The world had become unrecognizable.
Where once there had been cities, forests, and oceans, there was now only ruin.
Buildings lay twisted into jagged skeletons, rivers had turned black and viscous, and the air carried a heavy weight, as if reality itself had been poisoned. The Ink had not only scarred the world—it had rewritten it.
Amid this devastation, there were pockets of survival. Tiny islands of life, carved out by those who were either strong enough—or stubborn enough—to resist the corruption long enough to create havens. One such island existed at the edge of what had once been a sprawling metropolis. There, surrounded by metal scraps, broken machinery, and the stench of decay, lived a man named Marco.
Marco had been changed by the Ink, just like everyone else. But unlike most, he had not only survived—he had adapted. He had watched friends, family, and strangers succumb to the corruption, witnessed cities and entire neighborhoods turn into writhing, mindless monsters, and felt the crushing weight of pain that twisted minds into madness. The experience had left him bitter, harsh, and unrelentingly aggressive.
He had built his sanctuary from metal and gears, crafting a mechanical house that could repair itself, harvest mutated fruits from the remnants of corrupted gardens, and defend itself from wandering beasts. Food was no longer necessary for most humans after the pollution, but Marco consumed anyway. Hunger, he told himself, reminded him he was alive.
It was in this workshop, surrounded by the hum of gears and the smell of burning oil, that the boy appeared.
He was skinny. Short. His black hair clung in clumps to a face that seemed too old for his body and yet too young to understand the brutality surrounding him. Ragged clothes hung from his small frame, and his eyes were dark, indifferent, unfeeling. He did not cry, did not beg, and certainly did not flinch. He simply existed.
Marco looked at him. One could have mistaken the silence for curiosity. Marco did not.
"From now on," he said, his voice flat and uncompromising, "you'll be under my care. You'll kill when I tell you to. Whatever I order will be law."
The boy did not respond. Marco did not expect him to. Obedience was not something to be taught; it was demanded. He had learned that lesson the hard way.
The years passed. Five in total. Five years of relentless training, of sharpening the boy's body and mind, of teaching him the precision of mechanics, the inevitability of consequence, and the absolute law of survival. The boy, though indifferent in demeanor, absorbed it all.
During that time, the world outside continued to twist. Some of the survivors—those who had endured the inhuman and concept-based pain of the Ink—began to carve out sanctuaries. They understood one simple truth: Ink could not be fully resisted, but it could be repelled.
These survivors discovered the ARMAMENTS.
ARMAMENTs were objects infused with concentrated Inkforce, a rare and potent energy that naturally resisted the corruptive nature of the Ink. Some were simple: a rusted weapon that pulsed faintly with energy. Others were monumental: a car, a building, even a mountain.
Placed in desolate areas, the ARMAMENTs pushed away the corrupted Ink, creating zones of relative safety. The distance that an ARMAMENT could clear depended on how much Inkforce it contained. A weak one might purify ten meters of surroundings. The strongest could extend its influence over ten thousand meters or more.
But an ARMAMENT did more than just cleanse. For the humans and creatures already polluted by the Ink, standing within the radius of an ARMAMENT could enhance their abilities.
A person who had survived a near-fatal amount of corrosion might find their latent powers amplified in its presence. The stronger the individual, the more the ARMAMENT boosted them.
The world had become a chessboard of ARMAMENTs. Those who could find, guard, or control these objects held life and death in their hands. Entire regions were ruled not by armies or governments but by the owners of these rare, concentrated relics of power.
From the safety of his mechanical workshop, Marco observed the world with a mix of fascination and irritation. His mechanical house hummed and whirred, repairing its own damages from the mutated weather and occasional Ink storms. The boy, now taller, sharper, and more precise in his movements, worked alongside him, assembling new devices, weapons, and defensive mechanisms.
Together, they had not just survived—they had adapted, just as the world demanded.
But the Ink was relentless. It seeped into every corner, mutated every creature, twisted every plant. Even the sanctuaries of the ARMAMENTs were not immune—they could only resist, not destroy, the Ink. And as the boy continued to grow under Marco's unyielding instruction, it became clear that survival was not enough. One day, one of them—or perhaps both—would need to confront the Ink itself.
And when that day came, it would no longer be a question of simple endurance.
It would be a question of power, will, and precision beyond imagination.