Three centuries past, a vast celestial cloud drifted beyond the bounds of our galaxy —a luminous sea of radiant blue particles, as brilliant as the sun and as deep as the ocean.
It moved with silent majesty, large enough for every living being to witness its glow piercing
the veil of the night.
Unaware of its origin, civilizations revered it. Prayers rose like smoke into the heavens, offerings laid beneath its glow — humble gestures of hope, fear, and longing.
Across distant worlds, beings of every kind bowed in unison, entranced by its majesty. In its beauty, they found solace; in its mystery, a divine presence. For a fleeting moment, the galaxy worshiped the same sky-born God.
But reverence does not last forever.
As generations passed, awe turned into desire. The prayers that once asked for peace
began to ask for more. Greed whispered louder than gratitude. Lust and gluttony took root where humility once stood. Pride swelled, anger flared, envy festered, and sloth dulled the spirit.
The divine became a mirror — reflecting the hunger of those who gazed upon it.
Ambition ignited like wildfire. Wars erupted across star systems. Blood soaked the soil of countless worlds, and chaos became the new order. Empires rose from the ashes of peace, their thrones built upon the bones of freedom. Harmony shattered — sacrificed to the very beings who once bowed in awe.
Yet not all were lost.
A few remained faithful to the Sky, offering their souls with unwavering purity. They sought not conquest, but restoration. Their voices carried like whispers on solar winds, binding hearts from distant worlds.
From seven realms came seven disciples — chosen not by birthright, but by devotion.
Each offered themselves not for power, but for penance. They asked not for miracles, but to become vessels — instruments to cleanse the stain left upon a galaxy that once pulsed with joy and light.
What followed was a cataclysmic war — corrupted against cleansed, darkness against memory. Hope, once a flicker, began to blaze anew.
For seventy years, fire rained and empires crumbled. And in the year 178 A.C. (After the Cloud), the war ended. The disciples, weary but victorious, broke the chains of oppression that bound countless worlds.
The reign of terror was over.
Year 324 A.C. — 146 years later
The Sky God no longer glows.
Its once-radiant shimmer has faded. Some believe its purpose was fulfilled. Others
whisper darker truths — that the people drained its majesty and left it hollow. The truth is lost to myth and time.
Fragments of its power remain — inherited by a rare few. Stardust pulses within their veins, untamed and unguided. No divine voice leads them. What they become is their choice.
Some choose guardianship.
These are the Fighters — protectors of peace, wielding their power with discipline and humility.
Others choose hunger.
These are the Demons — feared across the galaxy, merciless and cunning. Many claim they descend from the fallen tyrants of old, inheritors of ambition twisted by legacy.
The Sky may have dimmed. Its shadow has not.
Planet Earth — Country of Breedom
Once the home of one of the legendary Seven Disciples — now just another world orbiting quietly among the stars. But in its silence, the echoes of greatness remain.
We find ourselves in the vibrant country of Breedom, a place where ancient history meets the pulse of the future.
A dark alley breathes in the night.
Footsteps echo — slow, steady, deliberate.A young man steps into view. Sixteen, roughly 5'9", unassuming at a glance. Dark brown boots, black pants dusted from travel, a black jacket over a plain black t-shirt. Messy dark hair frames a face still shedding the last traces of childhood.
His hazel eyes scan ahead — alert, quiet.
Something about him feels… wrong.
Without a word, he turns onto the sidewalk.
New Breedom City unfolds before him — a sprawling futuristic metropolis bathed in daylight. Towers pierce the clouds. Aerial transports streak across the sky in perfect rhythm.
Below, life moves on, unaware.
Someone walks among them who does not belong.
Someone the stars might still remember.
Nighttime — 6:15 PM
(Door opens. Bells ring).
The soft chime echoes through the air as the young man steps into a sleek, modern electronics store — Max Streams. Cool-toned lights reflect off rows of glowing devices, and
the faint hum of powered screens fills the space.
Behind the counter stands a tall, dark-skinned man with a calm, easy smile.
Store Employee: "Hey!!! Welcome to Max Streams! Need help finding anything?"
His voice is warm, cheerful — the kind that makes a place feel friendly. But the boy doesn't answer.
He walks forward in silence, eyes scanning the shelves with disinterest until they land
on a glowing wall of televisions.
His footsteps stop.
Young Man (quietly):"The news…"
A pause stretches between them. The employee tilts his head, the smile on his face
faltering as confusion takes its place.
Still trying to be polite, he steps forward slightly.
Store Employee: "Uhhh… we've got a wide selection of TVs," (he says, chuckling nervously) "Is there something specific you're looking for?"
