The unfinished building stood half-devoured by the night.

  Concrete pillars rose like broken bones, their shadows stretching endlessly into the dark. Wind passed freely through the hollow floors, carrying with it the distant hum of a city that felt impossibly far away—alive, uncaring.

  At the very edge of the structure, where solid ground ended and only darkness waited below, two silhouettes faced one another.

  Nothing about them was clear.

  No faces.

  No expressions.

  Only the outline of a raised arm—

  And a figure that did not step back.

  The boy spoke first.

  “Don’t be scared,” he said, his voice calm, almost gentle.

  “Do it.”

  The girl replied.

  Her words were lost the moment they left her lips, torn away by the wind before they could reach him.

  The gunshot split the night.

  The impact came instantly.

  Then—

  Nothing.

  No pain.

  No fear.

  The boy felt himself drifting, his body light, fragile, as if he had become a leaf released into an endless current. Darkness surrounded him, yet it was not cold. It felt distant. Quiet. Almost kind.

  “…Ah,” he murmured faintly.

  “Right.”

  A small laugh slipped from him, thin and weightless.

  “Haha…”

  Thoughts surfaced slowly, fragments rising only to dissolve before they could take shape.

  Someone important.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  A warmth he couldn’t quite hold onto.

  A feeling that hurt the closer he reached for it.

  “I…” he tried to say.

  The word vanished.

  The darkness pulsed.

  Something vast wrapped around him—thick, overwhelming, alive. A rhythm echoed through it, steady and unrelenting, like a heartbeat that was not his own.

  The fragments scattered.

  The river carried everything away.

  Then—

  Light burst forth.

  A small wooden house stood beneath an unfamiliar sky.

  Its walls were old and weathered, the scent of aged wood and dried herbs clinging to the air. Inside, the room was dim, heavy with heat—and something else, unseen, quietly saturating everything.

  Three people were there.

  A woman lay upon a simple bed, her body trembling as cries of pain tore from her throat. Sweat clung to her skin, her breaths ragged and uneven.

  Beside her, an old woman moved with practiced calm, her hands steady as she guided each moment with quiet authority.

  Near the bed stood a man, gripping the woman’s hand as if letting go would shatter them both.

  “I’m here,” he said again and again, his voice shaking despite himself.

  “You’re not alone… just a little more.”

  “I—I can’t—!” the woman cried.

  “Yes, you can,” the old woman said firmly.

  “One last push.”

  The room filled with strained breaths.

  Time stretched.

  Then—

  A cry pierced the air.

  Sharp.

  Raw.

  Alive.

  The old woman lifted the newborn carefully, inspecting him beneath the dim light. After a moment, a small smile touched her lips.

  In a low voice, she said,

  “Congratulations. It’s a healthy baby.”

  She wrapped him gently and placed him into the mother’s trembling arms.

  The woman stared down at the tiny face, tears spilling freely.

  “Honey…” she whispered, her voice breaking.

  “He’s here. Our baby… he’s really here.”

  The man leaned closer, his own eyes glistening as he nodded.

  “Yes,” he said softly.

  “He really is.”

  A shaky laugh escaped him, relief flooding his expression.

  “You did amazing,” he added quietly.

  “Thank you… truly.”

  The baby shifted, letting out a small sound.

  The man smiled.

  “And look at him,” he said gently.

  “He looks just like his mother.”

  The woman laughed weakly through her tears.

  “Then I hope,” she said softly,

  “he grows up kinder than either of us.”

  Silence settled—warm and unbroken.

  After a moment, the woman’s expression softened further.

  She looked down at her son and whispered, as if afraid to disturb the world itself—

  “…Azelion.”

  The man blinked.

  “Hm?”

  He leaned closer. “What did you say?”

  She smiled faintly and repeated it, clearer this time.

  “His name… Azelion.”

  The man paused, tasting the sound of it.

  “Azelion…”

  He nodded slowly. “It’s beautiful. But why that name?”

  The woman tightened her hold on the baby, just a little.

  “In the old stories,” she said quietly,

  “Azelion means the one born from an ending.

  A life that begins where something else fades…

  A hope that comes after loss.”

  The man looked at his son.

  Then he smiled.

  “…Then it suits him perfectly.”

  The baby blinked.

  No memories stirred.

  No past lingered.

  Only breath.

  Only warmth.

  Only life, beginning anew.

  And in a land overflowing with mana—

  Where legends were born and destinies quietly twisted—

  Azelion’s story had begun.