Weapon expert
On a chilly, sunny day, a homeless young man's breath hung in the air, reflecting his desperate attempt to find warmth on the harsh streets. Indifferent to his plight, society seemed unconcerned about his ability to endure the impending harsh winter. Suddenly, an unusual sound, reminiscent of fighting, caught his attention. Driven by curiosity, he cautiously approached a massive brick building with looming wooden doors. Peering through a small hole in the door, he was about to discover what lay within.
In the depths of a stone building, a young man witnessed a fierce battle between men wielding weapons from the walls. Suddenly, a towering figure emerged, seizing the young man before he could flee. "It seems I've found a candidate for the upcoming battle," the man declared, dragging the youth into the cell, which resembled a stone prison with a massive door overlooking a dirt pit.
A burly man flung the young man into a cell. "When the bell rings, exit through that open door right there," he said with a mocking laugh. The young man felt a surge of fear, questioning his willingness to engage in a fight. As the bell rang, he stood frozen, paralyzed by terror. The burly man, wielding a pointy stick, pushed him out of the cell, urging him to leave promptly.
In the dust-covered pit, the young man, identified as Punza, stood before a man who appeared to be seated on a throne. "What is your name?" the man on the throne inquired, chuckling as he spoke. Beside him, another man diligently recorded the name. Suddenly, a bell echoed through the air, signaling the arrival of another formidable opponent, who immediately charged toward Punza.
In a desperate attempt to evade harm, Punza swiftly moved out of the way as the menacing man snatched a weapon from the wall. Recognizing the gravity of the situation, Punza knew that dodging the man's attacks was crucial to avoid serious injury or even death. The man charged forward, wielding a stick with a metal ball attached to a metal chain, intent on striking Punza. With lightning-fast reflexes, Punza slid under the man, temporarily escaping the immediate threat.
The man retrieved another weapon from the wall. Punza, unsure of his next move, quickly realized that his only option for survival was to fight back. He attempted to grab a weapon from the wall, but was forced to dodge the man's attacks. Unable to secure a weapon, Punza continued to evade the man.
Punza, who was only sixteen years old, didn't know anything about weapons. So when he jumped over the man and grabbed a weapon off the wall, he didn't realize he had chosen a knife. The man had a spear. Everyone laughed at Punza, thinking he couldn't possibly win with a knife against a spear.
The clash was intense. Punza, though armed only with a knife, displayed remarkable agility and courage against his adversary who wielded a spear. With each parry and thrust, Punza skillfully deflected the spear's point, his movements a whirlwind of desperate defense. The crowd watched, captivated, as the tide of the battle ebbed and flowed. Punza, with surprising strength, even managed to disarm his opponent momentarily, sending the spear clattering to the ground.
The air thrummed with tension, Punza's heart pounded in his chest. Each breath was a gasp as he danced just out of reach of the spear's deadly point, his mind racing, his body reacting on pure instinct. Fatigue gnawed at his muscles, but he pushed through, fueled by adrenaline and the primal urge to survive. He knew he couldn't maintain this pace forever; he had to find a way out, had to find a weakness in his opponent's attack. He waited, watched, and hoped for his chance to escape the relentless onslaught.
The man on the throne urged Punza to finish his opponent, who was panting on the ground. Punza pleaded for mercy, but the man insisted it was kill or be killed. As the man with the spear rose, he cut Punza's arm, causing him to scream in pain.
Punza narrowly dodged a massive sledgehammer attack, aware that a single hit would be fatal. Quickly adapting, she seized a metal boomerang, ready to counterattack.Punza threw the boomerang everyone was saying that the boomerang could not hurt the big man. The man was now distracted and Punza had to jump in the air behind him and with deep regret Punza ended this man's life. The man fell to the ground. Everyone was silent.
"You won here is the gold promised" the man on the throne said to Punza who was covered in blood and shaking.
Part 2: Space pirate
*nick marauder puts together ship, he also fills it with dolls and get mason
A young man, barely alive, was adrift in the endless void of space within his rust bucket of a ship. He had managed to rebuild enough of the ship to breathe, but the engine was busted. He knew he would have to venture back out into the cold void to find either a new engine or an air tank for his suit if he ever wanted to get his ship flying again.
Undeterred by his initial setback, the young man ventured back into the labyrinthine expanse of the spaceship graveyard. His determination was palpable as he scoured the remnants of countless vessels, his eyes scanning for any components that could breathe life back into his own ship. Amidst the wreckage, he stumbled upon a massive, peculiar engine. Its intricate design hinted at immense power, but its sheer size posed a daunting challenge.
