Pain exploded in Nemor's abdomen before he could even react.
The punch came loaded with pure solar energy, wrapping the man's fist in an incandescent golden glow. The impact was devastating. Nemor felt his ribs creaking under the absurd pressure, air being expelled from his lungs in a sharp gasp. His body was hurled like a rag doll, crossing the three meters of the narrow alley until it splattered against the brick wall.
The sound of impact echoed off the dirty walls. Nemor slid to the ground, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. The midday sunlight bathed the alley with cruel indifference, illuminating every detail of that brutal scene.
He coughed, each breath a hammer of agony in his chest. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, staining his already torn shirt. His entire body was a map of purple bruises and superficial cuts. This wasn't the first time he'd been beaten in those last few minutes. It was clear the four men in black suits weren't in a hurry—they were having fun.
They remained standing, untouched, almost bored. Each one bore the same symbol on their forehead: two horizontal red bars and a cross superimposed. Marks of power.
Their leader, a man with broad shoulders and an impassive expression, took another step forward. His fists began to pulse again, wrapping themselves in that suffocating solar energy. The heat distorted the air around his hands, as if the sun itself were concentrated in his fingers.
Nemor spat blood on the dusty ground, forcing himself to stand. His legs trembled. Every muscle screamed for him to stay down, but something inside him—perhaps pride, perhaps stubbornness—pushed him up. He leaned against the cold wall at his back, breathing with difficulty.
The leader stopped a few steps away from him. His voice was calm, almost casual, as if he were commenting on the weather.
"I'm going to ask one last time." He tilted his head slightly. "Where's the girl?"
Nemor felt a painful crack as he clenched his own fists. More blood dripped from his mouth. He wiped it with the back of his hand, leaving a red trail on his pale skin. A bitter smile appeared on his lips.
"I already got what I wanted from you guys." His voice was hoarse but firm. "So that's it."
The leader stared at him. For a moment, there was only the sound of wind carrying dust through the alley. Then the solar energy began to pulse with more intensity in the four men's fists. The heat increased perceptibly, making the air tremble.
Nemor straightened his back, ignoring the piercing pain. His eyes—until then clouded with pain—gained a calculating gleam.
"That power of yours..." He tilted his head to the side, analyzing them. "It only works in sunlight. Am I right?"
The effect was instantaneous.
The four men stiffened. Their eyes widened in evident shock, their cold composure cracking like glass. The leader took half a step back, involuntarily, before regaining his composure.
Nemor felt a wave of satisfaction course through him, even through the pain. He'd hit it. Hit it dead on.
"Shut your mouth!" The leader snarled, the mask of calm finally falling. "Just tell us where the girl is!"
But Nemor wasn't listening anymore. His mind was racing. If their power depended on sunlight, then there was a way out. One single way out. He hated having to do this—hated the price that would come after—but there was no choice.
"Since you guys depend on sunlight..." Nemor murmured, more to himself than to them. His eyes gained fierce determination. "Then I have no choice."
The men exchanged uncertain looks. For the first time, fear flickered in their expressions. What did this beaten boy intend to do?
Nemor closed his eyes and whispered, so low it almost got lost in the wind:
"Appear."
The world exploded in light.
A golden glow mixed with red electric rays burst from Nemor's back, illuminating the entire alley with blinding intensity. The men recoiled, instinctively protecting their eyes. The energy was palpable, pressing against everyone present's skin like a physical wave.
A red cross materialized on Nemor's forehead, glowing with its own light.
And then she emerged.
From Nemor's back, as if crossing an invisible portal, a feminine figure appeared. Her two wings unfolded majestically—one red like burning embers, the other golden like the sun itself. She floated a few centimeters above the ground, her bare feet not touching the dirty earth of the alley.
There was something ancestral about her. Something that made it seem she had always been there, waiting, since the beginning of time.
The four men trembled. One of them let out a suffocated sound of pure terror.
"What... what is that thing?!"
The leader tried to maintain his composure, but his voice betrayed the fear he felt. He shouted at the others, more to convince himself than to command them:
"You idiots! Why are you trembling?! Get him!"