No response.
Then, the boy turns slowly to face him — hazel eyes locked in, jaw tense, his expression cold and sharp.
Young Man (sharply):"The news."
(His voice cuts through the quiet, and for the first time, the warmth in the store feels… thin)
Confused and hesitant, the store employee shifts his stance, casting a wary glance at the boy whose eyes are locked onto the display wall of TVs. Swallowing uneasily, he turns toward the store's built-in artificial intelligence system.
Store Employee (clearing his throat):"Lex… put on the news, please."
A soft chime sounds as the system acknowledges the voice command. The screens flicker for a moment, then fade into a live news broadcast.
Still watching the boy from the corner of his eye, the employee tries again — voice softer, more cautious now.
Store Employee:"Are you sure there's nothing else I can help you with?"
No reply.
The boy doesn't even blink. His focus is absolute, fixed on the screens above.
Whatever warmth or conversation might have existed is gone now — replaced by quiet tension.
Both of them watch in silence.
The broadcast shows footage from a recent catastrophe — smoke rising from the charred ruins of what was once a massive military base. A grim headline scrolls across the screen:
"Militia Base in Sector 9 Obliterated by Red Moon Clan — Fighter Missing."
A female anchor's voice fills the store: "Last week, one of the militia central bases
was attacked in a devastating raid led by the infamous Demon faction known as the Red Moon — an elusive and brutal clan originating from Eastern Asia. Known for their swift, coordinated assaults, the Red Moon leaves destruction in its wake… and this time was no
exception."
The screen flashes to shaky aerial footage of the destroyed base — twisted metal,collapsed towers, scorched landing pads.
"The assault resulted in the total collapse of the facility, the theft of classified documents, and the abduction of one of the high-ranking Seraphims, Rumbler."
The image lingers for a moment on Rumbler's face before cutting back to live commentary.
The store is quiet, except for the distant voice of the broadcast and the low hum of electronics.
The young man's eyes harden, jaw clenched. Whatever emotion lies beneath that calm surface — fear, anger, purpose — is buried deep.
Store Employee (shaking his head, eyes still on the screen): "Tchh!.. Attacking a military base? Kidnapping Rumbler? Really — what's wrong with these Demons?" (His voice wavers with disbelief, a mixture of fear and frustration)
"They've got no humanity left in them... What kind of people could unleash such madness?"(He pauses, then lets out a nervous laugh, trying to comfort himself)
"Thank God we've still got Hope. I mean... where would we even be without him,
right?"
The news drone on in the background, but the young man's attention has shifted.
His eyes slide slowly to the top right corner of the screen.
6:20 PM.
A faint sound escapes him — not a sigh… not quite a laugh either.
A low, almost inaudible chuckle.
A subtle shift in his expression follows — the softness of youth gives way to something darker. A twisted grin stretches across his face, sinister and cold. The store's ambient lights flicker, unnoticed.
Behind him, the store employee watches uneasily.
Store Employee (nervously): "Uh… is something wrong, s-sir?"
He gulps.
The young man doesn't turn all the way — only slightly, just enough for his cheek and the edge of his dark grin to show.
His back remains facing the man.
Then, without warning, the air shifts.
The atmosphere thickens — heavy, charged, unnatural.
The fluorescent lights overhead dim slightly, and a low hum begins to pulse through the walls, like something ancient waking up.
A suffocating pressure fills the room, sharp and invisible — as if the air itself were made of blades, slicing against the skin. The employee stumbles slightly, disoriented, heart pounding. His mouth opens, but no words come.
And then — it changes.
The light in the store warps subtly to a deep, sickening crimson. Shadows stretch across the walls like reaching fingers. The warmth of safety is gone, replaced by something unnamed… something is wrong.
The boy's head tilts just enough to let the employee catch a full glimpse of his face —that twisted grin now fully bloomed. Eyes no longer soft, but hungry… inhuman.
Young Man (low, deliberate):"It's showtime."
The young man begins to move.
Slow. Deliberate. Menacing.
His boots thud softly against the polished floor of Max Streams, each step echoing louder than the last. His aura still burns bright — a deep, searing crimson red — rippling off
his body like heat rising from fire.
The store employee's heart pounds violently in his chest, each beat a warning drum.
Sweat beads on his forehead. He darts a glance toward the exit — so close, yet impossibly far. Fear has locked his limbs, hijacked his will. The only thing he can do is shuffle backward, trembling, until his spine meets the cold wall behind him.
Store Employee (voice trembling): "Wh-What are you doing...? W-Wh-What do you want?"
No response.
