Somewhere in the modern world called Earth, nestled between bland office buildings and chain coffee shops, there was a college — ordinary on the outside, barely functioning on the inside.
Inside one of its classrooms, sunlight slanted through half-open blinds, cutting across rows of tired, slouching students as a teacher droned on at the front.
"… and so, if you calculate the spell radius using the third law of elemental dispersion—"
No one was listening.
Books lay unopened. Eyes glazed over. Phones were hidden beneath desks. A couple of students had clearly mastered the art of sleeping with their eyes half-open.
And then there was Damien Blackwood.
Dead center. Desk tilted back on two legs. Feet up. A giant bag of spicy ghost pepper chips in his lap, one arm buried elbow-deep.
Crunch.
He didn't care who was watching. He didn't care if it echoed through the room like gunfire in a tomb.
Crunch. Crunch.
With his gravity-defying spiky pink hair and jet-black eyes that could cut glass, Damien looked like a fever dream with an attitude problem.
Or, as the teacher liked to call him: a walking migraine with snacks.
Crunch.
"Mr. Blackwood," came the teacher's strained voice, syllables sharp and clipped like he was chewing on gravel.
Crunch.
Damien blinked slowly. Looked up. Met the teacher's eyes — expression blank, mouth still moving.
Crunch.
"Mr. Blackwood," the teacher said again, voice climbing in pitch. "Would you please put the snacks away and participate in the assignment?"
Damien looked down at his chip bag, then back up. "I would," he said, reaching for another chip, "but I'm at a very emotional point in this relationship."
Snorts of laughter rippled through the classroom. Even the kid in the back who hadn't spoken since week one cracked a smile.
The teacher's face twisted. "Damien, this is a learning environment. Not a cafeteria!"
"Then why does it taste like success in here?" Damien asked, licking chip dust from his fingers. "Seriously, this flavor should be illegal."
Another wave of laughter.
The teacher snapped, slamming his palm on the podium. "Enough! This is NOT a joke!"
Damien looked him dead in the eye. "You're right. It's a tragedy that no one else brought snacks."
The class lost it.
"Yo, he's unreal."
"Every damn day with this guy…"
"He's annoying, but he's got bars."
"He's gonna get expelled one of these days."
Damien leaned back in his chair, unbothered, chips in hand. He was a storm wearing a hoodie and sarcasm like armor.
The teacher rubbed his temples like he was aging in real time. "Put. The. Snacks. Away."
Damien sighed dramatically. "Just five more minutes. I'm almost at the emotional climax."
"You have two seconds before I—"
RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING.
The bell. Beautiful. Merciful. Holy.
The class erupted in chaos. Chairs scraped. Backpacks zipped. Voices overlapped.
"Let's goooo."
"Arcade run, anyone?"
"I'm crashing. Homework can fight me."
The teacher threw his arms up. "Fine. Fine. Go. Get out of here. I'll see you all tomorrow."
Students poured out the door like a jailbreak, laughing, shouting, plotting their afternoons.
Damien took his time. Still munching. Still in no rush.
"These are god-tier chips," he mumbled to himself as he slung his bag over his shoulder. "Honestly might marry them."
As he walked through the crowded halls, students gave him side-eyes, laughs, or just shook their heads.
"Dude really eats like he's in his living room."
"Respect."
"Clown."
Didn't matter.
Because Damien Blackwood had his snacks.
He stepped outside into the late afternoon air. The sun hung low, washing the world in golden orange light. Students scattered in every direction.
Damien popped another chip in his mouth, eyes half-closed in bliss. "Mmm. Pure serotonin."
His boots hit pavement as he wandered through the streets, hands in his hoodie, chips in his grip.
"Okay. What do I have at home? Let's see… expired ramen, mystery soda, maybe a half bag of candy corn I stole from Halloween… nope. Emergency situation."
He sighed. "Guess it's time."
The corner store came into view like a shining beacon of salvation.
