Snow had been falling for weeks, perhaps months. The village seemed swallowed in a white silence, where every house, every path, every weary face blended into the winter. The roofs of the slanted houses sagged under the weight of ice, the narrow alleys seemed to vanish into the infinite white, and the few flickering lanterns cast fragile halos on the pristine powder. The wind whistled like an ancient voice, gliding between the buildings, sweeping the snow dust as if the entire world was holding its breath.
In the middle of this frozen scene walked a man. His winter coat, dark and lined with thick fur, caught the flakes like a precious case, and his wide hood hid his features. The villagers watched him pass, wary, eyes wide open, but none dared to approach. His steps were slow, regular, like those of a king who knew every corner of the land and feared nothing.
His eyes, in the shadow of the hood, scrutinized every detail: a cracked roof, a haggard face, a house whose chimney barely smoked. He seemed to be looking for something, or someone, with infinite patience.
Finally, a villager dared to approach. Tall, with a worn coat and rough hands, he crossed his arms and called out to the stranger.
— Hey! You… stranger. Who are you?
The man stopped. The wind whirled the snow around them. Then, calmly, he raised his hand and removed the hood.
The villager took a step back, mouth agape. His knees trembled, and he fell to his knees in the snow.
— I… it's impossible… he murmured. The… Sun King…
Ra, the SS-rank Paladin, stood before him. The one whose legend said he had warmed the entire planet during a hellish blizzard. Few had seen his face, and even fewer survived the sight of his power.
— Stand up, he said, in a calm but authoritative voice. I don't like talking to someone who eats snow.
The villager trembled but straightened. Ra observed the village silently, scanning the snow and the cracked houses.
— The UAP sent me on a mission. I heard about a… god-sent.
The villager nodded and pointed to the central square, where a massive, dark dragon statue stood.
— Marabout Vachi is at the inn. He gathers the village's envoys.
Ra nodded and made his way to the inn. The door creaked under his weight, letting in the warmth, the wood, and the scent of old papers and dried herbs. The villagers were seated, attentive, while Vachi, bearded and imposing, spoke with fervor.
— The God-sent watches over us! He purifies our souls!
Ra stopped, and thought: I've crossed paths with many fools… but these are on another level. He advanced slowly, observing the scene.
Then, suddenly, the ground shook. A deep rumble rattled the walls and knocked over objects.
— What is that? asked Ra.
— The messenger, replied Vachi, a strange smile on his lips. Our divinity has returned.
The villagers stood and ran outside. Ra shouted:
— Do not go out!
Too late. The main street was swept by a rain of flames. The statue shattered under the impact, and at the center of the chaos, the creature descended. A gigantic dragon, with violet eyes and black scales, made the snow tremble with each flap of its wings. The villagers who prostrated themselves were crushed under the weight of the dragon and debris.
Ra remained calm, watching the carnage.
— What a massacre… he murmured. I haven't seen this since… the destruction of Saturn.
The dragon roared. Its tail swept houses away, its wings created gusts that tore down walls. Ra walked calmly toward it, each step measured, each movement precise.
— So it's you… the famous messenger? said Ra.
The dragon replied with a roar. Ra crossed his arms and said, bored:
— Even if you don't brush your teeth… you could at least have a mint.
The dragon struck, but Ra easily dodged. He raised his hand to the sky and conjured a miniature sun behind him.
— Slice of the Eastern Sun, he said.
Thousands of solar spears fell from the sky, piercing the dragon. The creature opened its mouth and spat violet fire, but it did nothing. Ra created a real miniature sun, which incinerated the dragon. When it fell, Ra calmly landed in front of Vachi.
— So… this is your god?
Vachi stepped back, trembling, unable to answer. Ra sighed.
— Pathetic.
Thousands of kilometers separated the icy silence of the village ruins from the city that never slept. New York awakened under a gray, heavy, and motionless sky, like a sea of concrete and artificial light. The skyscrapers reflected the pale first rays of the sun, stretching shadows over the wet asphalt. Every avenue pulsed with chaotic rhythm: yellow taxis honking in a relentless orchestra, hurried pedestrians under umbrellas, posters and neon signs screaming promises of fortune and entertainment. In this city with a thousand eyes and a thousand glimmers, everything seemed alive, yet strangely blind to the extraordinary.
