Chapter One — The Day the Pacifist Died
My name is Daniel Z. Viole, though most who eventually learn it wish they hadn't. Some call my tale an epic. Others call it a warning. I call it simply the truth. And truth, unlike legend, does not ask permission to be heard.
I was born on May 21st, in the Year of the Dragon, in the ancient kingdom of Zetrion—a land suffocating under hierarchy and stained by its own rigid class order. In Zetrion, birth was everything. Nobles ruled without consequence. The poor breathed only by permission. And slaves remained slaves until their final breath.
My mother and I lived on the lowest rung of those not enslaved—poor, invisible, nameless. We lived in a tiny home, made of cloth walls and patched wooden planks. Three rooms, each barely three meters across. Dirt floors. Thin blankets. No privacy but what silence could offer.
My father, Jason vanished when I was three years old. People whispered many stories: that he ran, that he died, that he was taken. My mother never spoke a word of him, and I learned not to ask.
The Strength I Never Wanted
From birth, I was different—not in a poetic sense, but in a terrifyingly literal one. I possessed strength beyond any child, beyond most grown men. I learned early, painfully, to hide it.
I never fought back.
I never raised my voice.
I never used the strength burning beneath my skin.
I wanted to rise through honor. Through effort. Through kindness.
The others laughed at that.
"You can't climb the hierarchy without becoming a criminal," they spat.
"You'll stay nothing forever."
I hated them for saying it.
But I would come to hate myself even more for proving them right.
The Visit of the Count's Servant
The day everything changed began quietly.
I woke to morning sunlight leaking through the holes in our roof. My mother stirred a thin porridge over our small fire, humming through exhaustion.
"Morning, Daniel," she whispered.
"Morning, Mom."
I kissed her cheek and stepped into the dusty streets toward the clearing we called a school. There were no walls, no desks—only our elderly teacher, Master Coren, who scratched lessons into the dirt with a shaking stick.
He was the one person who believed I could change the world.
Even when the world refused to change itself.
That day, excitement buzzed through the students. The Count's servant—a man covered in gold jewelry and excessive silks—was arriving to "inspect" our school. A show, nothing more.
When he appeared, his forced smiles and staged kindness fooled no one. Yet he strutted among us as if he were a gift from the heavens.
He left after two hours, satisfied with his performance.
Master Coren, collapsing under a sudden wave of illness, dismissed us an hour early.
I ran home.
I always ran home on visitation days.
My mother was never herself on those mornings. But she always smiled when I returned.
I thought I simply made her happy.
I didn't yet understand what she needed relief from.
The Scream That Ended My Childhood
As I neared our home, dread twisted in my stomach.
Then came the scream.
My mother's scream.
"NO! PLEASE—NOT AGAIN! LEAVE ME ALONE! LEAVE MY SON OUT OF THIS!"
The world blurred.
I crashed through the doorway—
And my life split in two.
The Count's servant was on top of her.
Tearing at her clothes.
Laughing.
Enjoying her pain.
My mother's eyes met mine, full of terror and apology.
He turned to me with a grin that still burns in my nightmares.
"Oh look, the little nothing arrives," he sneered. "What will you do? You're angry, aren't you? But you can't do anyth—"
The ringing in my ears drowned his words.
Red swallowed my vision.
The strength I always feared surged like wildfire.
I moved.
My fist crashed into him with enough force to break stone.
His body flew across the room.
His skull cracked.
His eyes dimmed.
He didn't scream.
He didn't understand.
He simply stopped existing.
I had killed him.
The pacifist inside me died with him.
The Battle That Should've Killed Me
The guards charged in seconds later.
Six at first. Then more.
Blades drawn. Armor clattering. Eyes burning with vengeance.
My mother fainted beside me.
I stepped over her, shielding her small body with mine.
And something awakened in me.
I fought like I'd trained for years.
Every strike found a throat, a joint, a weakness.
Every movement flowed from instinct older than I understood.
They fell one by one.
Gasping.
Bleeding.
Broken.
By the time the last guard dropped, I was trembling.
My vision darkened.
Blood soaked my clothes.
I swayed—
And that was when he appeared.
A tall silhouette stood in the doorway.
Broad shoulders.
Silver-streaked hair.
Armor darker than night.
He approached my unconscious mother and lifted her gently into his arms.
I opened my mouth to speak.
Darkness swallowed me.
I felt myself being carried.
Lowered.
Submerged.
Cold water filled my lungs.
Then—
nothing.
Only the void.