The rain was cold and relentless, pounding the cracked pavement with sharp, biting drops. His body lay sprawled across the street, drenched and broken. Broken bones stabbed beneath the skin; blood seeped from his torn clothes, mixing with the dark, muddy water pooling beneath him.
His vision swam, the world spinning in slow motion. He tried to lift his hand—just a flicker of movement—but the pain was unbearable. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps.
From the corner of his blurred sight, he saw the red tail lights of a speeding car. It blurred past him, indifferent and unforgiving, leaving nothing but the echo of screeching tires and the wet hiss of rain.
He knew, somehow, that was the end.
The night swallowed him whole.
A light pierced the darkness—soft and golden, filtering gently through translucent curtains. His eyelids fluttered open slowly.
The pain was different now.
Still sharp, but quieter.
He was lying on a bed he'd never known. White sheets, smooth and clean. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and cedarwood, scents foreign and calming.
His body screamed in protest when he tried to move. Bandages bound his arms, chest, and legs tightly. His left leg was immobile, held fast in a splint that pressed against the sheets.
He blinked and took in his surroundings—high ceilings carved with ornate patterns, walls adorned with rich tapestries, and a faint glow coming from carved runes along the edges of the room.
And then his gaze fell upon her.
In the soft chair beside his bed sat a woman, her silver hair cascading in waves over her shoulders. She wore robes of deep blue embroidered with gold threads, crowned with a delicate circlet that shimmered in the golden light.
Her eyes were closed, her breathing steady but deep, as if she had been waiting for him to awaken all night.
When she heard his shallow groan, her eyes snapped open like twin stars.
"Awake," she whispered, voice thick with relief and something more—something softer, warmer.
She rose quickly, kneeling beside the bed. Her trembling hands reached for him with a tenderness that pierced his numbness.
"Stay still," she said urgently, "I'll bring the healers."
Before he could respond, she gathered him into her arms, careful not to disturb the bandages. Her embrace was unlike anything he had ever known—a fierce, sheltering warmth that melted years of loneliness away.
His breath hitched. The ache in his chest wasn't just physical—it was something deeper.
A whisper in his mind asked, Is this what... a mother's love feels like?
He wanted to believe it.
The palace healers arrived swiftly, robed figures who radiated calm authority. Their hands glowed faintly as they moved over his broken form, chanting in a language older than kingdoms.
Pain flared then faded.
He felt bones knitting together, muscles unwinding from knots of tension, and a soft, pulsing energy—mana, the Empress had later called it—flowing through his veins.
He tried to speak but his throat was dry, his voice barely a rasp.
The woman beside him smiled gently. "Rest. You're safe now."
Days passed in a blur of healing and quiet companionship.
The pain lessened slowly, but the weight in his heart remained.
One afternoon, while the sun cast warm rays across the palace garden, he found the courage to ask the question that had haunted him.
"Who are you?"
The Empress looked at him with eyes full of a sadness that seemed to stretch across lifetimes.
"I am Valeria, Empress of the Seven Kingdoms."
He blinked.
"You… you say I'm your son?"
She nodded solemnly.
"You are the child of the prophecy—the Skytear—the one who fell from the heavens, bearing the mark of golden light."
He swallowed hard, his fingers trembling as they brushed the faint, glowing mark on his forehead.
"I don't remember any of that."
Valeria's voice was soft but steady.
"Memory is fragile. Fate is not."
They spent long hours talking, her voice weaving stories of war, hope, and despair.
She told him about the demons from the Sixth Realm that still clawed at the world's edges, threatening to swallow everything.
About the ancient power of the Mytherion Armors—magical armors bound to the souls of the bravest warriors, powered by mana circles that formed and grew through rigorous training and connection to the natural world.
She explained the prophecy, the hope pinned on a boy with a mark, born from the sky's wrath and light.
Her words wrapped around him like a cloak.
"I don't know if I'm that boy," he confessed one night, staring at the flickering stars beyond his window.
She took his hand, her touch steady and warm.
"You are what you must become."
As he grew stronger, the Empress arranged for him to visit the royal archives and the sacred temples.
He learned that mana was the life force of the world, flowing through every leaf, every breeze, every drop of rain.
Most people cultivated their mana carefully, earning up to ten mana circles around their hearts—a symbol of rank and power.
But she told him that his golden blood meant something extraordinary.
"The prophecy says you will have no limit," she whispered, eyes shining.
He looked down at his bandaged hands and whispered, "I don't even know where to start."
From the shadows of the palace hallway, Valeria watched him.
Her eyes were fierce, filled with fierce determination.
"He will rise," she murmured.
And she would stand with him every step of the way.
Late that night, when the moon hung high and the palace lay silent, a whisper echoed in the boy's soul.
Not a voice of this world, but a sound like thunder rolling through ancient skies.
"Child of the Skytear… the path awakens…"
His eyes snapped open as the golden mark on his forehead flared with light.
"To awaken the power within… seek the stone of prophecy."
His breath caught. Somewhere deep within, a fire stirred—a call he could not ignore.
Far below the palace, deep within the vaults of the Celestial Academy, a crystal stone glowed softly.
For a hundred years it lay dormant.
Now, it pulsed with life.
The prophecy was stirring.
Destiny was calling.
To be continued :~