hidden in secret sanctuaries, their presence both imposing and serene. They did not test him with battle. Instead, they tested his heart.
One asked: "Would you spare the enemy if it meant the safety of innocents, even at great personal cost?"
Kael's eyes glimmered with certainty. "Yes. True power lies in restraint as much as in strength."
Another posed a question older than the mountains: "Could you bear immortality and remain just?"
Kael's gaze swept the horizon. "Eternity is a gift only if it protects others, not yourself."
Satisfied, the council granted him one final vision: the coming confrontation with Draven. It was brutal, devastating, and filled with betrayal. But it was also a glimpse of victory—the kind Kael needed to prepare himself for the trials ahead.