Unfazed, the young man embarked on the arduous task of integrating the colossal engine into his ship. Days turned into weeks as he meticulously disassembled and reassembled components, his hands blackened with grease and his mind consumed by the complexities of the task. He welded, soldered, and rewired with unwavering focus, his every action driven by an unyielding belief in his ability to overcome any obstacle.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the young man's ship stood rebuilt, a testament to his ingenuity and perseverance. The colossal engine, now seamlessly integrated into the vessel's framework, promised untold possibilities. With a mixture of anticipation and trepidation, the young man initiated the start-up sequence, his heart pounding in his chest.
But his hopes were dashed as the ship remained stubbornly inert. A cold wave of disappointment washed over him, threatening to extinguish the flame of his determination. However, he refused to succumb to despair. With renewed resolve, he delved into the ship's intricate network of wires, tracing their paths and scrutinizing their connections.
Hours bled into days as he meticulously examined every circuit, his fingers nimbly manipulating wires and adjusting settings. He probed, tested, and reconfigured, his mind racing to unravel the mysteries of the ship's systems. Sleep became a luxury as he poured every ounce of his energy into the task at hand.
Driven by an unwavering belief in his ability to succeed, the young man pressed on, his determination fueled by the tantalizing prospect of soaring through the cosmos once more.
Elation surged through him as one of the wires sparked to life, and the engine roared back into action. His ship was moving once more, a beacon of hope in the vast expanse of space. Yet, a bittersweet realization tempered his joy. The ship, once a familiar companion, now felt overwhelming, its vastness echoing the solitude that surrounded him. He desperately needed a crew, a team to share the burden and the journey.
With a renewed sense of purpose, he plotted a course towards the nearest planets, his heart filled with a naive optimism. He envisioned friendly faces, eager to join his cause, their skills complementing his own. Little did he know that his quest for companionship would lead him into a nightmare of isolation and despair.
As his ship descended upon the alien space station, his hopes were dashed against the harsh reality that greeted him. The station was teeming with extraterrestrial life, their forms and languages alien to his senses. He attempted to communicate, his pleas for assistance met with uncomprehending stares or apathetic shrugs. Desperation gnawed at him as he wandered the station, his presence an unwelcome intrusion.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. He scoured the station for supplies and sought out potential crew members, but his efforts were in vain. The aliens regarded him with suspicion and hostility, their distrust palpable. He was an outsider, a stranger in a strange land, his presence a constant reminder of their own isolation.
The weight of his loneliness pressed down upon him, a suffocating blanket of despair. He longed for the familiar, for the warmth of human companionship. But he was alone, adrift in a sea of alien indifference.
His decision to return to his ship proved to be his undoing. As he made his way towards the docking bay, a group of aliens barred his path, their expressions menacing. He realized too late that he had overstayed his welcome. Words were exchanged, but the meaning was lost in the chasm of misunderstanding. Violence erupted, and he was brutally beaten, his consciousness fading into the darkness.
He awoke back on his ship, finding himself flying towards another graveyard of ships. It was strange, he thought. Among the wreckage, he discovered a curious piece of technology that seemed to function as a massive copier. He also found blueprints and even the DNA necessary to operate the device, as if the ship had been carrying this peculiar cargo and had lost it all in this location. The young man brought everything aboard his ship and assembled it. The device began to create non-human beings, who appeared to be controlled by the ship. Although he found this strange, he assigned them all jobs. Soon his once empty ship was filled with these beings.
After a prolonged period of solitude, he yearned for companionship and embarked on a quest to find a partner. He was successful in his search, and he and the woman spent many fulfilling years together. However, their relationship took a devastating turn after they made love. The woman abruptly decided that she no longer wanted to be with him and left him utterly alone and adrift in the vast expanse of space.
His despair was overwhelming, and he felt abandoned and adrift. Thankfully, his ship eventually located him and rescued him from his isolation. The emotional pain and trauma he experienced led him to make a series of poor decisions. He found himself in conflict with the space police and, in a desperate attempt to reclaim some sense of control and identity, he began to refer to himself as a pirate. However, the reality was that he was merely a scraper, scavenging for scraps of his former life and searching for a way to navigate his profound sense of loss and disillusionment.
In the battles with the space police he let the beings he created be killed because he could always make more of them.