The boy's smile hasn't faded — in fact, it seems to grow darker, more twisted, like
something enjoying the unraveling of another's sanity.
Store Employee (laughing nervously): "Is this some kind of prank…? Hahaha, 'cause you got me. You really got me, man." (He forces another laugh)
"You don't have to keep looking at me like that, okay? That creepy smile—just stop, man. You win."
Still silence.
The boy stands motionless, shadowed in red, his gaze locked, unreadable.
Store Employee (voice cracking, suddenly yelling):"OKAY, MAN, YOU CAN STOP NOW!! I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE HELL YOU'RE DOING, BUT CUT IT OUT!!!"
The young man raises one hand — slow as a sunrise — and places a single finger to his lips.
Young Man (softly):"Shhh... Listen."
Store Employee: "What...? Listen to what?"
Then —
BOOOOMMMM!!!
An earsplitting explosion tears through the air. The entire store shakes. Light fixtures rattle. Shelves tremble. The glass doors quiver violently on their hinges. Outside, a billowing
cloud of smoke rises into the skyline.
The TVs on the wall flicker and glitch. The news broadcast cuts out, replaced by a
pulsing red ALERT screen, and then, just as suddenly, the feed resumes — this time live and chaotic.
BACK ON SCREEN:
The feed stabilizes. The camera shakes slightly as it zooms in on a tall man standing amidst swirling smoke and flickering emergency lights.
Adam Spencer.
New Breedom's most recognizable face in journalism — a man as famous for his sharp tongue as he is for his designer suits. Mid-thirties, tall and broad-shouldered, his chestnut-brown hair is perfectly styled despite the chaos around him. Emerald-green eyes
gleam with both confidence and a touch of mischief, framed by faint smile lines and the kind of chiseled jaw that graces billboards and fashion ads across the city.
He wears a tailored dark burgundy suit, crisp white shirt, and a deep navy tie — all pristine, as though he walked through fire without catching a single ember. A platinum watch
gleams on his wrist. Every movement is practiced, camera-ready. This is a man who thrives in front of the lens.
Adam (with a smug grin): "Uh... are we live now?"
Cameraman (off-screen): "Yes, yes sir, we're live."
Adam adjusts the lapel of his jacket with a practiced flourish, flashing a boyish grin to
someone just off-camera.
Adam: "You sure? I don't wanna look stupid, especially for the ladi—"
Cameraman (cutting in, exasperated): "YES, sir. We're live!"
Adam (smoothing his expression): "Right. Let's do this… Good evening, my beautiful viewers across the great, stunning country of Breedom. It's your favorite anchor, Adam Spencer, coming to you live with breaking news."
Cameraman: "Sir…"
He groans under his breath.
Adam's grin fades just slightly as he steps aside to reveal the chaos behind him.
Smoke billows into the orange sky. Sirens wail in the background. Flames flicker from the shattered remains of a building.
Adam (shifting into a more serious tone): "We are here in New Breedom City, east side, 3rd District — where just moments ago, a violent explosion tore through one of the district's major banking institutions."
The camera pans briefly behind him — civilians stumble through the rubble, some
bloodied, some helping others. Emergency drones buzz overhead.
Adam (continued): "Right now, the cause of the explosion remains unknown. But what we do know is that several nearby structures have also suffered damage, and the number of injured seems to be catastrophic. Local authorities are urging civilians to avoid the area as they begin rescue and containment operations."
(He lowers his mic slightly and looks directly into the camera, his voice quieting)
"We'll be bringing you updates by the minute as this story unfolds. For now—stay safe, Breedom."
His voice fades as the screen begins to blur and fade back into the interior of Max Streams…
The static hum returns. The red glow persists. The room feels heavier than before.
The store employee stands paralyzed, pulse racing. And in front of him — the young man, calm as ever, red aura rippling around him like smoke from the explosion outside.
He's not reacting to the news.
He 's waiting.
The store employee's breathing quickens.
His wide eyes darted between the news footage and the young man standing silently
near the door. A creeping realization begins to sink in — a thought so terrifying, he doesn't want to say it aloud… but he does.
Store Employee (in disbelief, voice trembling): "You… you did this…"
(A step back)
"You did it… It was you… I know it was!!!"
Still no reply.
The boy doesn't turn, doesn't flinch. The crimson glow around him has faded, replaced now by something colder — quieter. He stands calmly at the exit, hands in his pockets, the sinister grin now gone.
He stares out through the glass doors with a small, knowing smirk.
Outside, the city is still reeling. Sirens wail in the distance.
BACK ON SCREEN — LIVE BROADCAST.
