The morning sun rose like molten gold over the village, lighting rooftops and palm trees in a warm glow. Chickens scattered as kids rushed through narrow alleys, laughing, trading marbles and stories. Someone was cooking flatbread nearby — the scent drifted through the air, mixing with dust and river wind.
I was twelve then. Old enough to run with the others, young enough to bruise my knees without shame.
Haidar slapped my arm and pointed to the dry field just beyond the houses.
"Race you!" he shouted, already sprinting.
I rolled my eyes, but my legs moved on instinct. Feet pounding against dirt, breath sharp in my throat, sandals kicking up clouds of sand.
Kids cheered. Others joined. The world felt big and loud — full of footsteps, sunlight, and heartbeats.
Halfway across the field, something flickered in my chest. Not emotion — energy.
A static prickle rushed across my skin. Pebbles underfoot vibrated. My pace quickened unnaturally, body light as air, vision clear like polished metal. Wind gathered around me, swirling fine dust behind my heels.
I caught up to Haidar — then passed him.
His eyes widened mid-run.
"WHAT—?!"
He stumbled, nearly tripping, stunned by the impossible burst of speed. The other kids fell quiet, watching as I reached the finish rock and touched it without even gasping.
Silence hung for several seconds.
Then Haidar laughed — loud, proud, like a man watching a miracle he didn't understand.
"You've been training without me, huh?"
His grin made everything feel normal. Safe.
The others accepted it as talent — childhood indestructibility. Kids grew fast, learned fast, surprised adults every day. Who would imagine thunder beneath a boy's ribs?
Not them. Not yet.
Days flowed like water — lively, bright, filled with mortal warmth.
We played soccer with battered shoes and patched balls. We swam in the river at dusk, cooling our skin under a purple sky. We sneaked into old ruins near the outskirts — half-buried temples, broken pillars with carved wings and faded cuneiform. Adults said they were dangerous.
So of course, we went.
One afternoon, sun red and heavy above us, we pushed aside fallen stones and entered a shaded corridor. The air was cooler, thick with ancient dust. Shadows danced along cracked walls like ink alive.
Tariq whispered, "This place feels haunted."
Haidar laughed. "Ghosts don't scare Arman. Look at him — he belongs here."
They didn't know how right that was.
We reached a chamber where a broken statue lay on its side — humanoid, but massive, crowned with horns like lightning forks. Sand covered its chest like a burial shroud. I brushed my fingers across the stone.
A sound stirred — low and electric.
The air snapped with static.
Tiny sparks crackled across the statue, crawling like silver insects. Haidar stepped back, startled. Tariq yelped and dropped his flashlight. The flicker of electricity reflected in their wide eyes.
"I didn't do anything," I said quickly.
And for once — it wasn't a lie.
The ruin responded to me on its own. Recognition. Resonance. Like an ancient machine detecting familiar code.
Dust swirled into spirals around my feet. The metal fragments embedded in the statue vibrated, humming like inactive engines waking after centuries.
The ground trembled.
A chunk of roof collapsed — stone splitting apart with a deafening crack.
"Tariq — MOVE!"
I shoved him aside as rocks crashed where he stood moments earlier. Echoes thundered through the corridor. Sand billowed like smoke. The boys coughed, scrambling toward the exit, pale with shock.
I followed — heart pounding, breathing sharp.
Sunlight hit our faces as we burst outside. No one spoke for a full minute. Haidar finally broke the silence.
"That wasn't normal."
His voice was low, honest — no humor this time.
Tariq nodded stiffly. "The statue reacted to you. Only you."
I swallowed, gaze fixed on the ruins. Wind blew across the dunes, warm and heavy with history.
Maybe the old world still breathed beneath the sand.Maybe it felt the storm sleeping in me — even if I tried to sleep with it.
Haidar placed a hand on my shoulder. Not afraid — steady, loyal.
"Whatever you are, you saved us again."He looked straight into my eyes."And you're still my friend."
Simple words.
But my chest tightened like lightning caught in glass — powerful, fragile, precious.
Even gods needed anchors.
Life continued. Not peacefully — but vividly.
There were quiet mornings helping my mother prepare dough, soft flour dusting our arms like white snow. There were evenings sitting with my father repairing old radio wires while news crackled through static — fragments of a world bigger, stranger.
New York. Mutants. Enhanced humans. Discussions of Stark tech on black markets.
Marvel's world was waking.Slowly. But surely.
I listened from the floor, chin on my knees, eyes reflecting static sparks from damaged circuits.
Heroes were rising.Villains too.
Soon, the world would become loud. Chaotic. Overshadowed by gods, monsters, men in armor, weapons brighter than stars.
And somewhere in that future — I would stand as Marduk.
Not yet.
For now, I was a boy eating warm pita with honey, racing Haidar across the fields, and sneaking dried dates from the kitchen when my mother wasn't looking.
Small moments. Ordinary moments.
Beautiful moments.
Like scenes from a Marvel origin movie — the soft before the storm.
One night, rain came.
Not normal rain — the kind that arrives like a curtain. The village trembled under thunder, streets slick with mud, rooftops leaking like sieves. Children stayed indoors. Cattle cried. Adults hurried to secure belongings.
Lightning tore across the sky — white, sharp, earth-splitting.
I stood in the doorway, barefoot on cold stone, watching the storm fall like a god descending. Electricity crawled across my skin — not painful, but familiar, intimate.
Haidar arrived soaked, shouting through the rain:
"Arman! The river — it's rising too fast! Tariq's house is flooding!"
He grabbed my arm, desperate.
And without thinking — without fear — I ran into the storm.
Mud splashed up my legs, clothes heavy with water, hair sticking to my forehead. Wind howled like a wounded beast, ripping through the night. The river was swelling, angry and brown, swallowing land as if hungry for homes.
People shouted. Buckets flew. Doors were barricaded.
We reached Tariq's house — water already up to the doorway. His mother was crying, his father pushing furniture back as muddy waves crashed through broken windows.
"Help me get them out!" Haidar yelled.
We waded into the current.
The water was freezing, pulling at our legs, eager to topple us. I pushed forward, teeth clenched. Lightning flashed, illuminating chaos — debris, screaming, darkness broken by white fire.
I found Tariq near the back room, clutching a wooden beam, shaking with fear.
"Come with us!" I yelled.
He nodded weakly. I pulled him close.
The river surged — stronger, wilder, like an animal realizing prey in its jaws.
For one terrifying moment, the three of us were lifted off our feet. The current dragged us toward the shattered wall, toward the raging water outside.
Haidar shouted my name.
I felt it then — deeper than before.
Electricity erupted beneath my ribs.
Not lightning.Not light.Control.
The flood slowed around us — water density shifting, pressure bending, physics rewriting like new code executed through flesh. It held for only seconds — but seconds were enough.
We found footing.We stumbled through the doorway.We escaped.
People stared as we emerged — gasping, soaked, three silhouettes framed by rain and thunder.
No one saw the water that moved aside for us.
Or if they did — they said nothing.
The storm raged on.
But something new was born that night.
Not just power.
Purpose.
Not spoken. Not monologued.
Just a flicker — like the first whisper of thunder before lightning splits the sky.