Years later, he ventured into the engine room to address an electrical problem and stumbled upon a peculiar door. Unlike the other doors on his ship, it refused to open automatically. Intrigued, he returned to the door repeatedly, and after months of persistence, he managed to pry it open. Inside, he discovered a being with wires coursing through its body. The young man was terrified. "I didn't know you were inside the engine," he stammered. "I know you didn't," the being replied weakly. It resembled a little girl, similar to the beings created by that machine.
The young man approached and declared, "My name is Nicholas Marauder." An unseen force jolted him, causing Nicholas to react angrily and strike against the invisible barrier. "I don't have a name, please don't hurt yourself," the girl said, blinking slowly. "I have to get you out," Nicholas responded, looking flustered. The girl simply raised her hand slightly and said, "You can't." Nicholas was ejected from the room, and the door repaired itself. He began banging on the door and screaming "No."
Nicholas was puzzled by the situation and determined to rescue the girl. He examined the control panel and discovered the issue. Inside, there was a man who was approximately Nicholas' size. This was unusual since the beings that emerged from the machine were all short. Nicholas carefully pulled the man out. The man had tan hair and appeared unresponsive. Nicholas asked, "Hey, are you okay?" The ship's computer interjected, "Can you put him back in? He is not done yet."
"Umm, okay," Nicholas said gently, placing him back inside the mainframe.
"He is my son," the ship's computer stated.
Surprised, Nicholas asked, "Wait, you made him?"
"Yes, I did," the ship's computer affirmed.
"What is his name?" Nicholas inquired, taking a seat in the pilot's chair.
"I don't know; maybe I can search for one," the ship's computer replied, then began searching through names from across the universe.
"I picked one," the ship's computer declared.
"Well, tell me, please," Nicholas said, a small smile forming on his lips.
"I want to name him Mason. Is that a good name?" the ship's computer asked.
"I like that name" Nicholas said then sat there a while waiting then said "when is he going to be ready?". "I have not downloaded his personality, that might take awhile" the ship's computer said as an icon popped up on the main screen of the ship. It was a little downloading avatar of mason. Nicholas found himself waiting for months to discover Mason's true nature. For some inexplicable reason, the image of Mason's sleeping face lingered in Nicholas's mind.
A strange ding sounded, and the onscreen icon vanished as Mason gently emerged from the main frame. He opened his bright blue eyes, blinking in the ship's light. "Good morning, my baby," the ship's computer greeted him. "Good morning, Mother," Mason replied, then blinked in confusion. "Wasn't I just born? Shouldn't I be a baby?" he asked. "No," the ship's computer replied, "I made you full-grown."
"Hello there, I am Captain Nicholas Marauder," Nicholas said, helping Mason stand.
"Captain Marauder?" Mason said, confused.
"You can call me Nick," Nicholas said, guiding him to his room. "There are clothes on the bed." He gently pushed Mason inside.
The room was basically empty except for a huge bed against one wall.
"I might need help," Mason said, standing in the middle of the room.
Nick walked in the room and his face turned bright red. "Okay so umm the underwear go first" Nick said covering his eyes. "I don't know which one that is," Mason said, getting close to Nick. "Okay I will dress you this once" Nick said, grabbing the clothes off the bed. Nick put the clothes on Mason as quickly but gently as he could without looking.
Part 3 :No question
*this prince of brim saves his people but his cousin gets lost somewhere and his parents did not make it back
The Kingdom of Brim — a realm like Earth's hell — was ruled by King Tazan Akuma, a fierce and feared demon lord. He reigned beside his wife, Ilvonik, and their young son, Tourtaki. Though they lived in power and luxury, their home was far from happy. The king's temper was cruel, and his harshness cast a shadow over his family's hearts.
One dark day, that shadow grew real. From the depths of the void, shadow monsters rose and descended upon Brim. They tore through the kingdom, devouring everything in their path. Towers crumbled, screams echoed, and fire burned black.
Tourtaki, still just a frightened child, could do nothing but watch as the world he knew was destroyed. His cousin vanished amidst the chaos, and everyone else—his people, his family—fell.
But in the aftermath of despair, something awakened inside him. With tears still on his face, Tourtaki reached deep into his power and brought the demons of Brim back to life. When the shadows came for him again, he stood his ground. His grief turned to fury, and with a surge of blinding energy, he destroyed the creatures that had taken everything from him.
From that day on, Brim would never be the same—and neither would its young prince.
The scar over Tourtaki's eye burned like a memory that would never fade. The once-innocent child of Brim now stood before a ruined throne, its flames flickering low in the dark. His father was gone—vanished into the abyss—and so the crown fell to him.
They called him King Tourtaki, ruler of the fallen.
