Every set of eyes holds a story like no other.
But what about the Chosen One?
The so-called Savior?
What kind of story does he carry?
And what... is his name?
"Azriel…"
The name is whispered under the breath of a mother who loved too deeply and suffered too silently.
A child born of poverty—
Soil so poor it barely grew crops, yet rich in the joy of simpler things.
Their lives weren't easy.
Money was scarce.
But laughter?
Laughter overflowed.
Yes, a hero's childhood was stitched together with struggle, but also love. And with his own hands—his own blood—he helped build something that felt like home.
"Azriel! Come help with the fields—and play our favorite game after!"
"LET'S GO, DAD!" the boy grinned.
They played hide and seek among the stalks of golden grain, the game woven between moments of work and laughter. It wasn't much—but it was everything.
One afternoon, as the sun dipped low, a man appeared at the edge of the farm.
Dressed in a tailored suit, tophat gleaming, and a grotesque mask shaped like the head of a Verdigoat.
Azriel's father—Caelum—greeted him with a nervous smile.
"Hey Azriel, a friend's here. Can you handle things while I talk to him?"
"Of course I can!"
The boy ran off to play in the tall fields.
He didn't hear the slap.
"Mr. Caelum… you know what I want."
"Ah—Mr. Marde, I'm sorry. It'll be late again. The soil's too poor, and no one's buying—"
CRACK.
The Verdigoat mask didn't flinch.
"I've been merciful, haven't I?" he laughed, cruel and sharp.
"Two weeks."
Caelum bowed.
"Thank you."
Two weeks passed.
Still nothing.
And when Marde returned, it was midnight. Caelum stepped out alone, hoping to shield his wife and child.
"I…"
CRACK.
"You've abused my kindness."
Caelum lowered his gaze. Not because he feared for himself—
But because he feared for his family.
He had no idea this masked man was in contact with one of Volaris's underlings.
He had no idea that death had already taken root.
And that's how a hero became an orphan.
What about his early years after that?
Well… just for you.
A frail boy.
Hands too weak to lift a shovel—yet still he buried them.
His parents.
His hope.
Then, he wandered.
Across Evascera, from city to slum:
A laundromat's unpaid labor.
A hired thief in alley markets.
A boy forced to fight for bread.
Lonely. Cold.
He knew nothing of safety. Nothing of comfort.
Only survival.
Only silence.
Until he reached Reigo—a city of shattered names:
War veterans. Failed artificers. Warriors cast aside.
And there—
"Hey, kid,"
an old man said.
That's when we saw him.
A boy with no reason left to live—
And yet, somehow, the strength to save our sister.
The fire of a warrior whose name would be etched across stars and stories.
Wait—who am I?
I wonder that, too.
Maybe I was wrong to make him a hero.
Maybe I never should've called him that.
But can you blame me?
I won't be mad, though.
Not anymore.
Until next time, then.