The evening sky burned crimson. Black clouds rolled in, covering the sun like stage curtains closing for the final act. Beneath them, the ground was cracked and charred, littered with the remnants of explosions and shrouded in smoke that refused to fade.
In the midst of the devastation, a young man stood. His black clothes were torn and stained with dried blood. His dark eyes stared at the sky, as if this apocalyptic scene was nothing more than a boring afternoon drizzle.
Around him, the sounds of battle still echoed—shouts, the clash of steel, and the roar of explosions. Yet he simply stood there, resting his sword on his shoulder… like someone waiting for a bus that was an hour late.
From the smoke, a tall figure stepped forward, radiating a crushing aura. His gleaming silver armor was smeared with dust and blood, his eyes burning with rage.
The young man tilted his head slightly. "You know," he said flatly, "people often think they're the unluckiest in the world… when in reality, they live comfortable lives. They're just too lazy to face their problems."
He locked eyes with his opponent. "I'm lazy too. But unlike them, I'm truly unlucky. Abandoned as a child, rejected by my family when I returned. Shunned by society, treated like trash. And worst of all… this world rejects my very existence. The world—literally."
A faint smile curved his lips, completely devoid of warmth. "So imagine… being rejected by three layers of the world at once."
"Huft… I never asked to be here. But here I am. And unfortunately for you…" He tilted his head. "…I have no reason to lose. Because no matter how unlucky I am—I will never lose to that misfortune."
His gaze was sharp, but his body remained relaxed, like someone deciding whether to take an afternoon nap. "And the only thing that can defeat me… is my own laziness."
A flicker of the past flashed before his eyes—
The grand gates of the Virellano estate, shut tight. The cold faces of those who had once—begrudgingly—accepted his return, now turning away as they cast him out, without giving him a chance to speak.
He closed his eyes, exhaling a long sigh. "Life… is exhausting for someone who hates troublesome things like me." It was more of a mutter to himself. "But well… what can i do?"
Before him, a massive figure in ancient armor gripped its weapon tightly, its battle aura surging. The young man slowly raised his black sword—a motion that somehow looked more like a yawn than a prelude to combat.
And this… was where it all truly began.
Not in the middle of a war.
Not in front of thousands of enemies.
But…
---
Years ago.
Rain poured heavily that night, drenching most of the vast metropolis known as Makazhar City. The sound of raindrops pounded against the hospital roof in a chaotic rhythm, as if nature itself was trying to hide a crime in progress. In a quiet hallway, a man in hospital scrubs moved swiftly. His face was hidden behind a surgical mask and cap. In his arms, he carried something wrapped in white cloth—a newborn baby boy, unaware that his life was about to be stolen before it even began.
In the delivery room, another newborn had just cried for the first time. The mother smiled with relief as a nurse brought her the baby—unaware that the child wasn't her biological son. No one noticed the switch. Not the doctors. Not the family. It had all been planned.
A few hours later, in front of an old orphanage on the verge of collapse, the man stopped. He looked down at the baby in his arms—his eyes sharp but clouded with hesitation. His heart thundered. But an order was an order. In a faint whisper, he said,
"I'm sorry, little one... I'm just following orders," he murmured, his lips trembling—whether from the cold or from guilt, no one could tell. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the rain soaking his body.
"But I can't... I can't kill you. Leaving you here... is my atonement. Don't blame me."
Overcome by guilt, he gently placed the baby at the door, rang the bell, and disappeared into the shadows—swallowed by the mist and the distant wail of sirens.
Soon after, a middle-aged woman opened the door to find a crying baby shivering in the cold. She picked him up—the blanket was soaked, and a small piece of paper, smudged from the rain, was barely legible. On it, a single word: Al.
She looked around but found no one. Without a word, she brought the child inside.
And behind that door, a harsh life filled with secrets awaited the baby.
That night, no one knew...
That the abandoned child would one day become someone of unimaginable significance.
---
Seventeen years after that night he was taken…
A young man sat leaning against a tree. Behind him stood a large, white building—worn but still sturdy. An orphanage. In his hand, a piece of paper showed the results of a DNA test.
A few people approached him. Among them was a middle-aged man in a formal, luxurious suit.
"It's time for us to go," the man said.
The young man let out a deep sigh, a mix of disbelief... or perhaps just laziness. He gave a slight nod and grabbed his backpack, following the man to a luxury car parked not far from the orphanage gate. Several residents of the orphanage were seen wiping away tears, moved by his departure—he was leaving, only to return.