From that day, he wore a black and white mask, the yin and yang symbol painted across it like two opposing souls locked in eternal struggle. No one ever saw the face beneath. Not his servants. Not his guards. Not even in the stillness of night did he dare remove it.
Because behind that mask lived two secrets—the pain that twisted his expression, and the scar that marked him as both cursed and chosen.
When he walked the halls of Brim, torches dimmed and shadows bowed. His voice echoed like thunder in a tomb, calm yet filled with power.
He ruled not through fear, but through the quiet weight of sorrow, a king haunted by what he had lost—and by what he had become.
Part 4 :Kin shin
The door to the riverside dojo burst open, the paper panels rattling in their frames.
A young man stumbled inside, panting, eyes wide with fear.
"Who are you—and what are you doing here?" came a sharp voice.
A tall man with green and white hair stood in the center of the room. His kimono hung loosely from his shoulders, and a folded fan rested in his hand. His tone carried both authority and irritation.
The intruder slid down the door, trembling. "I–I'm Mikey… I was—" He hid his face, voice breaking.
The man sighed, stepping closer. With a flick of his wrist, he snapped his fan shut and tilted Mikey's chin upward. The soft light from the river revealed bruises and dirt smudged across the boy's face.
"You've been bullied," the man said quietly. His eyes softened for a moment before he turned away with an exhale that was almost a huff.
"Please…" Mikey's voice wavered as he tried to stand but fell to one knee. "Are you the dojo master?"
"I am," the man replied, looking toward the wooden floor as if lost in thought. "But I no longer teach. This dojo was left to me by my master."
For a moment, his gaze seemed far away—back to another time. He too had once been a lost boy, bruised and unwanted. He remembered running from his own tormentors, finding shelter beneath these same eaves.
He had met his master that day.
"You're hiding from bullies, aren't you?" his master had said then.
"Yes…" the younger version of him had answered.
"You can stay until they leave. But I don't take in children," his master had replied, already walking away.
The boy had bowed so low his forehead touched the floor. "Please! I'll work hard—just teach me!"
That desperate voice echoed in his mind now as he looked down at Mikey.
History, it seemed, had a way of repeating itself.
Kin, the dojo master, wasn't known for kindness. His own master had been a harsh man—demanding, distant, and quick to anger. Every lesson came with pain, and every mistake brought punishment.
He had sworn long ago he'd never become like that.
So when he looked down at Mikey—scared, hurt, and small against the wide wooden floor—something in him stirred.
"You can stay here for now," Kin said finally, his voice quieter than before. "But don't expect much from me. I'm not the teaching type."
Mikey looked up, eyes wide with relief. "Thank you…"
Kin turned away, pretending not to hear the tremor in the boy's voice. "There's rice in the pot. Eat, then rest. Tomorrow we'll see what to do with you."
He walked toward the open doors, the river outside catching the fading sunlight.
As the wind brushed through the dojo, Kin's grip tightened around his fan. He remembered his own first night here—cold, hungry, terrified—and the sharp words his master had thrown at him.
He didn't want to repeat that cycle.
But as he glanced back at Mikey, quietly eating and wiping his face with his sleeve, Kin couldn't help but feel that fate had brought this boy to him for a reason.
That night, Mikey slept on a thin mat near the wall, wrapped in a faded blanket Kin had tossed his way. Rain began to fall, the sound gentle against the roof. For the first time in weeks, Mikey wasn't sleeping in an alley or under a bridge.
Kin sat near the open doors, watching the river darken beneath the storm clouds. His fan rested on the floor beside him. The soft rain carried him back—years ago—to the night he first arrived at the dojo as a frightened orphan.
He had been even younger than Mikey, soaked to the bone, trembling from hunger. The man who would become his master stood just where Kin sat now—tall, rigid, his eyes cold.
"You want shelter?" the man had said.
Kin had nodded, teeth chattering.
"Then you'll work for it. No food without effort. No rest without purpose. Crying will get you thrown back into the street."
The man's voice had cut through him like a blade. But young Kin had bowed and whispered, "Yes, Master," because he had nowhere else to go.
The years that followed were harsh. He learned discipline through bruises, silence through humiliation. Yet that cruelty had also built his strength—his skill, his balance, his control.
And now, as he watched Mikey sleep, he wondered if there had been another way all along.
Morning came quietly. Mist drifted off the river as sunlight crept across the dojo floor.
Mikey stirred awake, startled at first, then blinking in disbelief that he was still safe. He stood slowly, bowing toward the empty center of the room.
