"THE SYMBOL DRAWN IN BLOOD NEVER LEFT ELIOS' MIND."
A guy named ELIOS LASTON pushed hard, his body straining against the wood of his handmade boat, driving it toward an unknown island.
The huge waves, rising over twenty meters in the middle of the ocean, were struggling to keep up with the crude craft, yet Elios forced it forward. He was alone, in the chaotic heart of the ocean, where most sailors wouldn't dare to venture.
His eyes were reddish, not just from exhaustion, but because the salt spray, carried by the aggressive winds, stung them mercilessly.
His hands, calloused and blistered, were tired from swinging the boat on his own for days. The storms were getting aggressive, the wind screaming a challenge in his ears, and Elios struggled to keep up. Yet, he did not lack motivation.
The look in his eyes was furious, fueled by a decade of desperate purpose. He never intended to give up.
Though he was just an 18-year-old boy, he still possessed a will as strong as the ancient oaks on his home continent—a will to reach the island. An island that was not presented on any known World Map, an island shrouded in myth and fear.
He lowered his head slightly, trying to shelter his face from a brutal burst of wind. The sheer physical toll of the journey was immense. His arms burned, his muscles screamed in protest, and a dark, heavy exhaustion threatened to swallow him whole.
His eyes automatically closed due to exhaustion, a momentary lapse that could mean death in that violent sea, but suddenly, a panicked word tore past his lips.
"MOM!"
He opened his eyes, breath ragged, the vision of the ocean rushing back into clarity. He slowly remembered the true, agonizing reason for being here. It wasn't just adventure or escape. It was a pilgrimage born of tragedy.
THE LASTONS
There was once a small village named Laston, a name that now felt like a painful, cruel prophecy of its sole surviving family.
The memory was raw and vivid, playing out behind his salt-stung eyes.
It was late at night, and the usual peaceful sounds of the world were twisted into an ominous symphony. Crickets were chirping, making loud, sharp noises.
Slowly, a leg came into view through the moonlight filtering through the window—a leg covered in bloody, fresh injuries.
Father entered the house, slowly opened the door, and moved straight to his wife. He hugged her from behind, his eyes tearful and swollen. A slight, ragged scratch marked the left side of his eye, from where blood was slightly leaking, dripping down his cheek and onto his collar.
His Mother, her movements immediate and maternal, twisted a piece of towel in cool water and started cleaning his face.
It was only then, as the dark grime was washed away, that she saw it—not the scratch, but the dark, indelible Symbol beneath it. That symbol made her face shift instantly from worried relief to cold, petrified shock.
"WHAT IS THIS SYMBOL?" she cried, her voice thin with horror.
But Father didn't respond, his silence heavier than any answer.
He simply let out a sharp, ragged breath of pure agony. Father, in pain, "HAH....."
Hearing his father's broken voice, his two sons from the next room came running immediately to see their father.
Father glanced at his wife, subtly telling her not to cry, to just act normal for the boys. He knelt, opening his arms. The two young boys crashed into their father's legs, their small arms wrapping around him in a fierce, welcoming hug.
He forced a laugh, his hand gently ruffling their hair, trying to project a sense of normalcy and safety. But over their heads, his wife's smile didn't reach her eyes. Her gaze, cold and fixed, remained locked on the fresh, bloody Symbol marring her husband's skin.
Later that night, Father softly sang rhymes and lullabies, ensuring his sons were deeply asleep before he left their side.
The next day, early morning, the deceptive peace shattered. The two sons woke up instantly and simultaneously, hearing a sharp, high-pitched voice—the unrestrained sound of their Mother who was crying, utterly broken.
The two sons woke up in shock. They immediately thought something terrible had happened to their mother.
Their Father had left the house in the middle of the night. He had left behind a small, leather-bound diary on the kitchen table. On the cover, a mysterious, intricate symbol was drawn, stark and terrifying, with his own dried blood.
A raw, guttural scream tore from his mother's throat. She collapsed to her knees on the wooden floor, the diary clutched tightly in her white-knuckled hands, her wails echoing through the suddenly and devastatingly empty house.
The faces of the young boys—Elios and his younger brother, Delos—soon filled with despair, confusion quickly giving way to profound loss. They moved quickly to comfort their mother, small anchors in her storm of grief.
Later, the elder son, Elios Laston, read the diary seriously, devouring every painful word till the very last page.
Since his age was just ten, he couldn't do much. The overwhelming mystery and pain were far too heavy for a child. But he never gave up the search for answers.
At the age of sixteen, six years after his father vanished, Elios finally found the crucial clue: the symbol was the ancient mark of an unknown 8th continent. He learned its name: WONDERFAA, which meant Wonderful and God-Made.
In the diary that his Father left, there was a sentence written in a shaky, desperate hand that became Elios's life mission:
"Your Mother has an incurable disease, and I feel guilty about it. I'm going to search for the medicine, and I will definitely cure her without fail. But I have to leave you guys behind. So take care of your Mother on my behalf."
Many other things in the diary were covered with the dark, heavy blood of his father, making every word a vow.
The moment he finished reading, the choice was made. Elios came to a fierce, unshakable conclusion: "I SHOULD FIND MY FATHER."
Six years passed just like that—a blur of training, studying maps, and desperate information gathering. Elios thought that since it had been six years since his father left, he would have definitely found the medicine for his mother by now. His only remaining job was to reunite their broken family.
Elios started to collect all information about the mystery land, saving every scrap and whisper.
At the age of eighteen, finally physically and mentally ready, he started his journey, leaving the village he once called home.
Elios left, and his brother, and DELOS LASTON, was given the duty of taking care of their ailing mother. Elios took the blood-stained diary along with him—his compass, his motivation, his oath.
And now, after the storm, after the agony, after years of preparation, he finally saw an island straight in front of him.
The memories of the past—the tears, the symbol, the diary—were burning deep inside his chest, melting away the exhaustion.
"I COME TO YOU, FATHER!" he roared, his voice nearly lost to the waves, but his spirit ringing with absolute certainty.
Elios stared at the blood-stained diary clutched beneath his coat, unaware that the simple, terrifying symbol on its cover would not only reunite him with his father but would one day change the entire world.