But before anyone could move, the red rays around Nemor intensified, enveloping his body in a pulsing aura of power. He no longer looked like the injured and bleeding boy from moments ago. His eyes shone with renewed energy.
Nemor looked at the winged woman and said with casual simplicity:
"Make it easy for me."
Her voice was calm as the surface of a lake, but carried a weight that made the air vibrate:
"As you wish, sir."
She raised her hands delicately. And clapped.
The clap echoed through the alley, through the block, perhaps through the entire city. It wasn't just a sound—it was a command. An order to reality itself.
And reality obeyed.
The sunlight died.
Not gradually, like a sunset. But instantaneously, as if someone had turned off a lamp. Where before there had been the intense glow of midday, now there was only the silvery, ghostly light of the full moon, which shouldn't be there, but was.
The four men looked up in horror. Day had become night in the blink of an eye.
And their powers, fed by the sun, died with the light.
The leader still tried to maintain his bravado, even with trembling hands:
"So what?! You think you can win, you—"
He didn't finish.
Nemor disappeared.
No—he didn't disappear. He moved so fast that human eyes couldn't follow. The red rays left a trail in the air like frozen lightning.
The kick connected with the leader's jaw before his brain registered the movement. The sound of impact was nauseating—bone against bone, amplified by supernatural energy. The man was thrown like a projectile, his body spinning in the air before splattering against the opposite wall of the alley.
He slid to the ground and didn't move anymore. Knocked out. Maybe worse.
The remaining three froze for a fraction of a second—too long.
Then panic engulfed them. Without thought, without strategy, just primal terror, they ran toward Nemor in a desperate attack.
One of them tried to summon his solar power by reflex. His hands glowed faintly, the energy flickering like a dying lamp. And then it went out completely. The understanding of what this meant crossed his face in horror.
Too late.
Nemor was already on top of him. He grabbed the man by the collar with brutal force, his fingers closing like claws. The punch came fast and heavy, connecting with the man's face in a satisfying crack. Blood exploded from his broken nose.
The man tried to fall, but Nemor didn't let him. He held him tight, only to hurl him against the wall with amplified force. Another inert body on the ground.
The last two arrived together, screaming in fury and desperation.
One of them got dangerously close, his fist coming toward Nemor's face with brutal force, even without the solar energy. Almost connected. Almost.
Nemor dodged with supernatural ease, his body moving like water. The blow passed centimeters from his face. And then Nemor counterattacked.
His punch, wrapped in crackling red energy, buried itself in the man's chest. The impact was devastating. The black suit tore at the point of contact, the pure force of the energy disintegrating the fabric. The man was launched backward, hitting against the alley debris and remaining motionless.
The last man saw everything happen. He saw his three companions fall in seconds. He saw the red glow on Nemor's fist coming toward him.
And simply fainted.
His body collapsed on the ground before the blow even reached him, his mind surrendering to pure terror.
Silence.
Nemor stood in the center of the alley, surrounded by four unconscious bodies. The red rays still crackled around his body, illuminating the scene with a spectral glow. His chest rose and fell with deep breaths.
The winged woman remained where she was, hands still in position with palms together, keeping the artificial night in place.
Nemor took a deep breath, trying to process what had just happened. His voice came out low, almost a murmur:
"Bunch of—"
But the word died on his lips.
His vision trembled. The world around him began to lose focus, the edges becoming blurred and distorted. His legs, which had remained firm throughout the entire fight, suddenly seemed made of jelly.
The adrenaline was running out. And with it, consciousness.
He looked down, seeing his own hands trembling uncontrollably. Blood—his own blood—dripped from dozens of wounds. The pain that had been suppressed by the urgency of battle now returned with full force, like an overwhelming wave.
Nemor managed to say only one thing, his voice loaded with resigned frustration:
"This is so damn annoying."
And then his legs gave out.
He toppled to the side, the world spinning in a nauseating spiral. The last thought before darkness swallowed him was irritatingly mundane: At least I won.
Then everything went black.
---
Consciousness returned slowly, like water penetrating dry sand.