Kin appeared from the side chamber, carrying a broom. "You're up early," he said.
"I… thought I should help," Mikey replied, looking uncertain.
"Good," Kin said simply, tossing him another broom. "Start at that end."
They swept in silence, the soft brush of straw on wood filling the space.
Mikey sneaked glances at Kin—the way his movements were precise, almost graceful. Every gesture spoke of years of training.
"Were you always this strong?" Mikey asked after a while.
Kin stopped sweeping, staring out toward the river. "No," he said quietly. "I learned the hard way."
Mikey waited, but Kin didn't say more.
Still, in that single answer, Mikey sensed something—a weight behind the man's calm exterior, something heavy he carried but never showed.
And though neither of them said it aloud, both began to feel that their meeting wasn't by chance.
Days turned into weeks, and Mikey's presence began to change the rhythm of the dojo.
Kin had expected him to leave after a few days, but the boy stayed—sweeping, cooking, mending old robes, and tending to the small garden by the river. Mikey had a gentle way about him, one that filled the silent halls with something Kin hadn't felt in years: peace.
Kin watched from a distance most days. He noticed how Mikey hummed softly while cooking, or how he spoke to the plants as if they were old friends. When Kin came down with a fever one evening, Mikey appeared at his side with a steaming cup of tea made from crushed herbs and river mint.
"This should help with your fever," Mikey said, setting it down carefully.
Kin raised an eyebrow. "Where did you learn that?"
"My father taught me… before he passed," Mikey said, smiling faintly. "He used to tell me that nature always knows how to heal, if you know how to listen."
Kin looked at him for a long time. "Listening isn't something I've ever been good at."
Mikey laughed softly. "You don't have to be. You just have to stop talking long enough to hear."
Kin almost smiled at that—a rare thing for him.
Though Mikey wasn't a fighter, his quiet strength and intuition impressed Kin more than any student he'd ever seen. He could sense things others couldn't—a shift in the air before the rain, the tension in someone's voice before they spoke, the faint ache in Kin's heart even when the man said nothing.
As the days passed, Kin found himself lingering at the table longer during meals, asking questions about herbs or listening to Mikey talk about the spirits that lingered near the river.
It wasn't training in the usual sense, but both of them were learning.
Kin was learning patience, kindness, and what it meant to have someone beside him again.
And Mikey—he was learning what it meant to have a home.
One night, the river was calm, its surface reflecting the silver moonlight. Kin sat outside the dojo with a cup of tea in his hands, the air cool and still. Behind him, he heard the soft creak of the door.
Mikey stepped out, carrying a small lantern. "Couldn't sleep?"
Kin shook his head. "Never been good at it."
Mikey sat beside him, tucking his knees close. For a while, they just listened—to the crickets, to the faint rush of water against the stones.
"Kin," Mikey said quietly, "can I tell you something?"
Kin glanced at him. "You can tell me anything."
Mikey took a slow breath, eyes fixed on the lantern light. "My father taught me about herbs, about how everything living has a spirit. He said healing was about listening—not just to the body, but to the world around it."
Kin nodded. "He sounds wise."
Mikey's hands trembled slightly. "They burned him," he whispered. "They said he was a witch. That he sinned because he loved another man." His voice broke. "They made me watch."
Kin froze. The only sound was the soft hiss of the river.
Mikey wiped at his eyes, forcing a shaky smile. "My other father… he didn't even get that far. He was killed not long after I was born."
Kin looked down, the weight of those words pressing on his chest. "I'm sorry, Mikey."
"You don't have to be," Mikey said softly. "I survived. I still remember what they taught me—to care, to heal, to listen. That's how I honor them."
Kin set his cup aside. "You're stronger than you know."
He hesitated, then added quietly, "My master used to beat me when I was your age. Said it would build discipline. Every scar I have came from him. And I stayed, because I thought pain was the only way to become strong."
Mikey turned to him. "But you didn't become like him."
Kin looked at the river again, the moonlight catching the edge of his fan. "No. I swore I wouldn't. Then you showed up… and reminded me why."
They sat in silence again, but this time it was a peaceful one.
Mikey leaned his head lightly against Kin's shoulder. "Maybe we both needed saving."
Kin exhaled, a faint smile touching his lips. "Maybe we did."
The river flowed on, gentle and endless, carrying away the ghosts of their pasts.
Part 5: Cyber city
In Mech City, the towering skyscrapers pierced the heavens, and the streets buzzed with the incessant hum of machinery. Amidst this techno-metropolis, a tale unfolded in the Lifecare Hospital, where a young boy named Yana lay gravely ill. His pale skin was stretched taut over his frail body, and his breathing was shallow and labored.
