The day crackled with energy—palpable, humming beneath the surface like lightning waiting to strike.
It was the Day of Choosing.
Every five centuries, the people of this world gathered for a ceremony older than memory itself. From among a select few, one would be chosen to inherit a legacy that stretched beyond the stars—a name spoken in reverence:
Titan.
A title that could shape the fate of the world be it good or bad.
The streets were alive. Music and laughter spilled from every alleyway, painting the city in joy. Dancers spun in dizzying circles, and golden banners fluttered above like trapped sunlight. Even the most bitter men smiled today.
But not everyone was celebrating.
Not yet.
Inside a cluttered bedroom on the edge of the city, a boy slept like the dead.
"Kian!"
His mother's voice rang out again, softer this time, threaded with warning.
She pushed open the door and winced.
The room was a battlefield. Paintbrushes lay strewn across the floor like fallen weapons. Half-finished canvases leaned precariously on walls. A mixture of charcoal dust and pastry crumbs coated the floor. The air smelled faintly of burnt sugar and turpentine.
Typical mess for a teenage boy—but this wasn't just untidy. It was chaos with a personality.
Lana stepped inside, careful not to trip over a rolled-up scroll. She studied her son for a moment. He was tangled in a blanket, hair wild—Gold with streaks of black like ink spilled across parchment. His breathing was shallow, peaceful. Too peaceful for what today was.
"Kian, honey…" she tried again, kneeling beside him. She reached forward and gently tugged at the blanket. "Wake up. You're going to be late."
No response.
She leaned in closer, whispering near his ear. "If you don't get up… your Uncle Gerald is going to make you work the fields again."
His eyes flew open.
Ocean-blue, wide with alarm.
"How much time do i have left?" he asked, voice low and raw from sleep.
Lana blinked. "Maybe… twenty minutes?"
Kian moved like he'd been shot from a cannon.
He tumbled from the bed, grabbing mismatched clothes and yanking them on while muttering under his breath. Lana stepped back and shook her head as he tore through the house, nearly taking the door off its hinges on his way out.
A moment later, the delivery bag was gone from the table. So was Kian.
Lana stood in the doorway, watching him vanish into the sea of festival-goers.
She frowned.
Not because she feared what the day would bring him.
But because something in her gut whispered that it was the world she should be worried about.
Kian ran.
Past the bakery stalls and silk vendors, past the dancers and costumed musicians. He ran like fire was at his heels.
And in a way, it was.
Uncle Gerald's business was legendary. His pastries were the crown jewels of the city's culinary scene. But Gerald himself was… less forgiving.
He always said blood didn't matter when it came to business.
And today, Kian was already thirty minutes late delivering a batch that included everything from sunberry tarts to ghostroot rolls—a dozen rare ingredients that took weeks to prepare. If even one treat got crushed in the chaos of the crowd, Gerald wouldn't hesitate to exile him from the kitchen for a year. Maybe two.
And that was before the ceremonial crowd flooded the streets.
"Can't run anywhere these days," Kian muttered, dodging a group of children juggling firesticks.
A procession blocked the main avenue ahead. Desperate, Kian made a split-second decision. He spotted an old iron ladder leading up the side of a tailor's shop.
He climbed.
The rooftops welcomed him like old friends. They were dusty, sun-warmed, and—most importantly—clear. From above, the city looked like a living tapestry: woven with laughter, movement, and color.
He grinned.
This would work.
He just needed to keep moving… and pray the bag didn't tear.
Back at the city's heart, the ceremony reached its peak.
A vast courtyard opened beneath the shadow of the Temple of Origins. At its center lay a long golden carpet that led to three thrones carved from ancient sapphire. Each throne radiated power—raw, undiluted authority.
The Progenitors approached.
The crowd parted in reverent silence.
They were old—so old it felt like the world itself had formed around them. Their black and gold robes whispered across the stones. Each step they took was heavy with memory, with battles fought and won. These were not just men.
They were legends.
As they seated themselves, the Chosen Four stepped forward.
Four young warriors, handpicked from birth. Raised for this day. Each had been trained to embody strength, discipline, and loyalty. Whoever among these four was destined to either save the world or break it.
The wind stilled.
The first Progenitor stood.
He unfurled a scroll, and his voice rang out like a blade unsheathing.
"To whomever shall inherit the spirit of the Titan,
Our Creator's champion,
You must leave behind comfort and certainty.
You must seek the divine tree known only as Brightest Light.
Only through this quest shall your fate be sealed.
Glory or death—those are the only ends to such a path."
He lowered the scroll, eyes sharp.
"Will you take up this burden?"
The four nodded in unison.
No fear. Only resolve.
The second Progenitor stepped forward, ready to speak.
But the moment shattered like glass.
A flash.
So bright, so sudden, it ripped the breath from every lung in the square.
The third Progenitor had opened a golden box.
Inside, light burned—not fire, not magic, but something far older. Something alive.
It pulsed outward.
And in that instant—
Kian fell from the sky.
Literally.
He crashed onto the stage with a thud, pastries flying in every direction. The golden light struck him squarely in the chest.
The world held its breath.
The light faded.
What remained was a boy—dirt-smudged, paint on his fingers, hair windswept, stunned and blinking in the center of the sacred ground.
Sparks crackled softly around him.
The Chosen Four stared. The Progenitors stared. The world stared. Infact even Kian Stared.
"…Is this…" one of the Progenitors asked, voice barely a whisper, "...the new Titan?"
Silence.
Then gasps. Confusion. Awe.
And beneath it all, Kian slowly rose to his feet, mouth half-open, still holding the one unbroken pastry in his trembling hands.
He was never meant to be here.
But fate had a habit of ignoring plans, so much so that it chose a random kid who accidentally fell from the sky..
The one question everyone asked, was simple and quite valid:
Is this the new Titan....?