The Cobra King's Return

Peti's Backstory

(based on my name and my past with a little change🤫)

His story was cruel and sad just like every villain's past.

He born in Hungary In the eighth district. There was a lot of gypsy. Their state was middle they eat every day and go to Kindergarten every day.

Peti was just a wide-eyed little kid when he first learned how to cook—not in some fancy kitchen, but barefoot on the warm sand of the beach. The salty wind tangled his hair, and the crashing waves played like background music while his grandma crouched beside a little fire pit they had built with rocks.

"Now listen, Peti," she said, her wrinkled hands flipping a shrimp skewer with expert grace, "if your octopus gets rubbery, that's a crime worse than stealing cookies before dinner."

Peti giggled, eyes wide. "Worse than when I took your last cinnamon bun?"

His grandma smirked. "Boy, don't remind me of that. I almost cast a thunderstorm on you with my frying pan."

He laughed so hard he fell back on the sand.

Cooking became a bond between them. Whether at home, in the woods, or under a starry sky, his grandma taught him that food wasn't just food—it was a way to bring smiles, to heal pain, and sometimes, to shut people up when they're being annoying.

His favorite dish? Easy. Seafood. Especially shrimp and octopus. There was something about how it smelled, how it sizzled, how it reminded him of peace and happiness. He loved it so much that once, he tried to grill octopus in his bedroom using candles.

It... did not go well.

The smoke alarm screamed. His dad screamed louder.

"Peti! What the hell are you doing?! Are you trying to summon Poseidon in your damn room?!"

But Peti just coughed through the smoke, holding up a half-burnt octopus leg like a trophy. "It's... experimental cuisine?"

Needless to say, he was banned from indoor cooking for a while.

From his grandpa, Peti learned something entirely different.

One evening, they sat outside on a bench, watching the sky turn orange as the sun dipped below the horizon. Grandpa lit a cigar, something he always did when he got serious.

"Kid," he said, voice low, "the world's always gonna have war. Used to be swords and guns. Now it's powers, magic, flashy moves. But some things never change—some people fight to protect, others fight just to hurt."

Peti looked up at him, curious. "So... the heroes are the good guys, right?"

Grandpa blew out smoke. "Mostly. Good ones don't kill unless they absolutely have to. They catch the bad ones, lock them up. But even then... evil doesn't sleep. It just changes its mask."

Peti stayed quiet. That sat heavy in his heart.

Meanwhile, there was one person Peti never really listened to—his father.

His dad was strict, cold, always yelling like life was some kind of military bootcamp.

"You need to be strong, Peti! You're a disgrace to this family if you keep acting weak!"

But Peti had heard it all too many times. He'd smile, nod, and walk away.

He didn't hate his dad—no, hate was too strong. But he avoided him. The man's expectations were like heavy chains, and Peti didn't want to carry that weight.

He once said to his sister Aria in the kitchen while flipping shrimp in a pan, "You know what the difference is between Dad and this shrimp?"

She raised a brow. "What?"