Yana's parents, driven to desperation, had brought him to this hospital, a place renowned for its cutting-edge technology and experimental treatments. The doctors had diagnosed yana with a rare and aggressive disease that was rapidly consuming his body. With conventional medicine offering little hope, they approached Ethan's parents with a proposal that was both audacious and controversial.
They proposed an experimental procedure that involved implanting a cybernetic device into Yana's brain. This device, they claimed, would interface with Ethan's neural pathways, allowing them to monitor his vital signs and administer medication directly to his bloodstream. The risks were immense, but so was the potential reward: Yan might regain his health and live a normal life.
Yana's parents were torn. They loved their son more than anything in the world, but the thought of subjecting him to an unproven and potentially dangerous procedure filled them with trepidation. After much deliberation, they decided to give their consent. They believed that this was their only chance to save Yana's life, and they were willing to take the risk.
On the day of the surgery, Yana was wheeled into the operating room. His parents stood outside, their hearts heavy with both hope and fear. Hours later, the surgery was complete. The doctors emerged from the operating room with a somber expression on their faces.
"The surgery was a success," the lead surgeon said, "but there were complications. Yana's body rejected the cybernetic device, and his immune system is now attacking it. We're doing everything we can to stabilize him, but his condition is critical."
Yana's parents were devastated. They had placed their trust in the doctors, and now their son's life was hanging in the balance. They spent the next few days by Yana's bedside, praying for a miracle.
Days turned into weeks, and Yana's condition remained unchanged. His body was ravaged by the disease, and the cybernetic device was slowly killing him. As his parents watched their son's life ebb away, they realized that they had made a terrible mistake. They had allowed their desperation to cloud their judgment, and now they were paying the price.
In the end, Yana succumbed to his illness, surrounded by his grieving parents. His death cast a shadow over Mech City, a reminder of the hubris of those who would play God with human life. And as the city continued to grow and evolve, the story of Yana and his tragic fate became a cautionary tale, whispered among the citizens of Mech City for generations to come.
Part 6: Kid army
In a small village, a brave young man with distinctive army green hair, who appeared to be no older than twelve, approached his brother, who possessed long, flowing blond locks. "I must leave for war," he declared resolutely. His second brother, with short, dark hair, overheard their conversation and stepped forward. "I am going as well," he proclaimed. However, the remaining two brothers, one with blond hair and the other with brown, hesitated and expressed their reluctance to join the war effort.
When the other two brothers departed, a man arrived and apprehended the remaining two, intending to enlist them in the military. Unfortunately, they were not treated kindly, particularly the blond brother who persistently attempted to flee. As punishment, he was tied to the rear of the wagon transporting all the men to the training grounds.
As they arrived at the training ground, the brother with the army green hair noticed that his fellow brothers were being taken elsewhere. He was aware that they had no desire to serve in the military, so he began to shout, demanding that they be left alone. However, his pleas fell on deaf ears, and no one paid attention to his cries.
In the midst of their arduous military training, one soldier stood out among his brethren - a youth with army green hair who had been separated from his brothers. Each day, he was forced to run relentlessly, and his duties were relegated to menial tasks like cleaning up. Despite his exceptional skill with firearms, the leader of their squad exhibited indifference to his talents.
In an attempt to broaden his combat capabilities, they initiated training in hand-to-hand combat. However, this proved to be a significant challenge for him. He lacked the natural aptitude for close-quarters combat and frequently found himself at the receiving end of beatings from his fellow soldiers. The situation grew increasingly grim as his confidence waned with each encounter.
In his solitude, he yearned for a familiar voice to call him by his name. His heart ached for his twin brother, whom he longed to see just one more time. The memory of his brother's vibrant smile and infectious laughter haunted his mind. He vowed to himself that he would survive this ordeal and return to his beloved brother, the blond-haired one, with whom he shared an unbreakable bond.
Time had elapsed, and the conflict was still raging. "Let's go, men!" the squad leader shouted. Once more, all the soldiers crammed into the wagon. The army green-haired male boarded, but the others murmured and doubted his ability to survive. Ignoring them, he was determined to return to his brother Lee.
Part 7: Dark angel
This winged creature fell from the cloud world of prism. He was having a hard time stearing because he had never been to earth before. So he accidentally went into the window of what he thought was a human boy. He went to touch the child to ask for some help but he fell on the boy. This boy was not a nice boy. He pulled a gun out from under his pillow. "Wait kid" the dark angel said the boy shot him in the wing.
