The Waste Land was nothing like the stories my mother once whispered before she vanished. No gentle rivers, no green fields, only endless dust and cracked earth stretching beneath a harsh and unforgiving sun. It was a place where life clung to the barest thread, and hope was a distant memory buried beneath years of pain.
I was born into silence and hunger, where every breath tasted of despair. The people here had forgotten what hope meant. Survival was their only language, and even that was a constant battle. There was no kindness, no comfort, only the harsh realities of a world that had long given up on mercy.
From my first steps, I learned that weakness was a death sentence. The strong took what they wanted without mercy. The weak disappeared without a trace, swallowed by the endless wasteland or worse. My small hands trembled as I tried to stand, but every fall was met with a shove or a harsh word. "Get up, or stay down forever," they told me, their voices hard like cracked stones. I had no choice but to obey.
At night, the cries of children lost in this wasteland filled the cold air, but no one came to comfort them. The strong guarded what little they had fiercely, leaving only scraps for those like me who had nothing. Hunger gnawed at my belly daily, and my body grew thin and weak, but somehow, deep inside, a spark refused to die.
Even in this cruelty, I felt something strange inside me, a warmth I could not explain. When the sun set and the cold bit at my skin, I would close my eyes and feel it grow, a soft light pulsing deep within my chest. It was faint, like a candle struggling to stay lit in a storm, but it was mine. It was the only thing that made me different.
One evening, when the stars blinked cold and distant, an old man appeared. His clothes were tattered, his face lined with years of pain and wisdom. He watched me with eyes that seemed to see through the dust and into my soul. There was something in his gaze that stopped me from running.
"You shouldn't be alive," he said quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper against the night wind.
His words were sharp, but in them, I heard something else, a warning, a challenge, an unspoken promise. "Do you feel it?" he asked, placing a weathered hand on my chest. "That light inside you, it's not just hope. It's power."
I looked up at him, confused and afraid. "Power? What power?"
"The Light Fist," he whispered. "You carry their blood, their legacy. The world may have forgotten, but I have not."
I wanted to believe him, but the world I knew told me only to hide, to be quiet, to disappear. Still, I could not deny the truth stirring inside me. The warmth grew stronger each day, calling me toward something greater than mere survival.
From that night, the old man, Argen, he called himself, became my guide, my teacher, and my only friend. He taught me to breathe with purpose, to focus my thoughts, and to listen to the mana flowing through me. Training was brutal. Every day, I faced pain I never thought I could endure. Yet, each breath I took brought me closer to a power I barely understood.
The Waste Land was no longer just a prison. It was the place where I would rise.