Kael'ryn was alive.
Not in the way planets lived elsewhere, not like Earth or any peaceful world.
This one breathed fire. Its skies bled red and orange, clouds thick with ash that choked the lungs and stung the eyes. Rivers of molten rock crisscrossed jagged plains, and the wind carried the scent of ozone and burnt metal.
Life here was brutal — if you could even call it life.
Creatures of molten skin and jagged bones stalked the landscape, hunting anything that moved. Even the ground was alive, cracking and shifting beneath each step, punishing mistakes with heat and fury.
The silence between storms was the only lie. Every whisper of air was a threat. Every shadow held teeth and claws. Kael'ryn did not forgive. Kael'ryn did not forget.
And somewhere within this inferno, a boy ran.
Gukutto.
Fourteen years old, alone, and breathing fire with every step. He darted across cracked ground, leaping over molten fissures and fallen boulders as shapes moved behind him. Hulking scavengers, eyes glowing molten, gave chase. He had already killed three of them, clean and quick — mercy wasn't kindness here. Survival was everything.
He rolled under a jagged stone and spat blood, breathing ash. His green gi was torn, skin scorched in patches. He didn't slow. There was no time to care for pain. Pain was normal. Fear was normal. Death was everywhere, and he had to be faster.
A low growl behind him reminded him he was not alone. Another creature charged — faster than the rest, hunger in every step. Gukutto's hands glowed faint blue, sparks of ki dancing along his palms.
He struck with precision.
Fist to chest — the beast crumpled silently.
Sweep kick — another gone.
A clean strike across the head — gone before it hit the ground.
Death in Kael'ryn was instantaneous, painless when possible. That was the way of survival. He didn't smile. He didn't gloat. He just moved.
Hours passed like this. Finally, Gukutto slowed enough to catch sight of something familiar — the rusted, half-buried Saijanti pod he had found long ago. Broken, warped from centuries of heat, it wasn't his, but it was the closest thing to home.
He collapsed against it, ash-streaked and bleeding. His hands were raw. His chest heaved. He stared at his reflection in the cracked metal — green eyes fierce and tired, skin scarred, young but already tempered by Kael'ryn's hell.
He didn't remember how he arrived here. Didn't know why. Only that every sunrise meant another fight.
When the storm subsided and the world went quiet, hunger clawed at him. He rose. Time to hunt.
The wastelands stretched endlessly under a burnt-orange sky. The creatures here didn't hide — they waited.
And so did he.
He moved like a shadow, tracking slight movements in the ash dunes. Then, with a burst of speed, he leapt. Hand glowing with ki, he struck — and the creature fell instantly.
"Rest easy," he whispered, almost like an apology.
But before he could move, something slammed into his back — tearing his gi and skin. Pain flared hot and sharp. He rolled across the ground, groaning, clutching his shoulder.
His pulse roared, anger flaring like wildfire. Eyes glowing green, he turned.
A bright sphere of ki formed in his hand. He released it — a blast so powerful it vaporized his attacker in an instant.
The recoil threw him back. Smoke rose from his own burned hand. He stared wide-eyed, trembling.
Too strong.
Too much.
Uncontrollable.
The fire of Kael'ryn reflected in his eyes — a mirror of the chaos inside him.
He gritted his teeth.
"Still… too weak to control it."
The world went quiet again. Only the hiss of cooling ash and the faint hum of residual ki lingered.
Another day survived.
Another reminder: Kael'ryn didn't forgive the strong.
It devoured them too.
And somewhere deep inside him, something stirred —
a whisper that this planet wasn't just his prison
It was where he would be made.