Amid this chaos, a figure moved through a narrow alley. The March wind hit his cheeks, lifting his black hair, and his light coat did little to shield him from the biting cold. The hood pulled over his face concealed almost all his features, but his gaze was sharp, scanning every detail with an intensity only an adolescent could hold.
In his hand, a worn phone contained a fragment of the impossible: a photo of a Djinn, captured the moment the creature leapt in the shadows. The photo was blurry, imperfect, but each pixel vibrated with the presence of the supernatural.
Musamaru inhaled deeply. His heart raced, each beat sounding like the start of an adventure that could change his life.
— If it works… he murmured, lips trembling. If it works, I could…
The outside world seemed to recede around him. Sirens, engine noise, conversations of passersby… all faded before the certainty he held in his hands. He walked toward the old Journal Central building. The worn bricks bore the marks of time, and the metal sign creaked gently in the wind. The fine rain on the sidewalk shimmered with flashes of light in the puddles. Each step brought him closer to the moment when the truth he had captured would meet the real world.
Inside, the hall smelled of ink and paper. Desks were cluttered with stacks of files and old typewriters, interspersed with modern blinking monitors. The old elevator creaked in the back, like a silent witness to the passage of time. Musamaru moved forward, determined, to the central office where a man with thick glasses sorted through files. His fingers were still tapping on a keyboard, but his attention instantly focused on the young boy who had appeared, panting.
— Sir! exclaimed Musamaru, placing his phone on the desk. Look! Look what I captured!
The screen displayed a blurry but undeniable image: the silhouette of a leaping monster, its legs stretched by speed, its outline blending into the shadows of the buildings. The creature seemed both real and unreal, like a vision from another world.
The editor blinked. Then erupted in a dry, cutting laugh.
— Hahaha! What is that? A joke? A badly made montage?
Musamaru felt his heart tighten, but he did not retreat.
— No! he protested. It's real! I… I saw it! It's a Djinn, a monster… something no one has ever seen!
The editor raised a finger, cold and unwavering.
— Listen, kid. Do you really think mythical creatures walk our streets? God-sent beings, Djinns… here? In New York? This isn't a fairy tale. We deal with reality. You'd better focus on facts before wasting time chasing illusions.
Musamaru felt a burning injustice through his body. His breath quickened, but he kept his eyes fixed on the screen. The photo wasn't perfect, it was partial, blurry, but it carried the essence of what he had seen. And he knew it was enough to spark change, to show the existence of what seemed impossible.
— I… I must insist, he said, voice trembling but firm. You don't understand. If you print this… even just a part… people… they will believe! You could change everything the world believes about the unknown!
The editor sighed, slowly removing his glasses and placing his hands on the desk. His face was a mask of weariness, but in his eyes shone a spark of experience: he had seen hundreds of incredible stories and had judged them all impossible.
— I know how to distinguish reality from illusion, he said softly but firmly. Your Djinn… your "divine messenger"… is nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Musamaru stepped back, jaw clenched. But a smile appeared on his lips, fragile, silent, imperceptible to the man's eyes. A smile of defiance and hope.
— You'll see… he murmured to himself, picking up his phone. This is only the beginning.
He stepped into the street, and the city seemed to engulf him. The neon lights, the shop windows, the wet pavement… everything vibrated with chaotic, infinite energy. Every reflection in glass, every glint of light in a puddle reminded him that the extraordinary existed, just beneath the surface. And he, Musamaru, was the one who had captured it. The one who would show it to the world.
The wind tousled his hair, the rain dripped on his shoulders, but in his heart burned a certainty. Even if no one believed him, even if the editor laughed behind his walls, Musamaru knew the truth was there, fragile and powerful, ready to erupt.
He raised his eyes to the gray sky over the city. For a moment, the raindrops glittered like stars suspended in the air. In this mix of concrete, artificial light, and winter cold, the boy realized he was no longer merely a witness. He was a messenger, a seeker of the impossible, and every step he took through the streets of New York brought him closer to a world where the boundaries between reality and the extraordinary no longer existed.
And somewhere, perhaps, a Djinn watched. Patient. Waiting for someone to finally dare to see it.