It was a calm Thursday. The wind funneled through the streets of Brickville, the sky its usual clear blue.
Milo walked home from school, his yellow bag heavy on his shoulders, earphones muting the world. His house sat in one of Brickville's most remote districts.
He adjusted the straps digging into his shoulders. Most kids complained about the long walk; he welcomed it. Each heavy step reminded him of his father—
a man once hailed as an Ambassador, member of the elite secret military order who wielded a mysterious power called Kyo.
Milo knew he could never fill those shoes. He hadn't even awakened his own ability yet. The thought stung every day.
As he turned onto his street, black smoke coiled into the sky.
His chest tightened. Even from afar, he knew—it was his house.
"Dad!"
He sprinted with everything he had. In seconds, he reached the ruin that once held all his happiest memories. Smoke twisted upward, water gushed from shattered pipes, and faint Kyo traces burned across the wreckage. A fierce battle had happened here.
Ambassadors ringed the wreckage, their golden sun emblems catching the light. Shock and pity marked their faces.
A curvy woman in a formal suit noticed Milo and whispered to the slim official beside her. The man gave a slow nod. Fear gripped Milo's chest.
The home he had shared with his late mother was gone.
"Hey… Milo."
"Who did this?" he demanded, his voice breaking with anger and tears.
"Your father… he's at the hospital," the woman said softly.
"Who did this? Tell me!"
"You'll be okay," she said, pulling him into an embrace.
"No! Who did this?!" Milo screamed.
And then—everything stopped.
The wind froze. Smoke halted midair. Even the flowing water hung motionless, suspended like glass. Silence pressed down on the world. The Ambassadors stared, fear and awe etched on their faces.
Milo's Kyo had awakened.
---
Sixteen Years Later
BOOOM!
A deafening crash shook the city. A massive maggot slammed a man into the side of a skyscraper. Around them, corpses of mutant beasts littered the streets, grotesque hybrids of every kind. Their wounds oozed green ichor that drew swarms of buzzing insects.
An inhuman screech split the chaos. A three-eyed bird swooped from the clouds, its third eye glowing faintly. In its beak it carried a middle-aged man in mouse-patterned pajamas. His glasses were crooked, his hair wild, and fresh horns jutted painfully from his arms. Tears and snot streamed down his face.
"Help me!" he wailed.
From the rubble, a figure rose—a young man with red hair dusted in ash, a crimson jacket clinging to his frame, and blue jeans streaked with grit. His eyes locked on the bird, then on the maggot blocking his path.
"Hold on! I'm coming!"
The maggot shrieked, poisonous teeth bared.
"Shit. Fine then—Air Bullet!"
Air molecules condensed, spinning until they formed a compact sphere of force. The bullet ripped through the maggot's skull, detonating it in a spray of ichor. Not a single drop touched him.
Gotta move fast.
He launched into the air with a roar, snatching the bird's leg and ripping it clean off. The severed limb crumbled into ash. The bird screeched but clung desperately to its prey. Sparks flared as its third eye glowed brighter.
"Don't waste my time, birdy!"
Perched on a rooftop, he aimed his fingers like a gun.
"Air Bullet!"
The blast tore through its neck, scattering blood and feathers. The pajama-clad man fell—unharmed, saved by careful precision.
The rescuer caught him midair.
"I got you!"
But the horned man sobbed. "You should've let me die… I can't take this pain anymore."
"What's your name?"
"Gerald."
"I'm Milo."
"Please… end my life!"
"Are you a believer?"
"Yes… a Christian."
"Then say your last prayers."
Gerald choked back tears. "I'm sorry, Mom… Dad… I couldn't make you proud."
PEWWWH!
His vision blurred. His body numbed. He looked down to see—his own head cradled in his hands.
"Lord… forgive me…"
Milo froze. He hadn't dealt the blow.
Behind him stood a man in a black suit with a white clerical collar, a golden sun emblem gleaming on his chest. A pink, glowing dice spun across his fingers, his grim smile unwavering.
"Instant kill."
He blew softly on the dice, sending it spinning into the air.
"When a man says he's in pain… end his life without hesitation."
---
Blood pooled across the shattered street. Gerald's body knelt as it crumbled into glowing light.
"I guess… this is goodbye," Gerald whispered before fading into nothing.
"What have you done?!" Milo demanded.
"You know turning into a monster wasn't his fault!"
"He was weak," the man replied coldly. "The Wave consumed him."
In this world, it happened often—ordinary people transformed into monsters, chosen at random by the Wave.
"Conor!" Milo snarled. "If you ever do that again—"
"I know, I know. The chairman will scold me. But he was already going to die." Conor shrugged, his voice caught between silly and self-righteous.
"Why are you even here?"
"The chairman thought you were taking too long, so he sent me."
"You got blood all over me. Now I have to clean up."
"You're welcome! You needed to blow off steam anyway." Conor laughed nervously.
A black car screeched into view. A tall, bald man with a muscular build stepped out.
"You two alright?" he shouted.
"We're fine, Zane," Conor answered quickly, breaking the tense silence.
"This city stinks of rot. Milo, lower the veil."
"On it," Milo muttered. With a snap of his fingers, the veil dropped. Reality shifted—the ruins restored, citizens reappearing, blissfully unaware of the carnage that had just unfolded.
"Where are you going?" Conor called.
"Back to Brickville," Milo said flatly. "I need a bath."
"Why's he so angry?"
"I killed the victim without asking him first," Conor admitted.
"You what?!" Zane thundered. His curses chased Conor as Milo walked away.
---
Back in Brickville
Clean and dressed in black, Milo sat in a small restaurant.
"What can I get you?" the waitress asked with a smile.
"The usual."
"Rice and beans, coming right up."
He glanced at framed photos of two new chefs on the wall.
"Are they good people?"
"Yes," she said warmly.
"That's a relief." He smiled faintly.
The room filled with laughter and clinking dishes—until the door opened. A sixteen-year-old boy stepped inside.
No one else noticed. But Milo felt it instantly—an immense surge of Kyo, amplified far beyond normal.
And he knew, without doubt.
This boy had been there the day his father died.
The day everything changed.