On the desolate battlefield, chaos reigned as Jargo the Demon carved his path through the carnage, leaving a trail of lifeless bodies strewn like discarded ants.
Towering at two meters, his physique was as imposing as a raging storm. Draped in garments woven from animal hides, he emanated an aura of primal ferocity. His eyes blazed with a feral red, driven by an insatiable thirst for blood. Four muscular arms wielded weapons of destruction—two black spears adorned with intricate symbols, a shield forged from dark energy, and in the last hand, a small orb that radiated golden rays like a miniature sun.
The air crackled, thick with the metallic scent of blood, as lifeless forms—both demons and humans—littered the ground. Jargo showed no signs of relenting. But then, a sudden stillness overcame him. He paused, his gaze drawn upward.
The battlefield echoed his silence. Even the warriors ceased their bloodshed to follow his intense stare toward the heavens.
From above, a small metallic object hurtled downward like a celestial meteor, igniting a wave of trepidation among the soldiers—everyone except Jargo, who stood ready.
The object halted fifty meters above the ground in a burst of radiant golden light.
From the brilliance emerged a man clad in resplendent golden armor, his shine almost blinding. Wispy white hair flowed like silver grass, contrasting sharply with crimson eyes that sparkled with unsettling confidence. A smirk danced on his lips.
In response, Jargo unleashed a thunderous roar that echoed through the air, rattling the souls of all who heard it.
The atmosphere tensed. The armored man extended his right hand sideways. In a twist of motion, his hand plunged into the air and pulled forth a magnificent golden spear—its shaft encrusted with fiery red gems and etched with mysterious symbols. Without hesitation, he drew his arm back and launched the spear at Jargo, setting the stage for an epic confrontation that would shake the earth itself.
Sensing danger, Jargo hurled one of his own spears back at the armored adversary. The two weapons collided high above, bursting in a storm of golden light and crackling blue sparks.
Crack! Crack!
The very fabric of the sky seemed to shatter under the impact, allowing beams of sunlight to pour down once more and illuminate the battlefield.
But in the next moment, another spear hurtled toward the man clad in gold. The two spear energies clashed, cascading sparks like meteor trails.
Seeing it approach, the man—shrouded in ominous power—clasped his hands together in a smooth, elegant motion and slowly parted them. A black mirror, reflective and adorned with a kaleidoscope of rubies and gems, materialized before him.
With a swift flick, the spear dove into the mirror, vanishing as if swallowed by shadow.
Instantly, the same mirror sprung forth behind the demon. A replica of the spear reemerged, hurtling toward Jargo with lethal precision. But just a breath away, it halted—as though stopped by an invisible force.
Crack! Crack!
Spiderweb cracks bloomed across Jargo's unseen barrier, flickering like the dying light of a star. His dark shield melted into the air, merging with the barrier. Then, as if by mystical grace, the fissures disappeared, and the spear fractured into blue sparks, dissolving into nothingness.
Just when it seemed the display was over, the man elevated his right hand—an imperious gesture that echoed through the stillness like a general commanding his legion.
Shimmering portals ignited around the colossal Jargo, pulsating with otherworldly light. They multiplied—10, 100, 1,000—until 10,000 portals formed in the sky, each exuding a hailstorm of spears, some radiant gold, others deep obsidian, all tipped with gems and amber. They darted forward like ravenous wolves.
His arm still raised, the man commanded the swarm to descend upon Jargo.
Yet as they neared, they clashed against an unseen barrier. Some ignited into sparks, others vanished into smoke.
But the tension hadn't ended. Cracks began to creep across the wall—and with a burst, one spear broke through. Jargo caught it, trying to crush it—but just two heartbeats later, the barrier shattered completely.
A torrential storm of spears rained upon the demon, piercing his massive form. His roar—filled with rage and agony—echoed across the battlefield. Yet he stood frozen, suspended midair like a marionette with cut strings.
The man approached. At that moment, he noticed the miniature sun-like orb once held by Jargo had vanished.
Darkness crept across the world.
Raising both hands, the golden warrior conjured a titanic sword—one that stretched a hundred meters long.
But time turned against him.
Jargo's body ignited in blinding light, consuming all shadow. The brilliance was so intense, the man had to close his eyes—surrendering to the incoming twilight.
The air crackled. The demon unleashed a final cry.
But it was not a roar.
It was...
Beep! Beep! Beep!
A cold, mechanical sound.