Adam Spencer is mid-report when the tension spikes.Suddenly — gunfire erupts.
Screams follow. The broadcast shakes violently, the camera jolting sideways.
Adam (startled):"What in the hell—?! We've got to find cover — go, go, move!!"
The view lurches, spinning as the camera scrambles behind a wrecked vehicle. Adam
crouches beside it, adjusting his mic and peeking through the gaps.
His voice lowers, edged with tension.
Adam (scanning): "What on Mother's green earth is going on…?" (He squints)
"There — right there. Get that. There's someone…"
The camera zooms in, focusing through the smoke and fire where the bank once stood. From the haze, a large figure begins to emerge — slow, towering, and terrifyingly
composed.
Still blurred by smoke, the silhouette grows clearer.
Adam (whispering):"Ladies and gentlemen… there's a shadowy figure emerging from the rubble. Possibly the one behind this entire act of terror."
A beat.
"Those gunshots — they came from the bank."
Another pause.
"I don't know about you… but I've got a very bad feeling about whoever's walking out of that smoke…"
"Oh — oh no. There he is."
ACROSS THE CITY, in homes, bars, lobbies, and corner stores — eyes are glued to screens, breath held tight, everyone frozen on the edge of dread and fascination.
From the smoke steps a giant of a man — easily eight feet tall, broad as a tank, his hulking frame wrapped in a jungle-green, military-style vest smeared with ash and blood
His bald head shines under the fires behind him, marked by deep scars like battle stories carved into his skin.
But it's his left arm that truly horrifies.
A massive, built-in gatling gun, fused directly into his flesh. The barrels glow faintly, releasing a slow stream of heat and ash as if the weapon is alive — breathing fire between
kills.
Adam (shaken): "Oh my god… That's not just any Demon folks…."
The man raises his head, smiling wickedly through a thick cigar clenched between his
teeth. He knows everyone is watching.
Adam: "It's him… That's The Crusher…"
A name that lives in whispers, The Crusher is the ruthless leader of a relatively small but infamously brutal Demon faction — known simply as The Crushers. Their numbers are
unclear. Their movements are untraceable.
Until now.
From behind him, more figures begin to rise from the smoke — silhouettes with glowing eyes, jagged weapons, animalistic armor, each one radiating pure violence.
The Crusher (shouting): "HAHA!! THIS… THIS IS WHAT I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR!"
He steps forward, spreading his arms wide, soaking in the fear of the city like sunlight .
The Crusher (louder):"BREEDOM!!! TODAY YOU'LL KNOW TERROR!!! Watch as I crush your precious city into dust… I promise you… I will take everything!"
He cackles wildly, cigar clamped between his teeth, smoke trailing from both the weapon and his mouth.
" HOPE — WHERE ARE YOU?! COME GET ME, YOU DAMN KNIGHT SCUM!"
With that, he raises his massive arm and fires into the sky — bullets erupting in a volcanic storm, scorching the clouds above.
BACK INSIDE MAX STREAMS.
The store still rattles from distant blasts.
The employee sinks to the floor, paralyzed by fear. All he can do is stare up at the boy near the exit.
Still calm, waiting.
Store Employee (voice trembling): "You're with them… You're a Demon."
His words fall heavy, thick with dread — as if spoken by someone who knows his fate is sealed.
Tears begin to roll down his cheeks, slow and quiet, as the full weight of the moment crashes down on him.
The young man doesn't respond.
He remains fixed on the sky beyond the store's glass front, eyes scanning the chaos outside… searching.
Sirens wail. Gunfire cracks. Explosions thunder.
The world outside burns — but inside, a deafening silence lingers between them.
Then—he squints.
Reflected in the cracked glass: figures streaking through the sky.
A flash of light. A ripple of movement.
Young Man (smirking): "There they are…"
Store Employee (whispers, breathless):"Fighters…"
His tears keep falling — but now with a glimmer of relief. Maybe he's going to be okay.
Maybe he'll live.
But when the young man turns to face him again…
That smile has returned.
Wider. His eyes glow faintly now — and behind them, something monstrous stirs.
The store grows colder. The tension is sharper.
Even the air feels heavier, as if the room itself senses what's about to happen.
He begins walking toward the store employee, who's still kneeling on the floor, frozen between fear and desperation.
Store Employee (stammering): "Hey—hey, listen! Whatever you're planning on doing. You don't have to do it…" (He gulps, struggling to keep his voice steady)
"There are Fighters outside, man. If you hurt me, they'll be all over you."
He chuckles nervously, trying to defuse the moment.
