Prologue: A Stranger with no name
Rain fell in sheets, cold and sharp, slicing through his thin clothes and soaking him to the bone. Every movement felt like a battle.
His shirt clung to his bruised skin, each step a struggle, each breath a painful fight. His hands scraped on the wet earth, fingers trembling, and his legs threatened to give way beneath him.
Blood ran down his arms, sticky and warm, mixing with the rain in a dark, shining streak. Pain radiated through his body with every heartbeat, but worse was the weight in his chest—the heaviness of fear and confusion pressing him toward something he could not understand.
Ahead, the iron gates of a cemetery rose like shadows, dark and silent against the storm. He dragged himself through mud, each inch a torment, chest heaving, heart pounding like a war drum.
One word repeated itself in his mind: survive. But why? He did not know. All he knew was that he had to keep going.
Finally, he collapsed onto the wet grass, shivering violently. His lungs burned with every ragged breath. Tears mixed with rain, carving silent lines down a face too tired to smile, too broken to hope. His body shook uncontrollably, weak and small against the fury of the storm.
His fingers clawed at the earth as he whispered into the night, voice barely more than a breath, almost swallowed by the pouring rain:
"Who… am I…?"
The words vanished into the darkness. The world offered no answer. The sky wept with him, the rain washing away his blood, washing away a past he could not remember. Only a fragile, trembling soul remained—lost at the edge of nothing.
For a moment, the world seemed to pause, holding its breath. Then—only the storm. Only the pain. Only the question that would echo across a land not yet born.
Tonight, the boy might die.
Tonight, the world would witness the birth of a story.