He stepped inside, a little bell jingling overhead. The place was small, cluttered, shelves crammed with everything from dusty spellbooks to novelty keychains, but it smelled like childhood — sugar, cinnamon, old wood, and fireball candy.
"Back again, huh?" came a gruff voice.
Damien looked up and grinned. "What's up, Pops?"
The store owner leaned against the counter, arms crossed. Gray beard, thick glasses, eyes that had seen everything. "That bag didn't last long."
"They never do," Damien said, tossing it in the trash. "You still got my volcano chips?"
"Third shelf, far end. But I'm warning you — stock's low. I got kids raiding the place like it's the apocalypse."
"I am the apocalypse," Damien said, already grabbing three bags.
"You've been coming here since you were, what, ten?" the owner said, shaking his head. "Back then, you couldn't even see over the counter. Always trying to sneak candy into your hoodie."
"I was a tactical genius," Damien replied. "You just didn't appreciate my brilliance."
"I appreciated your sticky fingers," the man grunted. "Had to install cameras because of you."
"You loved it."
The man chuckled. "Yeah, maybe I did. You kept things interesting. Especially when you tried to trade me a rock for a chocolate bar."
"Hey, that was a magic rock."
"It was a pebble."
"You have no imagination."
Damien paid and leaned against the counter, eyes scanning the shop. "Y'know, this place hasn't changed. Kinda nice."
The owner shrugged. "The world changes too fast. Something's gotta stay the same."
"Yeah…" Damien looked down, smile fading for half a second. "Yeah."
The man saw it. He always did. "Still getting the nightmares?"
Damien nodded once.
"You ever wanna talk—"
"Nope." He opened a chip bag with unnecessary force. "But thanks."
The man didn't push. Just gave a quiet nod. "Come back anytime, kid."
Damien tossed him a salute and stepped outside.
Back to the street. Back to the real world.
He wandered aimlessly, eating one chip after another like it was his life force. "Man, these are unreal. Crunchy, spicy, a little demonic. I could eat these for the rest of my life."
Damien's world paused with a single voice.
"Please! Leave us alone!"
He froze mid-step.
Chip bag rustled in his hand, but he didn't hear it. His eyes sharpened. Head turned slowly, instinctively, toward the sound — an alley just ahead, half-shadowed, hidden from the main street's foot traffic.
Another cry.
"Leave us alone! We don't have any money!"
Damien stepped toward the alley entrance. His heart pounded in his chest — not from fear.
From recognition.
He saw them. A couple — probably students like him. The girl clung to the boy's arm, her face streaked with tears. Three guys cornered them. One had a gun. Another twirled a knife like it was a toy. The third leaned lazily against the wall, smirking like the outcome was already written.
Damien's breath caught.
The alley morphed.
Not in reality — in his mind.
Flashback.
It was night.
Rain. Cold. A small Damien — maybe eight years old — walked hand-in-hand with his mom, his dad just ahead. They laughed. They joked. They'd just left a late movie. The city glowed with neon lights.
Then came the man.
Shadows in an alley.
A gun. Demands. Shouting.
His mom stepped in front of him.
His dad reached for his wallet.
The man panicked.
BANG.
The world stopped.
His mother collapsed. Blood bloomed across her chest. His father screamed. The man ran. Damien stood there, frozen, the warmth of his mother's blood soaking his shoes.
Her last words echoed in his head:
"Run… Damien…"
But he didn't run.
He just watched her die.
"—I said give us the money or your girlfriend's gonna get it!"
Damien's head snapped back to the present.
The alley was real again.
The couple was in danger.
The laughter of the thugs made his vision blur red. His hands clenched, trembling at his sides.
That same fear. That same helplessness.
No.
Not this time.
"HEY!!"
His voice cracked like thunder.
Everyone froze.
The couple looked past their attackers.
The thugs turned.
Three pairs of eyes locked on Damien as he strode into the alley, eyes blazing, jaw tight.
The gunman frowned. "Who the hell—?"
Knife guy squinted. "Pink hair? What is he, a cartoon character?"
