The scream tore through the sound of the waves.
The sky was burning, not with fire, but with the dying light of sunset. Red, gold, and black bled together, painting the island in colors of ruin.
Smoke curled upward from shattered homes, twisting into the blood-colored clouds. The wind carried the sting of salt and ash, biting the throat of everyone who dared to breathe.
People were running—men, women, children—faces smeared with soot and fear. Their cries rose and fell like the tide, raw and desperate.
"Please, stop!"
"There are still people down there!"
"You'll kill everyone!"
Their voices reached the cliffs, where a lone figure stood against the crimson horizon.
He didn't move.
His tattered coat snapped in the wind. His shadow stretched long and thin across the scorched stone, bending under the fading sun.
In one hand, he held a small sphere glowing with faint, rhythmic light, runes pulsing like a dying heartbeat. In the other, a detonator shook in his trembling grip.
But the tremble wasn't from fear. Not anymore.
He looked down at the people—the same people who once called his name with familiarity. His jaw tightened. His eyes, half-hidden by soot and flame, glimmered with something unreadable.
"I told you," he whispered, voice trembling just enough to sound broken.
Then he threw his head back and laughed—a sound sharp and deranged, cutting through the chaos like a blade.
It wasn't joy.
It wasn't despair.
It was a performance.
"Didn't I warn you?!" he shouted, voice echoing across the cliffs. "Didn't I tell you this would happen?! And now—" His grin widened, teeth bared, madness painted on his face. "Now no one's getting out alive!"
He screamed the last words like a beast driven past reason, his laughter blending with the roar of the sea below.
Down by the shore, people fell to their knees, praying, begging, or simply waiting for the end. The air grew heavier, thicker, as if the world itself held its breath.
His thumb hovered above the trigger. His hand didn't shake this time.
The faintest whispers left his lips, lost in the storm. Too soft to be heard, yet too heavy to be meaningless.
And then the cliffs exploded in light.
The roar swallowed the island whole.
The shockwave tore through the world—stone crumbling, trees evaporating, the sea turning white from heat. The air itself screamed.
Yet through it all, that man remained the center of it—not because of the destruction he unleashed, nor because of his final scream that echoed over the inferno...
…but because beneath that chaos, beneath that laughter and madness, there lingered something far more terrible.
Purpose.
And through the storm of fire and smoke consuming the island, the last image the world would ever see was a small boat drifting away.
A single child huddled inside, his black wavy hair clinging to his face, pitch-black eyes reflecting no light at all, even as he stared at the burning ruin that had once been home.
---
Morning light spilled through the tall windows of Hesteria Academy, cutting through the stale classroom air in soft golden bars. Dust floated lazily in the beams, the only things truly awake at this hour.
"…and that," said Mr. Harven, tapping the chalkboard with practiced disinterest, "is how the ten-year-long war concluded with the signing of the—"
A faint snore interrupted him.
Dozens of heads turned.
At the back row, middle seat, Zeke was slumped over his desk, arms folded like a pillow, drool threatening to spill at any moment. His black hair was a wavy mess, and even in sleep, there was something effortlessly calm about him.
Mr. Harven sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Zeke."
Nothing.
"Zeke."
Still nothing—just the slow rise and fall of a very content chest.
The teacher's eye twitched. He picked up a piece of chalk, weighed it in his hand… then paused as a glint of sunlight struck the top of his perfectly bald head.
The flash bounced straight into Zeke's half-closed eyes.
He flinched, squinting. "What the—?!"
A split second later, the chalk whizzed past his face and cracked against the wall behind him.
The class erupted in laughter.
Mr. Harven's voice was dangerously calm. "Glad you could rejoin us, Mr. Zeke. Since you're clearly enlightened, perhaps you'd care to tell us what year the ten-year war ended?"
Zeke rubbed his eyes, still blinking spots from the glare. "Uh… ten years after it started?"
The laughter doubled.
Even Harven's lips twitched before he caught himself. "Remarkable. Truly, your intellect is a beacon for us all."
"Guess I'm just gifted, sir," Zeke muttered under his breath.
"What was that?"
"Nothing, sir."
Another wave of chuckles.
When the class finally quieted, Zeke leaned back in his chair, sighing.
A soft laugh came from in front of him.
Julie turned slightly, sunlight catching her deep orange hair, which shimmered like a living flame. Her large green eyes met his—playful, warm, and faintly teasing.
"You really haven't changed," she said, half-smiling.
"Hey, I can't help that history is the best lullaby known to mankind."
"Sure. Keep telling yourself that. You're lucky he didn't actually hit you."
"Lucky? I'd much rather get hit by that chalk than his divine shine."
Julie shook her head, amused. "It's still hard to believe, though," she said after a moment, her tone softening. "We actually made it here."
Zeke blinked. For a heartbeat, the smell of ash filled his memory, the roar of the sea echoing faintly in his mind.
He forced a small smile. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Me neither."
The bell rang—sharp and sudden—breaking the moment apart.