The man wrestled with confusion, caught in a whirlwind of disarray. Then frustration.
His eyes snapped open, blinking away the glare.
His voice escaped his lips, hoarse and exasperated—like a curse hurled at the void.
"Fuck."
Meanwhile, in a quiet room far removed from the commotion, a 17-year-old boy lay sprawled across his bed, arms stretched above his head, eyes gazing blankly at the ceiling. Moments ticked by before he groggily rubbed the sleep from his face, stumbled over to shut off the incessant alarm, and opened the window wide, letting the gentle morning sunlight seep in.
Settling back onto his bed, he muttered incoherently to himself, caught between the remnants of dreams and the demands of the waking world.
"Man, I really need to stop reading this type of shit... but it isn't a big deal, right? No one knows me here. Just a little late to the game, but who cares? Just gotta play it cool, right?"
The words tumbled from his mind, but they were little more than distractions. Doubts clawed at him again, spiraling deeper.
"But what does being normal even mean? Am I normal? Is anyone? Damn it, just shut up for a minute! Breathe in, breathe out... just breathe...."
With a determined exhale, he rose, stretched his limbs, and made his way to the bathroom. As he passed the staircase, a fleeting glance caught his eye—but he quickly pushed the thought aside and stepped into the small sanctuary of tiles and porcelain. He took his time brushing his teeth, the minty taste refreshing him before indulging in an unusually long, soothing shower. The water washed away the remnants of a restless night.
Once back in his room, a flicker of determination stirred within him. With damp hair clinging to his forehead, he flicked through the hangers in his wardrobe and pulled out the crisp new school uniform. After dressing, he caught his reflection in the full-body mirror.
The boy staring back stood at a striking 1.8 meters, though his slender frame hinted at years of neglecting meals and workouts. His dark black hair fell across his forehead, partially obscuring light brown eyes that sparkled with a tinge of hope. A hint of boyish charm lit up his features—surpassing the average, yet still yearning for recognition.
Clad in a crisp white shirt, a bold red blazer, gray trousers, and a matching tie, he adjusted a belt crafted from gray plastic threads adorned with two elegant white lines. It bore the emblem of an open book and quill—the insignia of St. Anthony School.
"Is this really me?" he mused, heart racing at the thrill of possibility. "If I try, I could really pull off some chicks on the first day!" But then the doubt crept in again, racing through his mind—a whirlwind of confusion.
"What the fuck are you thinking? You already have someone! I'm sorry, I'm really sorry... El..." he muttered, glancing at his disheveled hair before slinging on his black backpack and stuffing his socks and phone into place.
As he bounded down the stairs into the warmth of the living room, a sight caught his gaze—three neatly prepared sandwiches awaited him on the dining table. His eyes flicked to the refrigerator, where a note was plastered with heartfelt intent.
"I have early work today, and I'm really sorry for not saying goodbye in person. Good luck on your first day at school; make friends!"
It was from his aunt—though she often felt more like a figment of his own worries than a real presence.
He popped open the fridge, poured himself a glass of fruit juice, and lowered into a chair, quietly savoring his breakfast. Between bites, his fingers danced over his phone, checking the route to St. Anthony School. After finishing and tidying up, he slid on his socks and polished black shoes, rising with a deep sigh that carried the weight of new beginnings.
The sky stretched blue above him, yet the sun seemed shy, lingering just beyond reach. He ventured through the small garden, pushing open the creaky metal gate behind him before turning left to step onto the street. With his phone in one hand and earbuds snug in his ears, he pressed play on his playlist, the notes wrapping around him like a comforting embrace.
As he walked, thoughts swirled—a belief etched in his mind that this new place would feel foreign and exciting. But to his surprise, the city unfolded before him with a familiar rhythm: the towering buildings, the busy stores, the ebb and flow of people hustling on their daily quests—a mirror image of his hometown. Perhaps change wasn't as stark as he'd imagined.
After a leisurely half-hour, he arrived at the school, stopping just outside the grand entrance. But what truly captivated him wasn't the school itself—it was the forest looming in the distance. It lay a mere five kilometers away, its mass sprawling like an inviting secret. He couldn't help but notice the contrast to the city's expanse; the land was open, dotted with fewer structures, evoking a rustic charm.
"I'm definitely going there," he thought, a spark of adventure flickering in his chest.
As he crossed through the school's main gate, the scene unfolded before him—a lively playground filled with students lounging and laughing, their voices blending into a symphony of youth. The school building stood impressively—a six-story marvel, its silhouette unique against the sky.
