As a child, Stream, whose real name was Christian Xaloy Bharin, was born and raised in a family that was extremely strict about their culture. Chris never liked the sea, the ocean, or even water itself. He was trained from a young age to be calm and steady, no matter the situation.
One night, a burglar broke into their house. His family was woken up by strange noises they heard in the dark. When they encountered the intruder, the burglar shot Chris's mother right in front of his eyes. Everyone froze in shock. His father reacted immediately, tackling the man and pinning him down.
Years passed. After intense training, Chris was finally ready to face the open world. But on one fateful day, his father died. Chris inherited his house and his wealth, left alone with everything that remained.
He began taking long walks at night near the sea.
On one such night, he saw a man—someone familiar. It was the same man who had shot his mother. Fueled by hatred, Chris attacked him, beating him until he was dead. Police patrol cars were nearby, their lights already approaching. To escape, Chris had only one option: the water.
But because he hated water so deeply, he had never bothered to learn how to swim.
He entered the sea and immediately struggled to stay afloat. By the time he realized how far he had gone, the shore was already out of reach. His strength faded. Then, suddenly, a whirlpool formed near him, dragging him downward.
Even as he was pulled under, he tried to stay calm—just as he had always been trained to do.
As his vision adjusted in the depths, he saw a faint blue light beneath the water. When he tried to move toward it, the object responded, drifting toward him instead. A shard.
Before he could think, the shard pierced deep into him. Water rushed into his mouth, but instead of drowning him, it began reshaping around him.
Moments later, he emerged from the sea.
No longer just Christian Xaloy Bharin.
He became Stream.
Omega—whose real name was Darius Sinathrya Absolute—was an only child who lived with his father. His mother had died during childbirth, and because of that, Darius grew up receiving beatings from the very man who raised him. Even so, he never stayed down. No matter how often he was struck, he always stood back up.
When Darius was fifteen, his father passed away at the age of thirty-nine.
He was left completely alone.
He lived quietly, isolated from others, and by some miracle, he still refused to give up. He kept his ear glued to the news, especially reports surrounding a prediction—the coming of the Corruption. Knowing what was approaching, he began training relentlessly, driven by nothing but sheer will.
With his own hands, he forged silver armor and gear, preparing himself for the inevitable.
When the Corruption he had anticipated finally arrived…
he stood no chance.
Overwhelmed and outmatched, he faced the end head-on. That was when a single star shone through the thick clouds of midnight, bathing him in light. It wasn't ordinary light—it was a shooting star, descending straight toward him.
Toward his will.
Darius screamed—not in fear, not in pain, but in honor. In that moment, he believed he was dying while trying to save everyone, and he accepted it.
But he didn't die.
The star reformed him. His silver armor transformed into gold, and his very being was reforged along with it.
From that moment on, Darius Sinathrya Absolute was no more.
He became Omega.
Magnussen Helios Voller was a boy with a very, very bad temper.
Because of that temper, he was ridiculed and hated by others. People avoided him. Judged him. In the absolute meaning of the word—no one wanted to know him better or be friends with him.
But eventually, that no one became someone.
There was a girl who somehow liked him. Everybody knew she liked him—everyone except Magnus himself.
One day, they ended up walking in the same direction. She initiated a conversation, but Magnus thought she was only being friendly because she was afraid of him. Afraid he might snap. So he stayed silent.
Then, suddenly, she leaned in and whispered into his ear:
"I like you."
Magnus froze.
Shock locked him in place. Unable to process what had just happened, he turned and ran away as fast as he could.
Later that evening, guilt ate him alive. He went to her house to apologize—and to accept her confession.
But she wasn't home.
He felt sick with regret. His bad temper had never taught him proper manners, and now it had cost him the courage to stay. As he walked away, gloomy and restless, he overheard people talking nearby.
"I think I just saw that girl getting kidnapped… but I'm not sure. It was dark."
Uncertain but terrified, Magnus ran.