Nemor first felt the softness beneath his body. Not the hard, dirty ground of the alley, but something comfortable. A mattress. His eyes refused to open, heavy as lead.
Gradually, the other senses returned. The familiar smell of his own room—that mixture of clean clothes, dust, and something vaguely woody. The muffled sound of cars passing on the street outside. The sensation of a sheet over his body.
He forced his eyes to open.
A white ceiling. Moisture stains in the left corner that he always said he'd fix, but never did. Definitely his ceiling.
Confusion crossed his foggy mind. How...?
Nemor sat up abruptly, ignoring the instant dizziness. His eyes swept the room. Messy, as always—clothes thrown on the chair, books piled on the floor, curtains half-open letting sunlight in.
Wait.
Sun.
He looked at the window. It was day again. How much time had passed?
"Are you well, sir?"
Nemor turned his head so fast his neck cracked.
She was there.
The winged woman, sitting elegantly in the only chair in the room, her wings—one red, one golden—carefully folded behind her. She watched him with those eyes that seemed to contain millennia of knowledge.
Nemor stared at her, his brain still processing. Memories of the fight returned in disconnected fragments.
"You... brought me here?" His voice came out hoarse, rough from disuse.
She nodded gently, her hands resting delicately in her lap.
"Yes, I was the one who brought you." A pause. "You shouldn't use energy unnecessarily, sir."
There was gentle reproach in her voice, like a mother scolding a stubborn child.
Nemor felt irritation rise in his chest, even through the exhaustion.
"Did I have a choice?" He practically spat the words.
The woman stared at him with that unshakeable calm.
"You did, sir."
Nemor frowned, confused and irritated.
"And what was it?"
"You just shouldn't have gone to help that girl."
The words fell like stones in still water. Nemor was silent for a long moment, processing. She was right, technically. He could have ignored it. Could have gone his way. Let the men in black suits do whatever they wanted.
But that wasn't who he was.
He sighed, changing the subject with obvious discomfort.
"And speaking of which..." Nemor rubbed his tired face. "You should stop calling me 'sir' so much. You're so formal."
The woman tilted her head, considering. For a moment, something almost like amusement crossed her perfect features.
"If you wish, sir, I can be more informal." She paused deliberately. "How do you feel, Nemor?"
Hearing his own name from her was strange. Intimate in a way he didn't expect. He looked away, suddenly uncomfortable.
"Tell me..." Nemor looked back at her. "What's your name?"
The woman stared at him with those unfathomable eyes. When she answered, there was something expectant in her voice:
"You haven't given me a name yet, sir."
Nemor blinked, confused.
"What? What do you mean?"
She leaned slightly forward, her wings adjusting with the movement.
"Nemor, you created me." The words were simple, factual. "You have the right to give me a name."
For a moment, Nemor just stared at her. Then the understanding of what she said—really said—hit him like a slap.
"GET OUT, WOMAN!" He shouted so loud his own voice echoed off the walls. "I didn't create anyone! You're the one who appeared out of nowhere!"
But she didn't flinch. Her expression remained serene, almost compassionate.
"No matter how much you deny it..." Her voice was soft but firm. "You are my creator, sir."
Nemor opened his mouth to protest again, but the words died in his throat. Something in her expression—that absolute certainty—made him hesitate.
"You're never going to stop saying that, are you?" He murmured, more resigned than irritated.
Then something crossed his mind. A memory. A sensation of forgotten urgency.
Nemor grabbed his head with both hands, as if that could force the memory to return faster. His eyes widened.
"Damn..." He whispered, horror growing in his voice. "I almost forgot."
He looked at her with sudden urgency.
"Can you tell me how much time I have left?"
The woman closed her eyes for a brief moment, as if consulting something invisible. When she opened them again, her voice was neutral, factual, but loaded with weight:
"Calculating remaining time..."
A pause that seemed to last an eternity.
"Remaining time: twenty seconds."
Nemor let out a long, tired sigh. He lay back on the bed, looking at the moisture-stained ceiling. His voice came out low, loaded with bitter acceptance:
"This is all so damn annoying."
And then he closed his eyes, waiting for what would come next.
**END OF CHAPTER 1**