The dark angel ran away jumping out the window as the boy fired more shots at him. One of the bullets hit him in the leg and a couple grazed him. So finally after he was in so much pain he started falling out of the sky. He crashed not far from the boy's house.as he was going down blood was coming out of his wounds.
"All I wanted… was to ask the boy for help," the dark angel whispered, his voice trembling as the wind howled around him. His once-proud wings hung tattered and scorched, feathers scattering like black snow into the storm.
High above, he caught a glimpse—his mother, radiant and pure, descending through the clouds. Her golden light reached for him, so close it almost warmed his skin.
But deep inside, he knew it was only a cruel trick of his mind. She would never come for him. She was light… and he was darkness.
She probably hates me, he thought, a single tear catching the fading light before vanishing into shadow.
His wings gave out. The sky roared. And with a burst of falling feathers, the dark angel plummeted—spiraling through the heavens like a dying star, swallowed by the endless dark below.
The crash split the silence of the forest like thunder. Dust and feathers rained down, painting the trees in streaks of black and silver. Smoke curled from the impact site, glowing faintly with remnants of divine energy—dark and light clashing in the air.
The boy stumbled forward, the gun still trembling in his hands. His heart pounded in his chest, the echo of the last gunshot still ringing in his ears.
"What… what did I just do?" he whispered, lowering the weapon. His pulse quickened as realization struck him. "That wasn't a monster… I— I shot an angel."
Without thinking, he ran. Branches whipped at his face as he tore through the underbrush toward the crater. The smell of burnt feathers and ozone filled the air.
At the center lay the dark angel—wings shattered, one glowing faintly with a dim crimson light, the other broken and blackened like ash. His chest rose weakly, breath ragged but alive.
The boy dropped to his knees beside him, eyes wide with horror and guilt. "Hey! Don't move—please, I didn't mean to—"
The dark angel's eyes flickered open, pale and distant, reflecting both pain and something the boy didn't expect—understanding.
The boy's hands shook as he pressed down on the angel's side, trying to stop the bleeding. Warm crimson stained his fingers, mixing with the ash and feathers around them.
"Hang on—just hang on," the boy said, voice cracking. "I didn't mean to shoot you, I swear! I thought you were— I don't even know what I thought."
The dark angel winced, a faint groan escaping him as his broken wings twitched. His breathing was shallow, but his eyes—those strange, pale eyes—found the boy's with quiet intensity.
"It's… fine," he murmured, voice faint like a dying ember. "You were scared… everyone fears what they don't understand."
The boy swallowed hard, guilt tightening in his chest. "Who are you? What's your name?"
The angel's gaze softened. His expression turned distant, as if searching through fog for something long forgotten.
"My name…" he whispered. "I… don't remember. Only what it means."
The boy blinked. "What it means?"
"Dark angel," he said after a pause, the words trembling like they carried both pride and sorrow. "That's… all I know."
The boy looked down at him—this strange being who should've been his enemy—and felt something shift inside him.
"Then… until you remember," the boy said quietly, "I'll call you Ciaran. It means dark angel, right?"
The angel's eyes widened slightly. Then, slowly, he gave a faint, weary smile. "Ciaran…" he repeated. "Yes… that sounds right."
The forest was silent again, save for the soft sound of the boy's shaky breathing and the faint rustle of Ciaran's wings. Somewhere above, the storm began to clear, light breaking gently through the clouds—illuminating two souls who were never meant to meet, yet somehow needed each other most.The boy's hands shook as he pressed down on the angel's side, trying to stop the bleeding. Warm crimson stained his fingers, mixing with the ash and feathers around them.
"Hang on—just hang on," the boy said, voice cracking. "I didn't mean to shoot you, I swear! I thought you were— I don't even know what I thought."
The dark angel winced, a faint groan escaping him as his broken wings twitched. His breathing was shallow, but his eyes—those strange, pale eyes—found the boy's with quiet intensity.
"It's… fine," he murmured, voice faint like a dying ember. "You were scared… everyone fears what they don't understand."
The boy swallowed hard, guilt twisting in his chest. "Who are you? What's your name?"
The angel's gaze drifted upward, lost in the swirling smoke and fading light. "My name… I don't remember," he murmured. "Only what it means."
The boy hesitated. "What does it mean?"
The angel's eyes flickered faintly. "Dark angel," he said, the words soft, filled with sorrow.