And so, the car drove away, carrying a young man from the home he had always known... to the home where his bloodline awaited.
The bustling city of Makazhar roared with life that day. Rain was falling—not heavy, but steady enough to wet the streets. The young man sat silently in the back seat of a Mercedes-Benz, his gaze empty as he stared out the bulletproof window.
Rain was falling again today—almost the same as the night his life had begun with a lie. Today, he was returning to the family he'd been separated from for seventeen years.
In his thoughts:
What should I do when I meet my mother and siblings later?
Hmm... This is such a pain.
Returning to a family I've never even seen before. I guess the words "familiar" and "family" don't always mean the same thing.
He let out a quiet sigh, resting his head against the window. His reflection appeared faintly in the glass—a seventeen-year-old boy with pale skin, the kind of tone that came from growing up far from luxury. And yet, he radiated an unusual charm—hard to ignore.
His hair was jet-black and slightly messy, as if he didn't care to use a comb. His eyes were sharp, black as pearls, calm but observant—like someone quietly studying the world, with no real interest in getting involved. His nose was straight, his chin defined.
Despite his youth, there was a maturity in his expression—like someone who had seen too much, even without living too long.
He was tall and lean. Not with the posture of a soldier, but of someone hardened by survival. His shoulders were broad for someone his age, and when he stood, his presence drew attention—without even trying. Yet, his appearance was simple. A plain black hoodie covered a white t-shirt underneath, paired with knee-length black pants that looked like relics from a forgotten year. Even his shoes weren't expensive—just worn-out white canvas sneakers, ironically mocking the fact that he was now sitting in a billion-rupiah car on his way to a noble's mansion.
He wasn't the kind of guy who wanted attention. But somehow, the world couldn't help but take a second look.
Yes, he was handsome—but that wasn't what held people's gaze.
It was something hidden beneath his calm expression.
Something that seemed to whisper: I could destroy your world... but I'm too lazy to bother.
And today, this young man was returning to a place that saw him as a stranger.
Not as a guest.
Not as a servant.
But as their blood.
His name was Al.
A lazy young man... with a story unlike any other.
---
"What are you thinking about, Al?"
The voice came from the middle-aged man sitting beside him in the back seat. His face was calm but stern, marked by sharp lines of discipline. His hair was neatly combed, with streaks of white showing at the temples.
The man was Edward Virellano—Al's biological father, head of the Virellano family, and Chairman of Virellano Group, one of the most powerful conglomerates in Indorosia, with business empires spanning Asia, the Middle East, Europe, and America.
A man who had just returned into Al's life after seventeen long years.
Now, personally picking him up from the orphanage—with the family chauffeur in tow.
Al didn't answer right away. He simply stared out the window, watching the drizzle begin to dance across the glass. An unfamiliar feeling crept over him. Not fear. Not comfort. Just... emptiness.
"Nothing, Mr. Ed—
I mean... nothing, Father," Al finally replied, his voice soft and flat.
"I just feel awkward. I don't know how to act when I meet Mom and my siblings. And whether any of you will even see me as... family."
His father was slightly taken aback by the sharpness of his words. Not something you'd expect from someone his age. But he leaned back in his seat calmly, showing no visible reaction.
"You'll be fine," he said without turning. His voice was flat, emotionless. "Everyone at home is waiting. They'll accept you, no matter what."
The sentence sounded like something rehearsed—light, straight, and without weight. To Al, it wasn't the voice of a father longing for his son. It was more like an administrative statement. As if the man had simply checked off an overdue task.
Yep.
Pick up the long-lost son. Done.
"This isn't the time to hesitate," Edward added. "You're part of the family, Al. You don't have to think about anything else. They'll see you as one of their own."
Al remained silent. He knew—his father wasn't trying to comfort him.
He was just fulfilling his moral duty as the family head.
There was no real concern behind those words.
No effort to understand.
Just lines from a memorized script.
---
Before long, they arrived at a grand, luxurious residential estate.
Al stepped out of the car without saying a word. The light rain soaked his jacket, but he didn't care.
His eyes fell on a young man standing in front of the mansion—staring at him as if appraising a rare object.
Beside him, a woman with red-rimmed eyes trembled as she held back tears. Three other girls stood nearby in an oddly formal formation—as if welcoming an honored guest... or a complete stranger.
Seventeen years.
They had continued living their lives...
And now,
He had returned.