The third thug chuckled. "Yo, he serious?"
Damien didn't stop walking. His boots echoed on the alley floor. His chip bag was gone. His fists were clenched.
"Who am I?" he said, voice low. Dangerous. "Nobody. Just a citizen."
He stepped closer.
"A citizen who's sick of watching scum gang up on helpless people."
The guy with the gun stepped forward, grin spreading. "Big talk for a punk in skinny jeans. You gonna cry about justice now?"
Damien didn't answer.
He was face to face with the leader now, close enough to smell his cheap cologne and cowardice.
"You really think you're gonna stop us?" the gunman said, baring his teeth. "What are you gonna do?"
Damien's lips curled into a smirk. His eyes narrowed.
"This."
CRACK!
He slammed his forehead into the thug's face with brutal force. The thug's head snapped back. Blood sprayed from his nose. He staggered and hit the ground hard, screaming.
"AAAGHH—MY FACE! MY NOSE!"
He rolled, kicking, crying out. "It's broken! My freaking NOSE is broken!!"
The other two stared, stunned.
"Yo—he just HEADBUTTED the boss!"
"Dude, he BLEEDIN' like a faucet—!"
"GET HIM!" the leader shrieked from the ground, voice cracking. "KILL THAT LITTLE FREAK!"
The two thugs shared a look.
Then grinned.
They pulled their knives.
"You messed up, pinky."
"Shouldn't have hurt our boy."
"Now we're gonna slice you nice and slow."
They advanced, knives glinting in the dim light.
Damien raised his fists.
"Bring it on, ugly and uglier."
They rushed him.
Damien dodged the first lunge, twisting sideways, catching the attacker's wrist and slamming an elbow into his gut. The thug wheezed but slashed wildly. The blade grazed Damien's arm — not deep, but enough to burn.
He hissed. "That was my favorite hoodie."
The second thug came in with a downward stab. Damien ducked low, swept his leg out, knocking the guy off balance. He popped up, drove two quick jabs into knife guy's ribs, then pivoted and landed a spinning roundhouse kick to the other's jaw.
CRACK.
One thug crumpled against the alley wall.
The other staggered back, lip busted, gasping. "You little—!"
Damien surged forward — combo jab to the chin, hook to the jaw, step-in elbow — and then a final punch that dropped the second thug like a sack of bricks.
Both lay groaning on the ground.
Damien stood over them, breathing hard, fists still clenched. Blood trickled from a shallow cut on his bicep.
He turned to the couple.
"You alright?"
They nodded, still frozen. "Y-yeah… thank you…"
Then—
"WATCH OUT!!" they screamed in unison.
Damien turned.
Too slow.
The leader had gotten up.
Gun in hand.
Rage twisting his face.
"DIE, YOU LITTLE BRAT!"
BANG.
The world slowed.
The sound tore the sky apart.
The bullet punched into Damien's chest.
He stumbled back. His eyes went wide.
Pain exploded across his ribs.
He hit the ground hard, gasping, breath gone.
The sky spun.
The couple ran to him, kneeling, shaking him.
"Please! Stay with us!"
"Don't die—someone call for help!"
Their voices echoed.
Damien's vision blurred.
He couldn't feel his limbs.
Only the heat. The weight in his chest.
His mind drifted.
Sorry, Mom… and Dad...
His eyes fluttered.
Darkness swallowed everything.
He didn't hear the scream.
Didn't feel the ground when it hit him.
Just pain—sharp, fast, and then…
Nothing.
At first, there was only darkness.
A vast, endless void — silent, shapeless, and cold.
Damien floated… or maybe he fell. Or drifted. Or just existed, suspended in a place that wasn't a place. No ground. No sky. No air.
His body felt weightless. His thoughts were smoke. Slippery. Impossible to hold.
Is this death?Is this it?Am I... gone?
He tried to scream, but there was no sound.
He tried to move, but he had no body.
Just thoughts. Loose, slow, unraveling like torn fabric in space.