The boy looked at him, unsure whether to be afraid or amazed. "Then… until you remember," he said quietly, voice steady now, "I'll just call you Dark Angel."
The angel's lips curved into a faint, almost grateful smile. "Dark Angel… yes," he whispered. "That sounds… right."
The boy hesitated, still pressing against the angel's wound. "I'm Sam," he said finally, voice trembling. "I… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."
Ciaran—or rather, the Dark Angel—gave a faint, weak smile. "Sam…" he repeated softly. "That's a good name."
Sam bit his lip, eyes flicking to the angel's side. The bleeding wasn't stopping. Panic welled in his chest. "No, no, no—come on, don't die on me," he whispered. He pressed harder, desperation flooding his veins.
Then something strange happened.
A soft light began to glow from Sam's fingertips—warm, golden, and pure. It spread across the wound, threads of energy weaving into torn flesh and burned feathers. The air hummed, the ground trembling beneath them.
The Dark Angel gasped as light poured through him, washing away pain. His chest rose deeper, steadier. The wound began to close—slowly, but not fully. His left wing still hung broken, feathers scorched and uneven.
Sam stared at his own hands in disbelief. "What… What was that? I've never done anything like that before."
The angel exhaled weakly, his pale eyes full of wonder. "Light magic… from a human?" He smiled faintly. "Maybe you're not ordinary after all."
Sam helped him sit up, steadying him as he struggled to move. "You need to rest. You can't fly like this."
"I have to," the Dark Angel said quietly, looking to the sky. "If I don't return soon… they'll think I've fallen."
He tried to spread his wings—one extended beautifully, the other faltered, trembling with pain. Still, he pushed off the ground, wings beating unevenly as he rose into the air.
"Wait—!" Sam called, reaching out, but the angel was already lifting higher, feathers scattering behind him like dying embers.
He didn't make it far. His damaged wing gave out, and he crashed again—this time, further away, near the edge of a quiet village.
That's where another human found him. A kind stranger who took him in, hiding his dark wings beneath blankets and shadow until he could heal.
Days turned into weeks, then months. The Dark Angel's strength slowly returned—but not fully. He often looked toward the sky, wondering if Sam was safe, if he even remembered him.
Meanwhile, in Prism—the realm of gods and angels—whispers spread through the halls of light.
The Dark Angel has fallen.
He's gone.
He's never coming back.
By the time he was strong enough to return home, the heavens had already written his name among the lost.
The skies over Prism shimmered like crystal, clouds glowing gold and white as the angels gathered in solemn silence. It had been so long since the Dark Angel's disappearance that even the stars of the upper realm no longer carried his light.
Trumpets of mourning echoed across the marble bridges. His name—once spoken in reverence—was now only whispered in grief.
Then, the wind shifted.
A ripple tore through the air, soft but powerful. Feathers—black, touched with faint crimson light—fell from the heavens. The angels looked up, startled.
From the break in the clouds, a single figure descended—one wing gleaming darkly, the other still scarred and half-broken. His eyes, pale as moonlight, met theirs with quiet strength.
Gasps spread through the crowd.
"Impossible…"
"He's alive…"
"It's him—the Dark Angel!"
He landed hard, knees hitting the radiant floor of Prism's grand courtyard. The impact sent a pulse of energy through the ground, the mix of darkness and light swirling around him in a breathtaking storm.
At the front of the gathered angels stood another figure—brilliant white wings unfurled, hair like sunlight. His eyes were wide, trembling with disbelief.
"Brother…" the Light Angel whispered, voice breaking.
The Dark Angel looked up slowly, meeting his twin's gaze. For a long moment, neither moved. The world seemed to hold its breath.
Then the Light Angel stepped forward, tears glimmering in his golden eyes. "You're alive… I thought you were gone forever."
"I almost was," the Dark Angel said quietly, his voice low and steady. "But someone helped me. A human… named Sam."
The crowd murmured in shock—a human saving an angel was unheard of.
The Light Angel's expression softened, a sad smile forming. "You… you don't remember your name, do you?"
The Dark Angel shook his head. "Only its meaning. Dark Angel."
A flicker of surprise passed through his brother's face. He looked down, his own hands trembling. "That's strange," he said softly. "Ever since you disappeared… I haven't remembered mine either. Only what it means."
"Light Angel," his brother whispered.
They stood there—two halves of the same soul, born on the same day, one of light, one of darkness—each carrying the same wound of forgotten identity.
The heavens above them seemed to weep and glow all at once, as the two brothers finally faced each other again, unsure of what they once were… but certain of what they still meant to one another.