In the midst of the harshest winter, lying atop a hill buried in snow, a baby cried its heart out, desperate for help and hoping to survive. Its cries were answered when a young woman happened to pass by and found the child. For some inexplicable reason, even though she could barely afford it, she felt compelled to take the baby in, as if fate itself had guided her to it.
We can't really question why a woman who lived in the slums of Plaga 2 had decided to take on the enormous burden of caring for a child.
"Poor child… oh, what fate has the universe set for you?" she pondered in sorrow as she carried the child away to her shelter.
In the shelter, chaos reigned. She didn't know much about caring for a child, and she couldn't stop his wailing. She couldn't find food, so she was forced to breastfeed him for the first time. But as the days passed, she grew more devoted. She took him everywhere, cared for him in every way she could, and found herself drawn to the child's smile for no apparent reason.
Yet the village's eyes were never kind. Many despised them both. The boy had unfortunate eyes that shimmered grey, and some called him a curse. Since his arrival, famines had struck, water had run short, and animals had died for no clear reason. The villagers blamed the boy, his eyes marking him as the cause of their misfortune. They called him "the Grey Plague."
Eventually, no one bothered to interfere anymore, having grown weary of it all. Days slipped into months, months into years, and the boy reached his fifteenth year. His name now, Phthisis. His mother had given him that name for the winter he was born in—the winter that could have decayed the world, that had tested life itself and yet had somehow left him alive.
"Phthisis!" shouted Cassandra as she sprinted after him through the dusty streets.
"Yes, Mom?!" Phthisis called back while running, glancing over his shoulder.
"Get over here, you brat!" she yelled, picking up speed.
"What did I do?!" he shot back, footsteps kicking up dirt.
"Did you not kill the magnificent boar for money?!" she shouted, breath sharp with anger.
Phthisis stopped abruptly, boots skidding on the ground.
"Yeah, I did. What's the problem?" he asked, confused and still catching his breath.
Cassandra caught up to him at last, chest heaving, anger sparking but fear weighing heavier than anything else. She grabbed his arm tight, as if making sure he was really standing there and not crushed under some beast.
"Phthisis," she said, voice trembling, "you can't be out there killing creatures for money. Especially not a magnificent boar."
The magnificent boars weren't holy or rare — just huge, powerful animals with that slight golden hue in their fur, beasts strong enough to break bones without trying. The idea of her fifteen-year-old son going after one made her stomach twist.
Phthisis frowned, brushing dust off his clothes. "What's the problem? You know I'm stronger than most— actually, stronger than everyone here."
"I do not care," she shot back immediately, fear cracking through the anger. "Strength doesn't mean you're invincible. You could've been hurt. I don't want you risking your life for money. Not like this."
Phthisis muttered a reluctant "I'm sorry," and the two of them started walking back together. For a brief moment, everything felt steady again.
Then Cassandra's legs gave out.
She collapsed to the ground with a heavy thud. Instantly, heat radiated off her in violent waves, rising fast enough to warp the air around her. Her skin flushed deep red, breath ragged and uneven.
The Endless Fever.
A lingering curse from the Great Decaying Winter — the same winter she had worked through, the same winter she had found him.
"Help!" Phthisis yelled, voice cracking as he looked around. But the villagers only stared from afar, frozen in fear. No one stepped forward. No one offered a hand.
They feared the Grey Plague.
"You fucking cowards!" he roared, scooping her up despite the intense heat pouring off her. He ran through the streets, her body practically burning against his chest, until he burst into the clinic — the only place where help wasn't denied.
The old doctor rushed over, frost forming around his hands as he tried to push the Endless Fever back. But Cassandra's heat kept climbing, hotter and hotter, far past what any human should survive.
Phthisis held her hand tightly, voice trembling.
"Why did you have to work in that winter…? Why did you have to find me? You could've lived a peaceful life alone without the Grey Plague…"
With the little strength she had left, Cassandra lifted her hand and gave him a weak slap on the cheek.
"Don't you dare," she whispered, "think of yourself the way they think of you."
The doctor stepped in quickly, panic rising in his voice.
"Phthisis— don't hold her! Let go! Her body's over ninety degrees— your arm will—"
But Phthisis didn't hear a word. He refused to let go, gripping her scorching-hot arm even tighter.
And his skin didn't burn.
No flinching, no blistering, no redness — nothing. His arm stayed completely normal, resisting the heat like it meant nothing.
The doctor stumbled back, eyes wide, a chill running through him that had nothing to do with his frost magic.
The kid the village feared… was doing the impossible.
Maybe that was another reason why the village feared him because the at which phthisis grew was unnatural, which made him stronger than all the men in his village at the age of 14.
The Endless Fever consumed her completely. Cassandra's breaths came in ragged gasps, her skin glowing red and blistering under the unbearable heat. Flesh began to soften, muscles weakening, and the fever gnawed at her from the inside out. Her arm, once strong, sagged in Phthisis's grasp as tissue gave way under the relentless fire.
He held on as long as he could, but her body was betraying her. The heat was unlike anything he had ever felt — scorching, molten, almost liquid as it oozed from her skin, steam rising from her hair and clothes. Her muscles slackened, her limbs twisting unnaturally, and he had no choice but to let go as her form collapsed against him.
The doctor tried desperately to intervene, frost magic sparking in his hands, but it was useless. Her body was already being claimed by the Endless Fever. Bone, muscle, and sinew softened and melted, heat radiating in waves that made the air shimmer around her. And then, with a final, terrible exhalation, she was gone.
Hours later, rain pounded the slums, washing away the heat and the molten remains of the day. At the edge of the settlement, a fresh grave sat in the mud, rain drenching the simple marker.
Phthisis sat before it, soaked to the bone, hair plastered to his face. His eyes stared hollowly at the earth, expression blank, drained of everything human. His arm that had held her moments before was still trembling, scorched by her heat but untouched, resisting the impossible temperatures as if his body refused to feel the fire.
He didn't move.
He didn't blink.
He didn't cry.
He just sat there in the relentless rain, staring at the grave of the only person who had ever loved him, the only one who had never feared the Grey Plague. And in that moment, he looked less like a boy and more like a shadow of the storm itself — hollow, unfeeling, and utterly alone.
Six months had passed since that rain-soaked day. Phthisis had learned from his mother to stay strong even in the hardest times, to think carefully about every action, and to take advantage of any opportunity the world offered. Those lessons had kept him alive.
He had grown taller, broader, now standing six foot and a half, with long, unkempt hair falling into his eyes. Today, he worked quietly, chopping hardwood with steady, practiced swings. He whistled softly as chips of wood flew around him — a cheerful tune born not from joy, but from small victories. He had earned good money the day before, and if he finished collecting this wood today, he'd have just enough to buy a fresh-baked cupcake. A tiny pleasure, but one worth working for.
Then, a sudden thud came from nearby, sharp and unnatural, breaking the calm of the afternoon. Phthisis froze, axe mid-swing, ears straining. He set the tool down and crept toward the source, every muscle tensed, every sense alert.
Something had moved. Something was there.
He stopped, heart tightening, eyes narrowing. Whatever it was, it wasn't supposed to be there.
And then he saw it.