A part of him felt strangely calm — like the struggle had ended. Like the pain, the anger, the grief… had dissolved into this nothingness.
But another part, deep inside, raged.
No. Not like this. Not now.
Then—
A light.
Tiny. Distant. Flickering like a dying flame.
He stared. Or... he thought he did. He had no eyes. No body. But still, something inside him was pulled toward it. Drawn. Desperate.
It grew — not in brightness or size, but in heat.
Warmth kissed his skin.
He had skin again.
Gentle at first, like morning sun on winter frost. Then bolder. Fierce. Radiant.
A sunrise that remembered his name.
He blinked.
His eyes burned, like they hadn't been used in centuries.
He tried to raise a hand. It trembled, half-real.
The light became fire — not the kind that burned, but the kind that embraced.
He closed his eyes.
And when he opened them...
The sky was red.
Not crimson like blood, but a living, breathing canvas of infernal beauty — streaks of molten orange, deep gold, flickering scarlets. Like a sunset had split open across the heavens and refused to die.
Flame-colored clouds drifted overhead, slow and weightless. The air shimmered with heat.
Mountains pierced the sky in the distance — jagged, sharp, glowing from within as if magma pulsed through their veins.
The ground beneath him was smooth black obsidian, veined with glowing cracks — lava flowing beneath the surface like a heartbeat.
The air smelled of cinnamon and smoke and something ancient — something that made the hair on the back of his neck rise.
And the silence?
It wasn't empty. It watched him.
Damien staggered to his feet, eyes wide, mouth dry.
His shirt was intact. No blood. No bullet hole. His chest—whole.
He touched it, almost afraid to confirm what he felt.
No pain. No wound.
Alive.
But this… this place wasn't Earth.
Not even close.
"W-what the hell…?" he muttered, spinning in place. "Where the hell am I?"
He took a step back, almost slipping on the smooth obsidian surface.
"This has to be a dream. Or a coma. Or... or some weird post-death hallucination."
His heart pounded like a drum. His breath came in sharp, fast pulls.
"Okay. Okay, think, Damien. You were shot. You died. You—" he looked up at the sky again, panic bubbling in his throat, "—and now you're in... what? Hell? Did I piss off that many people?!"
A gust of heat brushed against his back.
Not scorching. But... intimate.
Like someone was standing just behind him.
Breathing.
His skin prickled.
He spun around.
Nothing.
Then—
A voice.
Velvet and thunder.
Honey and storm.
Feminine. Eternal. Beautiful.
"Welcome, Damien."
He froze.
His eyes widened.
That voice wasn't in his ears. It was in his bones.
He turned.
And saw her.
A woman—no, something beyond womanhood—stood like a living sunrise sculpted into form. Towering at seven feet, she moved with a grace that felt like smoke drifting across wind, like poetry walking.
Her body was an hourglass of divine geometry—so perfect it almost hurt to look at. Her skin glowed like molten bronze kissed by starlight, flickering with embers beneath the surface. With every breath she took, the air shimmered around her in soft waves of heat.
Her hair cascaded down to her hips, a waterfall of living flame shifting between brilliant red, gold, and glowing white. Sparks danced with every movement—gentle, mesmerizing, dangerous. When calm, it fell like silk. But when anger struck, it would crown her like a solar storm.
Her eyes—twin furnaces. Irises of molten gold. Pupils like collapsing stars. They weren't just watching Damien. They were reading him. His thoughts. His past. His pain.
Her lips shimmered—full, soft, like heated metal cooled to perfection. A color somewhere between scarlet and sunfire.
And she radiated—an aura so fierce, the air warmed with her presence. Shadows shrank. Colors brightened. Damien's heart pounded, not in fear, but in recognition.
She was dressed in something that defied fashion and worship—gown of living flame and obsidian silk. It hugged her like devotion, split high to the thigh, chestpiece shaped like phoenix wings. A neckline that threatened modesty, never vulgar, just divine. The back open, flame tracing constellations down her spine. The gown breathed like embers—never fully solid, never truly bare.