He searched everywhere he thought she might be. Street after street. Alley after alley. By the time night fully settled in, he was exhausted, barely able to breathe.
That's when he noticed an alleyway leading to a hidden room.
Inside, he saw a gruesome scene.
It was her.
Used.
Killed.
Rage consumed him completely.
A man stood nearby, pulling his pants up. The man looked at Magnus. Magnus stared back—nothing left in his eyes but fury. He attacked, beating the man mercilessly, making sure he felt every ounce of pain in every punch before he finally died.
When it was over, Magnus lifted her body into his arms and walked out. "I can't imagine how-... How scared you were... I- im, sorry"
A patrolling officer found him in a broken state, carrying a dead girl. No explanation could save him. No truth mattered.
He was sentenced to prison—for a murder he didn't commit.
A murder where the victim was his friend.
The only friend he had ever had.
The one person who truly cared about him.
After he was released from jail, Magnus became distant. To escape the memories, he began hiking alone near the top of a volcano.
On one hike, the volcano erupted while he was nearby. He survived—but the ground collapsed beneath him, and he fell straight into the volcano.
Some time later, it erupted again.
The explosion flung him into the sky.
As he descended, his body burned like an asteroid, blazing as it crashed back down toward the earth.
Then—
Darkness.
He opened his eyes.
"Where am I? I'm supposed to be dead."
A being that resembled him stepped forward and spoke.
"Supposed? So you just assumed your story ends like that? Pathetic."
"Tch… I will awaken our power, and you will be the one continuing the story. Got it?"
A blinding light followed.
Then his body struck the ground.
He rose again—awakened.
From that moment on, Magnussen Helios Voller would be known as Volcan.
Zephyrion Grand Onix despised the name Typhoon. It was a word people threw at him as if it explained everything, as if calling him a raging storm made his existence easier to understand. Yet whenever he was irritated, something strange happened—his gaze didn't burn or shake. It calmed. A chilling stillness settled in his eyes, deceiving people into thinking nothing was wrong. But that calm was only the surface. His actions, when pushed even slightly, spoke in the language of destruction, living up to the name he hated so much.
He was always calm, always unserious, drifting through life like a breeze. Laughing things off, letting rules and expectations wrap around him like ropes tied to an anchor. That was all anyone ever saw—the breeze. No one noticed that a breeze was still part of a storm, and that if it gathered enough pressure, everything around it would suffer the consequences.
More than anything, Zephyrion dreamed of flying.
He would stop and watch birds soar across the sky, wings slicing through the air as if freedom itself carried them. "Look at those birds," he once thought. "Flying freely, as if they're not bound by any restriction. They've achieved freedom—the one thing I've been longing to have." And then the truth would settle in, heavy and bitter. "But alas… society ties me down, a rope tied to an anchor."
Whenever he found injured birds, he helped them. Carefully, patiently, he nursed broken wings and released them once they healed. Watching them fly away always hurt, but he accepted it. At least someone was free.
Fate did not arrive as a storm. It arrived quietly.
Zephyrion grew sick. His strength faded, his breath shortened, and soon it became clear that he would die young—from an illness he caught from the very birds he had saved. Even then, he felt no regret. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, he made no grand wishes and cursed no one. He wanted only one thing.
To be free.
To fly alongside the birds.
That wish did not go unnoticed.
A star ignited in the night sky, burning so brightly that darkness turned into day. It shot downward, tearing through the heavens and into his room, stopping just before colliding with him. The light enveloped him completely, forming a radiant cocoon. Weeks passed in restless silence as his old body, his old limits, and his old chains were left behind.
Then the cocoon cracked.
It burst open.
Zephyrion rose—not standing, not crawling, but flying. He shot upward, piercing the sky he had stared at his entire life. The wind welcomed him like an old companion, clouds parting as gravity lost its hold. Those who witnessed it could only stare in awe.
They no longer called him Zephyrion.
They called him Typhoon, the ruler of the sky.
And for the first time in his existence, he did not despise the name.