Chapter 1: The War That Changed Everything
The battlefield was a sea of fire and death. The banners of Brawlmanica's Great King Helmsley fluttered in the wind, stained with the blood of countless soldiers. Smoke choked the sky, and the air crackled with the aftershocks of shattered cultivation techniques. At the center of it all stood the Fighting Brawlman Cultivation Sect, self-proclaimed Hegemons of Desert Star Red—fewer in number, but radiating an overwhelming presence that bent the battlefield to their will.
King Helmsley, a man of iron will and unrelenting ambition, stood atop his war beast. His golden armor was battered and dented, yet his gaze remained unyielding. His army stretched for miles—knights, warriors, and magi of every kind—each fighting desperately to free their land from the sect's suffocating grip. Yet for every dozen of Helmsley's soldiers, a single Brawlman Sect cultivator stood, cutting through their ranks like gods among mortals.
Across the chaos, at the eye of the storm, Sect Leader Bartholomew Qin stood unmoving—a titan draped in a black and gold robe, his hands clasped behind his back. His expression was unreadable, his aura suffocating. Around him, elders and disciples annihilated resistance with casual ease, their power carving the battlefield into a graveyard.
"You were foolish to think you could defy us, Helmsley," Bartholomew's voice boomed across the battlefield, laced with cultivation energy. "Your rebellion ends today."
Helmsley's grip on his sword tightened. His bloodied knuckles turned white. "Then I shall make this a battle worth remembering!"
With a roar, he raised his hand and revealed his trump card—the Sacred Star Shattering Radiation Gem.
A deafening explosion erupted from the heart of the battlefield. The sky turned crimson as forbidden energy surged outward in a wild, uncontrollable wave. Screams rose as warriors and cultivators alike were swept away, their bodies either disintegrating or mutating into grotesque, mindless abominations. The very earth trembled, fissures tearing violently through scorched land.
Amidst the chaos, a small boy clung to his mother's robes. Elton Solman, barely eight years old, stared wide-eyed at the nightmare consuming the world around him. His father, Gerald Solman—a respected warrior of Brawlmanica—stood shoulder to shoulder with his comrades, swords and spears clashing desperately against the sect's elite. But it was hopeless.
"Mom! Where's Dad?!" Elton cried, his small hands clutching his mother's trembling fingers.
Elena Solman knelt before him, forcing a fragile smile onto her face. "Your father is protecting us, sweetheart. We have to go now, okay?"
Tears welled in Elton's eyes, but he nodded. His mother swept him into her arms and ran. Behind them, the battlefield spiraled further into madness.
One moment there was fire. The next—light.
A blinding golden explosion surged in every direction.
Silence followed. A void broken only by the distant crackle of dying flames. Elena Solman, still clutching her son, kept running, her steps frantic and desperate. But even as she tried to shield him, a second, more devastating blast tore through the air. The ground heaved and split apart. Elton barely registered the force before he was hurled like a ragdoll, his small body slamming against the cold, unforgiving earth. His mother's scream pierced the chaos—sharp, heart-wrenching, and abruptly cut off as the shockwave thundered over them like a tidal wave of destruction.
Dazed and battered, Elton blinked through the dust. His young mind struggled to comprehend what had just happened. When he finally pushed himself up, coughing, he saw only smoke and the mangled remains of warriors who had once stood proudly to defend their homeland. The battlefield had become a vision of total devastation.
And his mother…
Her lifeless form lay nearby, crushed beneath the twisted remains of a shattered tree. Elton crawled toward her, his limbs trembling, his voice breaking as he called her name again and again. But there was no answer. His tiny hand reached for hers, and for a fleeting moment, he thought he felt warmth. It vanished just as quickly.
A cold gust swept through the wreckage, carrying the acrid stench of burning flesh and the metallic tang of blood. Elton's heart twisted painfully in his chest, yet his eyes remained dry. He had already learned not to cry. His father had told him often: strength must come before sorrow. There would be no time for tears.
But now, in the aftermath of destruction, that strength slipped through his fingers like sand.
His world—once filled with laughter, family, and promise—had been shattered.
Alone and trembling, Elton stood amidst what had once been a battlefield for freedom, now transformed into a tomb for the fallen. His mother was gone. His father, he could only imagine, had been claimed by the carnage as well. There was no one left.
Smoke coiled around him like mourning shrouds, and for a moment, the wind seemed to carry away the last echoes of what once was. The screams, the battle cries, the clash of steel—they all faded into silence. Elton stood frozen, not only from the cold but from the unbearable weight of reality.
All he had left was the aftermath of a war that had taken everything from him.