Glancing at his phone, he noted the time: 08:52.
"Still eight minutes until class starts... now, where can I find the admission office?"
As he navigated the bustling campus, his eyes landed on a man in his late forties standing a few meters to his right. Dressed in a dark blue uniform, the man seemed to be calmly observing the stream of students flowing by like a river.
With a touch of uncertainty, the boy approached and asked, "Where's the admission office?"
The man glanced at him for a second, then pointed toward a nearby door. "Over there," he said simply.
The boy followed his gaze to a ground-floor room, heart thudding with a mix of anticipation and nerves.
"Oookyy," he murmured to himself, steeling his resolve as he made his way to the office.
Upon stepping inside, he was greeted by a young man in his mid-twenties, clad in a black shirt and blue jeans, absorbed in a phone conversation with his back turned to the door. Suddenly, the school bell rang out in a series of sharp chimes—Tring! Tring! Tring!
It was a clarion call for students to head to class.
The young man turned, noticing the boy silhouetted against the sunlight filtering through the window. He paused his call, begrudgingly pulled his chair forward, and raised an eyebrow, silently questioning the boy's purpose.
"Need my identification card," the boy stated, a hint of urgency in his voice.
The man, caught off guard, asked, "New admission or did you lose it?"
With steady determination, the boy replied, "New admission."
The man nodded, his expression shifting to one of understanding. "Name and admission receipt?" he asked.
The boy nodded, rummaging through his backpack before pulling out a light green slip that shimmered faintly under the morning light—like a quiet promise. He handed it over with a hopeful smile.
The man scrutinized the receipt against the register, and after a brief scan, his eyes lit up as he found the name. He handed over the ID card and returned the slip, pointing toward the stairs.
"Third floor. Second room."
"Thanks," the boy replied softly, his heart pounding as he stepped back into the hallway.
The silence around him was unsettling—the corridors were deserted, the only sound was the echo of his footsteps as he made his way upstairs. Reaching the third floor, he stood before a door marked "Class 11th B."
With a mix of anxiety and resolve, he took a deep breath and knocked.
The door creaked open to reveal a girl in a crisp white shirt and gray skirt, her ponytail swaying as she regarded him with a curious glint in her eyes. Their uniforms matched, but the energy between them was unfamiliar.
A shy smile crept onto his face in response.
Inside, the teacher—an authoritative figure standing near the blackboard—glanced up. Noting the unfamiliar face, he gestured for the girl to return to her seat, then approached the door.
"New admission?" he asked, his voice laced with professional warmth.
The boy nodded. "Yes."
"Come. Introduce yourself."
He stepped forward slowly, heart pounding, preparing to say his name and where he came from—until something at the back of the room caught his eye.
A boy sat slouched near the window, his messy black hair giving the impression he'd just rolled out of bed. He stared outside, lost in his own world, detached from the class around him.
Why is this guy acting like he owns the story? the boy thought, a strange wave of confusion hitting him. Am I not the one supposed to be in the spotlight here? A flicker of irritation sparked, but he forced it down.
No need to spiral... maybe it's just an author's oversight—or some new storytelling trend. Calm down.
With a deep breath, he faced the class and introduced himself. The teacher nodded approvingly, then turned to the students.
"Make him feel welcome," he said.
He was directed to a seat in the middle row, last bench—ironically, right beside the boy who had distracted him moments ago. With a reluctant sigh, he walked over and sat down. As the teacher resumed the lesson, he reached into his bag, pulled out a book, and let himself sink into its pages.
Time passed in a blur. As the clock ticked toward 3:30 PM, the boy slid through the front door of his house—his sanctuary. The familiar scent of home greeted him, wrapping around him like a worn blanket. Without pause, he collapsed into his favorite chair—the one molded to his shape—and opened his laptop.
An online novel. His guilty pleasure. His quiet obsession.
Minutes later, his hands gripped the edge of the keyboard, tension rising.
"Wait, what!! Is this the... end?"
His breath caught. Frustration surged.
"Fucking fuck! There's still so much left!" he shouted, unable to hold back.
The story—one he had cherished—was ending. And not just ending, but abruptly. Unfinished. It felt like a punch to the gut.
He sat frozen, mind racing.
He remembered when he'd first stumbled upon it: a gritty, brutal tale about a cruel protagonist navigating the shadows of an unforgiving world, doing whatever it took to reach his goal. For two months, it had been his world.
