Several Years Ago
It happened without warning.
No crack of thunder. No swirling clouds. No sign of anything unusual.
Then, the sky wept light.
A cascade of shimmering droplets poured from above—like rain, but not of water. Each speck glowed with its own color, a thousand hues dancing through the air like stars set free. They fell silently, endlessly, showering across cities, forests, oceans—every corner of the world.
People froze.
Some stared, transfixed. Others screamed, thinking the end had come. It looked like divine judgment, a cosmic curtain falling over the earth. Mothers held their children close. Drivers abandoned their cars in the middle of highways. Priests knelt. Scientists gaped.
It wasn't cold. It wasn't fire.
It was… warm.
When the glowing fragments touched skin, they melted into nothingness. No burns. No pain. Just a strange sensation—like being wrapped in light, embraced by something older than time itself. It sank into bone, into blood, into the soul.
And then, just as suddenly, it was over.
The sky cleared. The colors vanished. Silence returned.
But the world had changed.
In the weeks that followed, strange things began to happen. People doing the unimaginable—everywhere, in every country.
Powers had awakened—unnatural, extraordinary, unstoppable.
At first, the world called them miracles. But miracles are not always kind.
As more people awakened, lines began to form—not on maps, but in hearts. Some used their powers to protect. They became symbols of hope, guardians of peace. Heroes.
Others used their gifts to dominate, to take, to destroy. They fed on fear and chaos. Villains.
Society bent under the weight of this new age. Governments fractured. Cities became battlegrounds. And in between the light and shadow, ordinary people were left to survive.
No one knew what triggered the fall. Some claimed it was a message from God. Others believed it was a curse. A few saw it as evolution's next step. But the real question was never how…
…it was why.
Because now that humanity holds the power of gods, one truth has never been clearer:
Power does not reveal who we are—it reveals what we choose to become.
Present Day
City of Elexers.
It was 4:03 PM.
The sun hung low in the sky, spilling golden light across the city, casting long shadows that stretched and twisted as if alive. The air was still warm—a soft reminder of the day's lingering heat—but the breeze had started to pick up, carrying with it the faint scent of street food from nearby vendors and the constant hum of distant traffic.
Lucien walked with his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his hoodie, the fabric worn and familiar against his fingers. His black hair was tousled by the breeze, a mess of curls that refused to behave. He didn't mind. It matched the rest of him. His brown eyes, dark and weary, scanned the sidewalk ahead, but there was no real focus to them. He wasn't looking for anything in particular—he never did. He simply moved through the world, letting it pass by without interference—a silent observer.
It was Sunday—the one day of the week he allowed himself to breathe.
No school. No responsibilities. No need to be anyone other than who he was. A weekend for himself, an escape from everything. He wasn't going anywhere fancy, just Pixel Den—a small, tucked-away game store nestled between a shuttered bakery and an old, crumbling electronics shop. It wasn't much, but it was enough. In that cramped, neon-lit space, Lucien could forget how invisible he felt in the real world. Here, he was just another face in the crowd. People didn't expect much from him—except maybe a sarcastic comment or two—but it was the only place where he didn't feel so… alone.
As he walked, the sound of his footsteps was soft against the pavement, mingling with the distant hum of the city. The world around him was busy, alive with noise, but it felt distant to him. Just background noise. He moved through it like a ghost.
Then, suddenly, a scream shattered the monotony.
Lucien froze, his heart skipping a beat.
The sound wasn't far—just a block ahead. His eyes flicked toward the source instinctively, and there she was—a woman, struggling against a thug who was shoving her against a wall. Her scream was raw, desperate. The man yanked at her bag, his grip like iron as he tried to tear it away.
Lucien's body tensed, but he didn't move. His gaze flickered to the people around, but no one else seemed to be moving either. They just stood there, frozen in place, as if they couldn't believe what they were seeing.
He swallowed. She needs help, he thought, but the words felt hollow even as they left his mind. He couldn't make himself move. The crowd stood as a backdrop to the scene—passive, indifferent.
He wasn't a hero.
But he wanted to help.
He never had been.
Just one jump and he would've reached her.
But then, something shifted.
A blur. A figure stepped forward from the crowd like a shadow moving against the light.
