It started like any other summer afternoon.
Naeem and Zayan were just two teenagers chasing the river behind their neighborhood, going farther than usual, with nothing planned and nowhere to be. The deeper they walked, the quieter everything became. Trees grew thicker. The path faded. Even the air felt different—cooler, heavier, like they'd stepped into somewhere time forgot.
Then, they saw it.
A village.
Hidden beneath layers of green, tucked between trees and hills, the place looked like it had been swallowed by the earth itself. The houses were half-collapsed, rooftops sinking, vines crawling through broken windows. But it wasn't scary.
It was... still.
No signs of life. No noise except for the rustle of wind. Just the kind of silence that makes you pause.
They stepped into the clearing slowly, almost respectfully, like they didn't want to break whatever spell was holding the place together.
Zayan let out a low whistle. "Dude... this place is insane."
Naeem didn't answer at first. He was staring at the wide, flat clearing in the center of the village. The light hit it perfectly, golden through the trees. It felt untouched. Undisturbed.
"A perfect place to be alone," he said.
"A perfect place to begin."
He turned to Zayan with a grin. "I think we should name it... The Ruins of Lucifer."
Zayan blinked. "The what?"
Naeem shrugged. "Sounds cool. Mysterious. Like it belongs in a story."
They laughed, but the name stuck.
The Ruins of Lucifer.
It didn't feel cursed or haunted. It felt like it had been waiting. For them. For him.
They stayed for a while, wandering through the broken houses, stepping over collapsed beams and wildflowers that had taken root in old floorboards. Nothing happened. No magic. No secrets. Just a quiet kind of magic—the feeling that this place mattered, even if no one else remembered it.
Later, walking home, Naeem kept looking back.
He already knew he'd return. Alone.
Because that village—those ruins—weren't just forgotten.
They were his.
The place was exactly how they'd left it.
Four or five small, crumbling houses stood in silence, half-swallowed by vines and moss. Roofs sagged under the weight of nature's return. Trees had grown through cracked walls, roots pulling apart the very bones of the village.
Time had done its work. And nature had buried it in secrecy.
Now, Naeem stood there alone.
The air was still. Not just quiet—dead quiet. Like the world had forgotten this place.
Just as he had.
He walked slowly, scanning the ruins. Nothing moved. No birds, no animals, not even the wind.
Just silence.
And that same cold, echoing loneliness that had always lived quietly inside him.
Then he saw it.
An old mango tree, tall and wide, stood at the edge of the ruins. Its thick branches stretched like open arms. Beneath it, the ground was dry. Undisturbed.
A perfect place to train.
He sat down beneath the tree, crossed his legs, and closed his eyes.
Almost instantly—it came.
The power.
It pulsed through him like a storm beneath his skin. Alive. Electric. Demanding. He focused it toward his hand, guided it with breath and thought.
The air shimmered.
Dark-purple energy curled into existence, swirling, pulsing.
But this time… it felt different.
Stronger. Sharper. Hungrier.
It wanted more.
He spent two hours there—summoning, shaping, willing it into form. The energy responded like never before. It shifted, flowed, obeyed.
And by the end of it, Naeem was wrecked.
His breath was ragged. Muscles burned. Vision blurred.
I thought it would just drain my stamina, he realized. But it's draining everything.
He tried to stand. His knees buckled. He hit the ground.
Darkness.
When his eyes opened again, it was night.
Somehow—he had made it home.
He found himself in bed, the slow spin of the ceiling fan above, and the smell of lentils and rice drifting in from the kitchen. His limbs ached. His head throbbed.
Later that evening, he told his mother.
About the energy. The power. Everything.
She didn't flinch.
She didn't gasp or panic.
She simply looked at him and said, calm and steady,
"Now you have responsibilities."
That was all.
No praise. No fear. Just truth.
Those words hit harder than any blast of energy ever could.
But he didn't ask questions. Didn't push.
He ate quietly and let the weight of her words settle.
March 16
He woke up early—6:00 AM. Still sore. Still tired. But something burned in him.
Determination.
He went straight to the Ruins of Lucifer.
The morning light filtered through the trees. The silence was familiar now. Comforting.
He didn't need meditation this time.
Just thought.
Just will.
The energy came instantly, swirling across his hand like it was waiting for him.
He raised his arm, pointed at a small tree—and fired.
The dark orb screamed through the air and struck.
BOOM.
The tree cracked, bark exploding outward. It wasn't just a blast. It was precision. It was raw force.
A slow grin spread across his face.
"Shadow Ball," he whispered.
The first of many.
March 17
He woke up with a thought.
The energy—it didn't burn like fire or flow like water. It moved quietly. Cold. Like a shadow.
He remembered an old cartoon—where a ninja threw a blade at someone's shadow, and it froze the person in place.
Could I do that?
He tried. Forming the energy into a shape—a thin, sharp blade. A kunai.
Failed. Again. Again.
Nine attempts.
Then—success.
The kunai formed, shimmering with quiet menace in his palm.
He spotted a bird. Threw it.
Missed.
But he wasn't disappointed.
That entire day, he trained under the mango tree—summoning, shaping, throwing. Again and again.
By sunset, the ground was marked with impact scars. His accuracy had sharpened. His control was evolving.
Soon, he thought, he'd never miss again.
March 18
Control.
That was today's goal.
He summoned the kunai easily now. A bird flew overhead.
He aimed—not at the bird. At its shadow.
The kunai hit.
The bird froze in mid-air.
Suspended.
It worked.
But when he tried to channel more power—tried to hold the bird in place—the energy surged back.
Too wild.
Too much.
His vision blurred. He collapsed.
Then—nausea. Vomiting. He couldn't stand. Couldn't move.
Hours passed before he even sat up.
And then it hit him.
It's not the power that's the problem. It's me.
"I can control shadows," he whispered, "but only if I control myself."
That day, he made a vow.
Mastery over power. Mastery over self.
March 20
The Ruins of Lucifer had become more than a hiding place. It was his home now. His forge.
He stood beneath the mango tree and whispered a new idea into existence.
What if I could travel through shadows?
He focused the energy—not into his hand—but his feet.
It resisted.
But he pushed.
Ten tries. Twenty. Then—movement.
He glided. Silent. Swift.
Then more. He pushed the energy through his entire body.
Ran.
Half of him vanished into the earth—blending with the shadow.
He wasn't just running now.
He was slipping through darkness.
And then—it happened.
A blink. A breath. A jump.
Teleportation.
Short. Ten meters, maybe less.
But it was real.
He stood still, chest heaving, as the power flickered around him.
"I'm becoming something else," he said quietly.
Then smiled.
"It is teleportation. And it's only the beginning."