Got it. You want it in English, but not that stiff, textbook English. You want it raw, alive—the kind that actually sounds like a person thinking, feeling, existing. No formal BS. Just real.
Let me rewrite Episode 1 with that energy.
FALSE PROPHECY
Episode 1: Leftovers
My name's Kael, and I'm the most pathetic hero who's ever lived.
At least, that's what it says in the history books. What they whisper in the hallways every time I walk past. What the rehab instructors tell me in that diplomatic tone that's really just a fancy way of saying "loser."
But I'm not mad. Weirdly enough, I'm kinda proud.
Because every time they look at me with pity, or disgust, or amusement—I know my plan's working just fine.
Today's like any other day at the Elysian Recovery Facility. Early morning, sun still hiding behind the western cliffs, and I'm standing in front of the main building with a cup of coffee that tastes like dirty dishwater. Air's cold enough to sting your cheeks, the kind of spring that can't decide if it wants to warm up yet.
"Kael!"
I don't need to turn around to know who it is.
"Maya."
She appears next to me, breathing hard, her black hair loose on one side—she rushed. Maya's the fifth Chosen. Back then, they called her the brightest strategist of her generation. Now she's known as the one who yells the most in therapy class.
"You been here this whole time?" she asks, leaning on the iron railing next to me.
"Since five."
"Why?"
"Couldn't sleep."
That's a lie. I can sleep anytime, anywhere. I just like coming early. Campus is empty at this hour. No one's watching. No one's trying to have conversations I don't care about.
Maya stares at me for a second. Her eyes are sharp, like always—like she's trying to read something behind my face. But then she sighs and looks away.
"You're weird, Kael."
"Thanks."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"I know."
We're quiet for a bit. Wind. Leaves rustling from the garden. Some bird screaming like it's possessed. Elysian's designed to be calming—big trees, a fake lake, white stone buildings with architecture that's supposed to "soothe the soul." But to me, this place feels like a prison with a fresh coat of paint.
"You haven't heard?" Maya breaks the silence.
"Heard what?"
"They're bringing a new one today."
I stop mid-sip. The bitter coffee tastes a little more bitter than usual.
"The twelfth Chosen?"
Maya nods. Her face softens, just a little. I don't know why, but out of all twelve failed heroes stuck in this place, Maya's the only one who still has something left in her eyes. The rest? Empty eyes. Or bitter. Or anger that's rotted into apathy.
"He's just a kid, they say," Maya continues. "Twelve years old."
"That's too young."
"You started at that age too, didn't you?"
I don't answer.
Because Maya doesn't know I never actually started. I was never called by the prophecy. Never heard the voice from the sacred stone. Never felt that surge of destiny they say shakes your bones when you're chosen. I faked all of it. I forced my way onto the list.
Ten years ago, I was a kid with a power nobody wanted: I could read the threads of fate. Not see the future—that's too grand. I could see the strings. The little connections between cause and effect, choices and consequences, coincidence and necessity.
And I saw something I wasn't supposed to see.
The prophecy wasn't sacred. It was made. By something, or someone, sitting behind all of this, pulling strings like we're puppets.
I hated it.
So I did the only thing I could: I infiltrated. I rewrote the small threads around me, just enough to make the system believe I was the seventh Chosen. Not the first, not the last—somewhere in the middle, so I wouldn't stand out.
Then I made sure I failed.
I failed spectacularly. I ran from my mission. I let everyone down. I made myself look like garbage. My reputation got shredded, and that was good. Because the lower they looked at me, the less they watched me.
Ten years. I've been waiting ten years in a place like this, surrounded by failed heroes who don't even know they're victims of the same system.
And now the twelfth Chosen is coming.
Maya leaves after a few minutes, says she wants to grab breakfast before class. I'm still leaning on the railing, staring at the fake lake with water that's too clear to be real.
My mind's spinning.
The twelfth Chosen.
In the prophecy system, twelve is the last number. After twelve heroes, there's no more. Either the world gets saved, or the world ends.
But eleven of them have already failed. Including me—or so they think.
So why is there a twelfth? Why does this system keep making new heroes when the old ones never even got fixed?
That question's been eating at me for years. And today, maybe I'll get some answers.
