It was under the ashes of a barren world in which he opened his eyes. A cracked moon glistened above the wrecked planet, lifelessly shimmering as it slowly faded away, the twinkling stars suffocating under a layer of smoke. Burning flames ate away at the ruins of his only home, the only place where he belonged; the orphanage.
It was in shambles, wood splinters and metal shards scattered across the burning grass. A bloody massacre lay before him, hundreds of innocent, lifeless children sprawled out across the fields of grey.
It was a miracle that he was even still alive.
Yes, it was a miracle.
But was it a stroke of luck or an oath of isolation?
Not a living soul was visible through the crumbling ruins, the rising dust, the blinding flames in the distance.
Not a living soul was alive... besides him.
He had nowhere else to go. A helpless ten-year-old blundering through a reality of hell and torture, no one around to help.
His chocolate brown eyes were blotched with tears, his cheeks burnt black, his arm nearly severed off. His clothes were torn, soaked with crimson red blood, his shoes nowhere to be seen. His life was scarred, his future grim and hopeless.
Soon, the sobs escaped his mouth, his tears flooding out like a river from a dam. His loud, broken voice echoed into the empty horizon, no one around to hear him, no one around to comfort him, no one around to be with him whatsoever.
He was alone.
He was afraid.
He was... weak.
In the distant, faraway cities, he could hear the fearful shrieks of mothers, the painful cries of children, the defiant roars of fathers as, one by one, each family was slaughtered and killed, left to rot in the land of anguish. He could hear the ringing shots of guns, the slashing blades of swords, the merciless cackles of laughter as the villains heartlessly tore apart families, friends, and lovers. He could hear the woeful desperation, the thuds of bodies, the heaving breaths of those who would live their last hours, minutes, seconds.
He could hear it all. He could... hear it all.
A state of drowsiness fell upon him as he collapsed to the ground in an exhausted heap, silently drifting away into consciousness, wondering how things turned out the way it did.
What happened, he whispered to himself, to today?
How?...
And it all went black, the dying stars, the smoky skies, the shattered moon all fading to dark, his chest coming to a slow and steady stop.
How did this all happen?
YOU ARE READING
Scars of Fire
FantasyIt's year 2378, exactly one 185 years after the Central Massacre. There was no explanation for Kai, no explanation for his appearance, no explanation to how he came to be. There was no evidence of his birth, no recollections of his life whatsoever...