She wore a crown of floating embers orbiting her like tiny suns. Her golden armlets melted and reformed constantly. Her heeled sandals, forged from volcanic glass, left glowing prints in their wake.
Damien felt his throat dry up. His thoughts scrambled.
I'm looking at a goddess, he thought. A real one. How the hell am I supposed to survive this conversation without combusting?
He stuttered, eyes wide. "Wh—who… who are you?"
The woman giggled. A sound like fire cracking through velvet. "Me?" she said, stepping forward. "I am the Mother of Flames. The First Flame."
Her smile widened, power bleeding through her words.
"I am Ignia — Primordial Goddess of Fire."
The moment the word goddess hit his ears, Damien's brain exploded.
Everything inside him shattered. Shattered loudly.
His knees wobbled. His mouth dropped open like he was trying to inhale the entire atmosphere.
"Wait—waitwaitwait," he blurted, stumbling backward like she'd physically hit him. "Goddess? Did you say goddess? Like—like actual divine being? Like capital G Goddess?"
He spun in place, hands on his head, eyes scanning the sky like the clouds might start spelling out "YOU'RE IN TROUBLE."
"This is a dream," he said quickly. "A coma dream. Yeah. That's it. Bullet to the chest, boom—coma. I'm hallucinating all of this. I'm seeing flaming goddess ladies now, because obviously my brain is fried like the chips I didn't get to finish!"
He turned back toward her, arms flailing. "You're too perfect to be real! I mean, you're glowing! Glowing! There are literal embers orbiting your head like tiny suns! That's not normal! That's not even slightly casual!"
Ignia tilted her head, clearly entertained.
"And you called yourself a primordial! That's like... ancient ancient! That's old-school cosmic myth level nonsense! You're probably older than fire itself, which is ironic because you are fire! That's so much responsibility! How are you so calm about it?!"
He gasped.
"Oh gods," he whispered. "You're a GODDESS, and I'm just... me! I talked back to my college professor like three hours ago and now I'm standing in front of the flaming queen of eternity. This is karma. This is karma in high heels forged from volcanic glass."
He turned in a slow circle, gesturing wildly.
"Is this heaven? No—can't be. Lava everywhere. Obsidian floor. Sky looks like a hurricane married a volcano. No offense! I mean, it's beautiful! Super aesthetic! Like, 10/10 if I was building an apocalypse-themed Instagram filter!"
His voice cracked again. "So this is hell? Am I in hell? I died and this is hell?! That tracks. Honestly, it tracks."
He threw his hands in the air. "I'm in hell and I'm being judged by the fire goddess herself. Great. Amazing. Totally fine."
He looked back at her, wide-eyed and sweating.
"I mean, not that YOU look like hell, of course! You look—uh—wow—wow. Amazing. You look amazing. Terrifying in the best way. Like, 'please don't smite me' kind of terrifying."
He paused.
"Oh gods. You can smite me."
He slapped both hands over his mouth.
"I just said that out loud, didn't I?"
Ignia didn't say a word.
She just watched him.
Smiling.
Giggling.
Like she'd seen this exact reaction a thousand times across eternity and still found it endlessly amusing.
"You think this is funny?" he said, lowering his hands, voice pitching higher. "I'm over here spiraling, probably about to combust emotionally, and you're just—what—giggling?"
She placed a graceful hand over her mouth, trying to stifle it. Her laughter was like the crackling of a campfire. Comforting, warm, hypnotic.
"You are funny," she said, voice silky and radiant. "Like a match dropped into a hurricane. Chaotic. Unpredictable. Loud. Hot-headed."
She stepped forward. "But very bright."
Damien backed up a step. "You're seriously complimenting me while I'm having a nervous breakdown in your magical fire-dimension?! I haven't even processed dying yet!"
"Then take your time," she said, lifting a hand.
The lava river nearby paused—completely still, as if the world itself listened to her. Even the embers in the air stopped drifting, suspended like frozen stars.
