As the sun rose above the horizon, its brilliant golden rays spilled across the earth, painting the streets in warm, radiant light. Sunlight crept into homes through open windows, illuminating rooms, balconies, gardens, and garages. The entire colony seemed to glow with a fresh burst of energy.
It was the kind of morning that could inspire even the laziest person to get out of bed and do something productive—whether it was going to the gym, studying for an examination, practising a skill, or training to become better at something they loved.
The colony was alive with the promise of a new day.
The houses along the street stood bathed in golden light, their gardens sparkling in the morning sunshine. The atmosphere felt almost magical, as though the sun itself were channelling its energy into the earth, awakening everything it touched.
Yet, in the first house on the front row of Teachers' Colony, something unusual was happening.
At first glance, there was nothing extraordinary about the house.
An elderly man sat in the garden, reading his morning newspaper. Beside him, his wife chatted animatedly about the latest happenings in her circle of friends. Occasionally, the man lowered his newspaper to acknowledge her words before returning to the news.
Everything appeared perfectly ordinary.
Almost everything.
The morning sunlight had reached every corner of the house—except the curtains covering the windows of the room on the upper floor.
Behind those curtains, a sixteen-year-old boy was enjoying what could only be described as the sleep of a lifetime.
He lay comfortably in his bed, undisturbed by the glorious morning outside. His expression was peaceful, his breathing steady, and his mind blissfully unaware that the rest of the world had already begun its day.
He slept like a bear deep in winter, as though waking up were an unreasonable demand that the universe had no right to make.
Outside, the sun continued its relentless mission to awaken the world.
Inside that room, however, the boy remained undefeated.
For now, at least.
The silence of the room was suddenly interrupted by a loud beep-beep sound.
Aryan's alarm had begun its daily battle.
Unfortunately, its opponent was a sixteen-year-old boy who was currently dreaming of becoming a Master Rank Mage.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
The alarm continued its desperate attempts to wake him up, but Aryan remained completely unmoved. In his dream, he was standing before thousands of people, receiving the title of the youngest Master Rank Mage in history.
The alarm, however, refused to accept defeat.
Its relentless cries grew loud enough to reach the garden downstairs.
Aryan's father slowly lowered his newspaper and gave the house a deadpan look.
His mother finally lost her patience.
"What's wrong with this boy?" she muttered before getting up from her chair.
She entered the house, climbed the stairs, and walked into Aryan's room.
What she saw made her stop for a moment.
The room itself was surprisingly clean. Everything was more or less in its proper place.
The bed, however, looked as though a small storm had passed through it. The blanket was twisted in every possible direction, and one corner hung dangerously close to the floor.
Even worse, the alarm clock was vibrating so violently that it had nearly reached the edge of the bedside table.
His mother rescued the poor alarm clock before it could commit its final leap.
Then she turned toward the bed.
Aryan was mumbling something in his sleep.
"The legendary sorcerer Aryan... nobody can defeat me..."
His mother stared at him.
Then she took a deep breath.
"ARYANNNNN!"
"THE DEMON KING—!"
Aryan shot upright, his eyes wide open.
For a brief moment, he looked around as though he expected to find a demon army surrounding his bed.
Then he saw his mother.
"Oh. It's you, Mom."
The expression on her face immediately brought him back to reality.
Aryan understood the situation.
He quickly folded his blanket, straightened his pillow, and close door he sat silently on the bed, wearing the innocent expression of someone who had absolutely no idea what he had done wrong.
His mother folded her arms.
"Aryan! How many times do I have to tell you? You're sixteen years old now, not a little baby! Do you think successful mages spend their mornings sleeping like this? Look at the time! Your school won't wait for you!"
For the next ten minutes, the room echoed with his mother's lecture.
Downstairs, his father sat in the garden with his newspaper folded in his hands.
He glanced toward the upper floor, listened to the familiar voice, and sighed.
"Poor boy," he murmured, returning to his newspaper. "Hopefully, he'll understand next time."
The newspaper rose again, shielding his face.
Apparently, he had no intention of getting involved.
Far away from the lecture echoing through the first house of Teachers' Colony, a deep forest stood beside the road.
The forest looked peaceful. The trees stood motionless, and an unusual silence hung between them.
But something about that silence felt wrong.
Was it really peace?
No.
A man dressed in a black robe stood among the trees, holding two sharp blades. Their edges were stained with blood.
In front of him lay several dead magical beasts—red foxes and bears with crimson eyes. Their bodies were covered in deep cuts, and the ground around them had been disturbed by the fierce battle.
Suddenly, one of the remaining bears rose onto its hind legs.
Its red eyes burned with fury.
A beam of fire shot from its mouth, illuminating the surrounding trees as it rushed toward the man.
The man didn't even flinch.
In an instant, he vanished.
The fiery beam struck nothing but empty air.
Before the bear could react, the man reappeared beside its neck, moving so quickly that it seemed as though he had teleported.
He tightened his grip on one blade.
A flash of steel cut through the silence.
The bear collapsed.
The man stood motionless for a moment, his black robe shifting gently in the aftermath of the attack.
The forest fell silent once more.
Yet this time, there was no mistaking the reason.
Something terrible had happened in the forest—and the morning was far from peaceful.
The only question stays
Who is This man why he killed them all this hint that
This summer is not ordinary