Return of the forsaken
Crimson flames devoured the wooden house, their roar echoing like a monstrous beast across the silent forest. Smoke curled into the sky, blocking the stars, staining the moon with ash. The air was thick with the scent of burning wood… and something far more personal. Something that clawed at the heart.
A small boy stood before the inferno.
He was only six—thin, fragile, barely tall enough to reach his father's waist. Yet the fire in his eyes seemed far older.
Crimson eyes. Unnatural for a child, deep as spilled blood, glowing faintly against the blaze — as if the flames themselves were reflected within him.
His hands were clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms. His breath trembled. The heat stung his skin, but he couldn't look away.
Inside that collapsing home were the two people who had given him everything.
His mother's steady smile.
His father's warm hand resting atop his head.
Their laughter during mealtime.
Their stories whispered by candlelight.
All swallowed by the flames.
He didn't understand the details. He didn't need to.
He had heard the shouting—voices of people they had trusted, relatives who had eaten at their table, walked within these walls.
And then, the screams.
His parents were the leaders of a growing resistance—people who wanted to tear down the government's cruelty, to free those who lived under oppression. They had gained followers, strength, hope.
And just before their rise could begin—
Betrayal.
Not from enemies.
But from blood.
Those they trusted most, those who shared their home, their meals, their lives—sold them out for comfort and power.
The boy's lips parted.
His voice barely escaped.
"…Father… Mother…"
A crack of burning wood split the night. The roof collapsed inward with a thunderous crash. Sparks burst into the air like shattered stars. The flames surged higher—consuming everything.
The boy's vision blurred.
Tears spilled down his cheeks, hot enough to burn.
His heart throbbed painfully in his chest. A sound rose in his throat—something between a sob and a scream—but the wind drowned it out. He stood there, unmoving, as if the world had stopped.
But the world never stops.
A dull instinct whispered in his mind.
Run.
His legs moved before his thoughts could follow.
He ran.
Away from the fire.
Away from the betrayal.
Away from everything he had known.
Into the forest.
Into the cold.
Into loneliness.
---
Four Years Later
The forest was no longer a place of fear.
It was home.
Birds sang at dawn. Insects whispered at dusk. The howl of beasts echoed through the night. The wind carried the scent of pine and earth. Rivers cut through stone, offering water cold enough to numb the tongue.
The boy—no longer a helpless child—had grown into something else entirely.
His hands, once small and soft, were now calloused and scarred.
His body, once delicate, was marked with bruises and the hardened strength of constant struggle.
His crimson eyes, the same ones that once reflected fire and grief, now held a quiet, unyielding resolve.
He had been born with those eyes. Few noticed, back then, how unnatural they were. But now, beneath the shadows of the forest, they glowed faintly—like remnants of a fire that refused to die.
He learned to hunt.
To track the sound of hooves, to read the pattern of broken leaves, to strike fast and without hesitation.
He carved spears from fallen branches. He wove traps from vines. He soaked herbs into salves to stop bleeding.
He learned what to eat.
And what not to.
The first time he ate a poisonous root, he thought he would die. He writhed for hours, his throat burning, his vision fading. But he survived.
And the next time he ate poison, he survived faster.
And then faster still.
Pain became routine.
Starvation became discipline.
Fear became numb.
He carved a fighting style from instinct—strikes born from hunting, from evasion, from desperation.
A martial art with no master.
No name.
No tradition.
A fist born from suffering.
The Nameless Fist.
And yet—
Even after four years of clawing his way through life, he knew.
He was still weak.
He could survive a forest.
He could kill beasts.
But could he kill the ones responsible for that night?
Could he stand against those who commanded armies?
Against generals, nobles, governors?
Against the world that took his everything?
He clenched his jaw.
'Not yet.'
'Not even close.'
---
The Discovery
It happened on a day like any other.
Clouds blanketed the sky, muting the sun. The forest was quiet, as if holding its breath. He moved silently between the trees, expecting another day of routine.
Then—he saw it.
A wall.
Not of wood, nor of stone common to any village.
It was ancient—older than any memory he possessed. Older than the forest itself.
Vines wrapped its surface like frozen serpents. Moss clung to its cracks. Strange symbols spiraled across the stone—symbols that felt alive, as if they carried whispers from a forgotten world.
He approached slowly.
His fingers brushed the stone—
And the forest shook.
Red lightning burst from the wall, racing across the patterns like fire through oil. The ground rumbled. The air trembled. The symbols ignited—shining crimson.
A deep rumbling groan echoed, and the wall parted, opening like a great stone gate.
Beyond it lay a vast chamber carved of dark stone—silent and untouched by time.
Ray stepped inside.
His footsteps echoed.
The hall stretched forward endlessly.
Six doors lined the walls—three on each side, sealed tight with unreadable sigils.
And at the far end—
A glowing circle, etched with runes that pulsed like a heartbeat.
He took another step—
And a voice filled the room.
It was not one voice.
It was countless voices speaking as one.
Majestic. Ancient. Heavy as the world itself.
"We, the Forsaken, have chosen you."
Ray froze.
"Now choose your path."
The chamber vibrated with the weight of the words.
"Will you become the world's reckoning…
or its liberator?"
Ray stood still.
His breath shook.
But his resolve did not.
He drew a breath—steady, deep.
"…I will bring judgment... To those who deserve it."
He stepped toward the circle.
"Who are you?" Ray whispered.
The chamber trembled.
"We are the forgotten.
The buried. The betrayed—just as you were."
The runes glowed brighter.
"Step forward, Heir of Reckoning."
Ray walked into the circle.
Crimson light rose around him, swirling with black mist—like shadows that breathed.
The energy sank into his skin.
Into his bones.
Into his very soul.
Three towering figures appeared above him—spectral, fading, ancient.
Their presence felt like memories of kings long erased.
They lifted their arms—pointing toward the throne at the end of the hall.
"We grant you this…"
Their fingers aligned with the throne—dark, vast, carved with spiraling void patterns.
"The Ark of the Void."
Crimson embers drifted in the air like dying stars.
"Carry our will…"
Their voices began to fade.
"And bring reckoning upon this world."
Their bodies dissolved into dust.
Their final whisper lingered like a breath against his ear:
"…Our King."
Ray opened his crimson eyes.
They were no longer the eyes of a child.
Something ancient had awakened.
Something waiting.
Something patient.
Something relentless.
A storm.
And the world would one day know its name.
Chapter 1 — End