He knew the novel was banned—whispers of it had circled for weeks—but now the truth hit with icy clarity. There'd be no conclusion. No answers. Only silence.
All he could do was hope. Hope the author will someday return. Hope the ban will be lifted. Hope for closure.
Just then, the shrill ping of his phone broke through his haze. He blinked, dragged back to the present.
It was a message from his aunt:
"Sorry, I'm coming home late because of a friend's birthday party."
He read it twice, then typed a simple reply: "ok."
The clock read 7:30 PM—looming like a silent watcher above him. His stomach growled, but cooking felt like climbing a mountain.
Then he remembered the small convenience store he'd passed this morning.
Snacks. That'll do.
He changed into black pants and a light blue T-shirt with a simple triangular print. The soft evening light caught the edges of the fabric as he moved. Slipping into his worn slippers, he headed downstairs and pushed the front door open.
"It really is dark outside," he muttered.
The night enveloped the city like a thick, suffocating blanket, the only illumination coming from flickering street lights that cast ghostly shadows across the pavement. He ambled through the gloom, his footsteps echoing softly against the cold ground, until the warm glow of a small convenience store beckoned him forward.
Just before he reached its safe, welcoming lights, he unknowingly drifted past a narrow alleyway, where rusted trash bins loomed like silent sentinels of decay. A faint cry pierced the stillness.
He froze. A chill slid down his spine.
He tried to shrug it off. Probably just my imagination.
"…Or not."
The failing logic of reason couldn't compete with the pull of curiosity.
Maybe this is what they mean by 'a bad decision waiting to happen,' he thought, switching on the flashlight on his phone. The weak beam cut through the dense shadows like a knife.
Drawn by something he couldn't name, he ventured deeper into the alley. A foul stench hit him immediately, and he covered his nose with one hand, pressing on. Each cautious step felt like descending further into something unreal, the rhythmic sound of his own footsteps bouncing back at him—until something changed.
A new sound joined his—a second set of footsteps. He stopped.
The echoes continued.
His pulse quickened. He glanced to the right, where a connecting alley branched off. That's where the steps are coming from.
Despite himself, he hesitated only briefly. I've come this far. Might as well see it through.
He took one step—
—and the footsteps stopped.
Silence.
From the murky gloom, a figure emerged. A man—late twenties, pale and ragged—cloaked in black fabric that seemed to swallow all light. His expression was grim, his eyes haunted, as though locked in a violent internal war.
Before he could react, the man lunged. Rough hands grabbed him, and a crushing grip clamped around his neck as he was slammed against the damp brick wall. Panic erupted inside him. Two more figures emerged from the side alley, their faces hidden in the darkness. The man's grip tightened, and cold steel pressed against his throat.
It all happened too fast. His mind reeled.
This isn't real. This can't be happening.
But it was. Every instinct screamed it. He was trapped.
The alley held secrets he was never meant to see. And now—he was one of them.
The man holding him snarled, eyes wide with paranoia. "Why are you chasing me all the way here? Didn't I tell you everything I know?!"
A second voice echoed from deeper in the dark, cold and deliberate. "You told us everything? Then what are we doing here?"
"Yeah! Why are you even chasing him? Just leave him alone!"
The boy wanted to shout, but his voice was frozen in his throat, crushed by fear.
Don't they realize I'm just a kid… I don't even belong in this scene.
He tried to plead silently with the man clutching him, tried to scream, to explain—but he couldn't speak.
"I'm telling you! I'll kill this kid!" the man screamed, pulling the boy tighter. The blade kissed his skin. "Don't come any closer!"
The tension in the air crackled like electricity. From the darkness, a faint light flickered—the phone which had fallen earlier, Its glow revealed a familiar face: the boy from class. The one who stared out the window like he didn't belong in this world.
But now, that boy looked different—his hair neatly styled, his eyes sharp and piercing.
Bang! Bang!
Gunshots shattered the silence.
Two bullets—two bodies.
The man gripping the boy collapsed instantly, lifeless. The unlucky boy– who's curiosity got the better of him—fell next, slumping to the ground, blood spilling from his side. The alley exploded into chaos as other two suited figures scrambled for cover behind the walls, hearts pounding, unsure what had just unfolded.
The dying boy gasped once, barely audible.
"…Thi…is "
And with that, the boy was pulled inside the endless Void.