"This isn't worth it. You haven't done anything yet. Just walk out — I'll pretend none of this happened, okay?"
The young man stops.
He stares down at him with eyes that seem to peel away the layers of the soul — unblinking, inhuman.
Store Employee (snapping, afraid):"WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?! GET AWAY FROM ME, YOU FUCKING DEMON!!"
He scrambles to his feet and makes a desperate run toward the exit.
Behind him, the young man lets out a low, amused chuckle.
Young Man (calm, deadly): "I'm not just a Demon…"
He raises one hand — casual, almost graceful.
"I'm the worst one."
With a sudden slicing motion through the air
—The world cracks.
The store's front explodes. Glass shatters outward. Walls buckle sideways. Shelves collapse as invisible force rips through the store.
Silence follows.
The employee stares — confused, alive — relief flickering for half a second longer than it should.
Then his body collapses.
Headless.
Blood spreads across the tiles.
The young man lowers his arm.
The store employee's headless body crumbles near the exit. Beside him, a growing
red stain creeps across the tile.
His eyes glow brighter — not with pride, not with regret — but with hunger.
Outside, the Fighters soar above the burning city.
But inside…
The real threat has already arrived.
Outside the Store —
The sound of shattering glass echoes across the smoking cityscape. Up in the sky, three dark figures stop midair, hovering just above the wreckage.
The Fighters.
Elite. Armored. Feared by Demons across the galaxy.
Each one radiates presence.
Brooke — nimble and poised, her dark armor etched with sharp blue lines. Under her visor, her eyes flick with calculation.
Reader — slim but tall, sensors flashing across his glowing lenses. His suit hums quietly, constantly processing.
Triumphant — a mountain of steel and muscle, standing nearly seven feet tall in
reinforced combat armor. His red power core pulses like a heart.
Brooke (tense): "Did you catch that? Something blew out that storefront."
Reader (analyzing): "One lifeform. Heat signature consistent. One gifter, Stardust
level: 54%. There's another one. Body on the floor. Heavy blood loss. Non-gifter."
Triumphant (grinning): "Ha!! Sounds like trouble. Let 's go say hi!!!"
Before anyone can stop him, Triumphant dives down, thrusters screaming.
Brooke sighs. Her fingers tighten around the hilt of her dual plasma blades.
Brooke (to Reader):"Let 's move."
They follow him into the smoke.
Triumphant slams into the ground, cracking the concrete beneath his boots. He stands tall, steam hissing from his armor. Moments later, Brooke and Reader land beside him.
The city roars in the background—sirens, screams, distant gunfire—but here, it's momentarily silent.
From the shadows of the broken store, the young man steps out.
He's calm. Collected. Blood stained his boots. Hands in his jacket pockets. That same unsettling grin etched across his face.
He stops in front of them, as if he were expecting this.
Triumphant: " Howdy Pal ... .That body in there… was it you?"
The young man says nothing. His smile holds.
Reader (quietly): "No signs of fear. No raised heart rate. He's not reacting."
Brooke (coldly): "Who are you?"
No reply.
Just that smirk.
Triumphant (stepping forward, fists tightening): "Not big on talking, huh? Let's
see if you scream louder than you speak."
Young Man (finally, voice low and calm): "Took you a minute to get here. I thought you guys were all about protecting and shit."
He tilts his head back slightly, eyes narrowing on Triumphant. A subtle aura begins to shimmer around him—hot crimson red.
Brooke's blades snap out, humming with energy.
Brooke (eyes narrowing):"That aura… it feels heavy, definitely a Leviathan."
Reader (quiet realization):"Hmmm, something is off… There's an attack at the bank and we wound up with this Demon a few blocks away right on our path?…. I feel like he
didn't stumble into this... He lured us."
Triumphant (cracking his neck, smiling): "HA! Perfect. I don't see any issues with that. Thanks for making our job easier. I'll end him here then."
Young Man (grinning wider): "Finally."
He slowly lifts his hands from his pockets and clenches them into fists.
The atmosphere warps.
The pavement beneath their feet vibrates, the air turning dense and sharpened, like standing inside a pressure chamber. Sparks dance around the young man's boots.
Reader (alarmed): "Stardust spike! He's charging something—"
Brooke (snapping): "Move!"
The Fighters react—battle stances activated, weapons primed. Tension crackles between them like a wire about to snap.
The young man lowers into a stance.
His eyes glow bright. Red. Vicious.
And for a moment, the city holds its breath.
Three Fighters.
One Demon.
The street becomes a stage.
In the chaos, the city cries out for hope…
And the three saviors have arrived to wipe its tears.