I finish my coffee in one gulp, the bitterness scraping down my throat.
"Alright," I mutter to myself. "Let's see how deep this rabbit hole goes."
They bring him in at noon.
I don't go to the main gate—I'm not the type to welcome new arrivals. But from the second-floor dining hall window, I can see the small crowd forming at the entrance.
Director Aldric's at the front in his formal robes, way too overdressed for something this small. A few instructors stand next to him with faces I can't quite read—pity mixed with worry.
And in the middle of them, a kid stands there with a suitcase almost as big as his body.
He's small. Way smaller than I expected. Brown hair, messy, like he just woke up or didn't have time to fix it on the way here. Big dark eyes, and from this far, I can see he's trying so hard not to look scared.
But he's failing.
His hands are shaking. I can see it from here.
"He's just a kid," someone whispers next to me. I turn. Maya's standing beside me, watching from the same window.
"Yeah," I say.
"This is insane."
"Yeah."
Maya looks at me. "You have no empathy at all, do you?"
"Empathy's not gonna save him."
"At least you could try not to be an ass."
I don't answer. Not because I don't have one—but because I'm noticing something else.
Director Aldric's greeting the kid with that warm smile I know too well. Same smile he gave me ten years ago, when I first set foot in this place. The smile that says "everything's gonna be fine" when he knows it's not.
But that's not what catches my attention.
What catches my attention is how the kid suddenly stops shaking.
Not because he's suddenly brave. But because his eyes move, slowly, going up—past the Director, past the instructors, past the main building—and lock straight onto the window where I'm standing.
From fifty meters away, his eyes meet mine.
And for a few seconds, I feel something breathe inside my chest. Not fear. Not a threat. Something stranger.
Like when you open your front door after being gone a long time, and realize someone's already inside, waiting for you.
The kid smiles.
Small, thin, and somehow it puts me on edge more than a thousand swords ever could.
That same day, I get my new assignment.
"You're gonna mentor the new kid."
I stare at Maya like she just told me I'm getting married to a bird.
"What?"
"Direct orders from the Director. They think you're the most... suitable."
"Suitable how?"
Maya shrugs. Her face is trying to stay neutral, but I can see a little—barely—amusement tugging at the corner of her mouth. "You both failed, I guess? So he doesn't feel alone."
"I didn't fail. I—"
"You ran from your mission, Kael. That's literally the definition of failing."
I shut up. Not because I can't argue back, but because I almost said something I shouldn't. I failed on purpose. I never actually tried. I'm not a hero.
But that secret can't get out. At least, not yet.
"Fine," I say. "I'll do it."
Maya raises an eyebrow. "That easy?"
"He's just a kid. How hard can it be?"
Maya looks at me for a long moment. Then she shakes her head, almost laughing. "You really are something else, Kael."
"Thanks."
"Wasn't a compliment."
"I know."
I meet the kid in the evening, in his room on the west wing.
I don't knock. I just stand in the doorway, looking in, and find him sitting on the edge of the bed with his suitcase still unopened.
He looks at me. And again, my eyes lock with his.
"Kael," I say. "Your mentor. Or that's what they're telling me."
The kid doesn't answer right away. He stares for a few seconds, and I feel like I'm being examined. Then that thin smile I saw from the window comes back.
"Ariel," he says. His voice is soft, a little raspy, like a kid who's just finished crying.
"Ariel."
"Yeah."
I wait for him to say more. He doesn't. I don't like this. I don't like how he's looking at me, like he knows something he's not supposed to know.
"You're not scared?" I ask, just to break the silence.
Ariel looks down. His small fingers grip the edge of the blanket.
"I am scared," he says. "But..."
"But?"
He lifts his face. And for the first time, I see something I didn't expect: certainty. Not the fake heroic kind. Not forced. Something simpler, and somehow more unsettling because of it.
"But I'm already here," he says. "So maybe I'm not supposed to be scared anymore."
I don't know what to say to that.
So I just stand there in the doorway, staring at this small kid with dark eyes who somehow makes me feel like—for the first time in ten years—I'm not alone in my lie.
And that terrifies me.
More than anything ever has.
End of Episode 1.