"No one rushes the flame," she said, "and no one silences your fire. Not here."
Damien blinked rapidly, still panting. "Okay, okay, okay. Let me just recap this—so I died. Got shot. I remember the pain. I remember falling. And now I'm here. With you. A literal goddess. Who thinks I'm... funny."
"Delightful, actually," she said, lips curling.
He groaned, dragging both hands down his face. "I cannot mentally survive being delightful to a deity."
Ignia laughed again, softer this time. "You're surviving just fine."
Ignia stepped forward.
Every step transformed the ground — lava cooled into obsidian beneath her heels.
"You are not dead, Damien Blackwood," she said, her voice like heat lightning in a summer sky.
Damien blinked, breath catching. "...But I got shot. I felt it. I remember falling. I remember—"
His voice broke.
And suddenly, she was there—inches from him. She hadn't walked.
She just was.
Her hand rose, a single finger lifting his chin gently, her touch warm. Not burning. Not painful.
Like a flame that wanted to be touched.
Ignia's voice softened. "You died. Yes."
Damien's lungs collapsed. The words hit harder than any bullet.
"And you lived," she added. "Because I would not allow the flame to extinguish."
His eyes stung.
He couldn't speak. Could barely breathe.
"…Why me?" he whispered. "I'm nobody. I'm angry and broken and—I ruin everything I touch."
Ignia's gaze shifted—no less powerful, but infinitely warmer.
"You are broken," she said.
Her thumb brushed his jaw.
"You burned and bled and cracked—but you never let the fire die."
She leaned closer, her breath like cinnamon and smoke.
"You saw two lives about to shatter the same way yours did. And you chose to act. Not for glory. Not for reward. Not even for safety."
Her voice trembled like lightning caged in silk.
"You chose pain. You chose death. You chose to burn—for them."
Damien's fists clenched. His voice shook.
"I didn't want them to feel what I felt. When my parents—"
His jaw locked. Breath ragged. Teeth grinding.
"When my parents died," he choked out, "something in me died too. I couldn't let that happen to someone else. I had to stop it. Even if—"
His throat closed.
Ignia finished for him.
"Even if it cost you your life."
He nodded once. Sharp. Painful.
Ignia's other hand cupped his face. Fierce. Possessive. Not gentle.
Like wildfire claiming its spark.
"Do you know how rare that is?" she asked.
Damien didn't answer.
"Mortals fear burning. They fear sacrifice. They fear pain."
Her voice rose, divine and devastating.
"But you—Damien Blackwood—ran toward it."
Heat flared beneath his skin.
The air trembled around them.
Ignia's lips curled into a victorious smile.
"You are not nobody."
Her hands dropped, but her power wrapped around him like a second skin.
"You are my chosen. The flame that refuses to die. The wildfire born of grief and rage."
She pulled back just enough to see him fully, flames flickering in her eyes.
"I offer you a second life. A new world. A power beyond mortals. Flame so vast it will reshape nations. Magic that listens only to your heart."
Her words cracked the air like thunder.
"You will be reborn in a world where gods walk and monsters hunger. You will carry a spark of my divinity. From the first breath—overwhelming power."
Then, gently—
"Do you accept?"
Damien's breath trembled.
His thoughts flooded.
Past. Parents. Blood. Pain. Loneliness. Rage. Death.Future. Unknown. Fire. Power. Purpose.
And then, a voice.
His own.
Crawling out. Small. But unbroken.
"…If I say yes—who will I be?"
Ignia smiled.
Like dawn breaking a thousand nights.
"Whoever you choose."
Silence.
A wind of sparks swirled around him — embers orbiting like stars awaiting a command.
Damien straightened.
Fire flickered behind his eyes.
He clenched his fist.
And said, "Then I choose to burn."
Ignia's laughter shook the sky — joyful, victorious, hungry.
She raised her arms, embers soaring like fireworks.
"THEN BURN, DAMIEN BLACKWOOD."
TO BE CONTINUED