The walk back to the city was long enough for the adrenaline to fade, leaving behind a cold, hollow ache in Asm's chest. The city streets were bustling, filled with people who had no idea that a "god" had just leveled a skyscraper a few miles away. Asm blended in, his hood up, his face a mask of indifference.
He reached his house—a modest, two-story building tucked away from the main neon-lit hubs. It wasn't a palace, but it was his. The walls were a soft, muted gray, decorated with abstract paintings that looked like splattered ink and broken stars. He liked things that didn't have a clear shape; it reminded him of his own Gift before it hit the physical world. The living room was quiet, smelling of old paper and the faint scent of ozone from his various "experiments."
Asm didn't go to his room first. Instead, he found himself standing at the door of Nyra's room.
Nyra, his fifth sister, was the opposite of him. While Asm was a creature of sharp lines and cold logic, Nyra was a walking hurricane. He pushed the door open and winced. It looked like a bomb had gone off. Clothes were draped over chairs like shed skin, disorganized piles of research notes covered every flat surface, and a mountain of game consoles sat dangerously close to the edge of her desk.
"Perfect," he muttered, but there was a faint, mischievous smirk on his face.
Most people thought a villain would spend his free time plotting world orion. Asm spent it cleaning. He moved through the room with robotic precision. He picked up the clothes, folding them with the kind of sharp edges he usually reserved for his daggers. He organized her books by height, then by color, until they looked like a set of stairs. He even took the time to align the small figurines on her desk so they were all staring exactly fifteen degrees toward the door.
By the time he finished, the room was pristine. It was his way of exerting control over a world that usually refused to listen to him. Satisfied, he retreated to his own space.
Nyra was always trying to force "normalcy" on him. She bought him gadgets, clothes, and games, trying to bridge the gap between the boy who was buried for five years and the world as it was now. Usually, Asm took these gifts and dropped them off at the local orphanage. He didn't want distractions. But today, a sleek, black smartphone caught his eye.
Beside it sat a brand-new game box. Asm picked up the phone. He had never owned one, but he had spent the last week watching "how-to" videos on the internet with the same intensity he used to study combat. He tapped the screen. A password prompt appeared with a hint: The year the Second Son died.
Asm's eye twitched. He typed in the date of his own "disappearance" five years ago. The phone clicked open instantly.
A message popped up immediately: "Congratulations, King. You have finally opened your first castle."
Asm stared at the screen for a long beat before dropping the phone onto his bed. "Another one of Nyra's cringey quests," he grumbled. She was treating his life like a role-playing game, trying to turn his trauma into a series of "achievements."
He turned to the console. It was already set up, the cables perfectly managed—likely Nyra's doing. The screen flickered to life, displaying a title in bold, gold lettering: The King's Adventure.
It was a strategy-sim. You start as a nobody and rise through the ranks, making choices that either build an empire or lead to the gallows. Asm leaned back, the blue light of the TV reflecting in his dark eyes. He understood the mechanics instantly. Growing up with Ravenor, the King of the Underworld, had been a masterclass in strategy. He knew how to spot a traitor in a line of code because he had seen them in real life.
He started the first level. DEFEAT.
He tried a different tactic, sacrificing his infantry to save his gold. DEFEAT.
He tried to be the "good" ruler. DEFEAT.
Asm felt a vein in his forehead throb. He was the Second Son of God. He possessed the Gift of Creation. And yet, he couldn't get past the first boss of a digital game meant for teenagers. Each loss didn't make him want to quit; it pulled him deeper. He started to see the game as a reflection of his own life—every choice had a weight, every ally was a potential knife in the back.
One more try, he told himself at 11:00 PM.
One more, he whispered at 2:00 AM.
He was learning. He was realizing that in this game, just like in the real world, "power" wasn't enough. You needed "position." You needed to anticipate the Hero before they even drew their sword.
The door creaked open. The sun hadn't come up yet, but the pre-dawn light was starting to gray the room.
"I'm home," Nyra's voice called out softly.
She walked past his door and stopped, seeing her brother huddled in front of the screen, his face lit by the glow of a virtual kingdom. She didn't scold him. She didn't tell him he was a villain who should be out causing chaos. She just watched him for a moment, a small, genuine smile tugging at her lips.
"Don't play all night, Asm," she said gently. She knew he wouldn't listen, but she said it anyway because that's what sisters do.
The next morning, the sun poured through the large window, hitting the hardwood floors. Nyra, dressed for work, passed by Asm's room again. The console was still humming, the game screen showing a "Game Over" message that had been looping for an hour.
Asm was sprawled out on the floor, the controller still clutched in his hand. He was fast asleep, his breathing deep and even for the first time in days.
Nyra stepped into the room, her boots clicking softly. She looked at the organized desk, the cleaned room next door, and her brother lying on the floor like a regular kid who stayed up too late playing games. She reached for a blanket on the bed and draped it carefully over his shoulders.
"Idiot," she whispered, her voice full of affection.
She turned off the TV, leaving the room in a peaceful, sun-drenched silence. As she walked out to start her day at the Hero Agency, she felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, her brother wasn't as far gone as the world thought he was.
Asm shifted in his sleep, his fingers twitching as if he were still manifesting a sword—or maybe, for the first time, he was just dreaming of a castle where he didn't have to fight at all.