A man in a gray tracksuit. His cap was low obscuring his face, but his presence was undeniable. There was no hesitation in his movements—just precision. His stance was almost lazy, casual. But the way his hands moved—fast, fluid—was something else entirely. With a simple twist, he disarmed the thug, grabbing his wrist and redirecting his force. The man dropped like a stone, his face meeting the pavement with a sickening thud.
The woman, still trembling, was handed her bag, the man's touch brief, his motions effortless.
"Thank you, young man," the lady said.
"You don't have to be. I did my job as a hero," he replied, then turned and slipped into an alley—disappearing into the city's pulse like he had never existed at all.
Lucien stood there for a moment, his heart still pounding in his chest, eyes wide as he processed what had just happened.
He says he is a hero.
Not the kind with a flashy suit or a dramatic pose. No speeches. No fanfare. Just a person doing something when no one else did.
It wasn't his business. He knew that. Lucien wasn't the type to step in when things got messy. He preferred to keep his distance—safely behind the comfort of his silence, his invisibility.
But something inside him flickered. A strange warmth. A spark of… hope?
Maybe even something else.
He exhaled a slow breath and shook his head.
"Guess it's not my problem," he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible against the hum of the city.
And with that, he turned and kept walking, his feet moving steadily toward the game store—away from the chaos, back to the world he knew. The world where things were simpler. Where the biggest fight was whether he would finally beat his high score on a new game.
But the scene played in his mind anyway. A strange feeling churned in his chest, uninvited and unfamiliar. For the briefest moment, he wondered if he could ever be that kind of person. The kind who stepped forward. Who did something.
Could he?
By the time he reached Pixel Den, the noise of the city had faded behind him—replaced by the familiar rhythm of controllers clicking, the hum of neon lights, the distant sound of laughter and cursing as players battled their way through digital worlds.
The door chimed softly as Lucien entered, the familiar scent of stale coffee and electronics greeting him like an old friend. He gave a quick nod to the owner, who didn't look up from the counter, and walked to the back of the store—his spot. His sanctuary. A worn beanbag and a two-monitor setup, the unspoken rules clear: this was his place. His retreat.
Except…
There was someone already sitting there.
Lucien paused. His chest tightened.
The man in the gray tracksuit.
The same one.
Lucien's heart skipped a beat. A sudden rush of irritation shot through him, quickly replaced by a dull sense of discomfort.
This was his spot. His escape. Not for someone who fought crime in the streets. Not for someone who played hero when no one else would.
He stared at the man. The gray tracksuit. The low cap. The same unflinching indifference.
The man didn't even glance up. He just kept tapping his controller, lost in the game.
Lucien's jaw clenched. For a moment, he considered walking away. He could find another seat. There were plenty of open spots. But something about the situation didn't sit right. The man hadn't asked—hadn't even acknowledged him—and yet here he was, taking up his space.
But Lucien said nothing. Instead, he exhaled a sharp breath, walking over and sinking into the seat beside him, the fabric of the beanbag shifting beneath him with a soft creak.
No hello. No questions. No complaints.
He just sat there, letting the comforting hum of the store wash over him.
For a moment, he thought about what had happened earlier. The woman. The thug. The hero.
He had always wanted to understand why being a hero mattered so much. Why it was important enough that his parents barely had time for him—always out there, helping strangers, chasing justice.
Not Until they died.
Massacred.
He never even got the chance to ask them why. Why they had to be the ones to risk it all for people they didn't even know. Why they had to die being heroes instead of living as his parents amd enjoying there lives is it because of how people now had supernatural abilities?or some other reason i couldn't know.
The apex pair, they were called. The world's greatest.
But to him… they were just gone.
The memory hit him like a wave, crashing through the quiet of the game store, drowning the soft hum of laughter and clicking buttons.
He blinked, came back to the present.
I don't have anything left to care about anymore, he thought, a numb sort of resolve settling over him. I'll just live my life. No grand goals. No burdens. Just… get through it.
He exhaled.
But as he glanced at the man beside him—silent, still immersed in his game—something flickered inside.
And Lucien couldn't help but wonder, deep down...
What would it be like to even matter?
END OF CHAPTER.