Smoke clawed at the sky, thick and choking, turning it into a canvas of crimson and gray. Fires burned in jagged patterns across what had once been a bustling city. The ground was littered with the remnants of war—broken shields, shattered swords, and the bodies of soldiers who had fallen moments ago, or perhaps days, it was impossible to tell. Amidst the ruin, a figure stirred.
Arion… or at least, that name seemed to flutter at the edge of his mind, elusive and unfamiliar. He opened his eyes slowly, the world tilting and spinning like a painting warped by heat. There was pain, yes—but not in his body. It was deeper, a dull ache that gnawed at the edges of memory. And beneath it all… a pulse. A rhythm that seemed to echo from within him, powerful, infinite, and raw.
He sat up, brushing ash from his arms. His senses came alive all at once—the metallic tang of blood, the acrid scent of burning wood, the faint cries of the wounded carried on the wind. Yet, among these details, one thing dominated: the power thrumming in his veins. He flexed his fingers, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause. A loose stone trembled on the scorched ground and crumbled into dust.
From the haze, a figure emerged. A soldier, armor dented and scorched, sword raised high. "You! Demon!" he shouted, voice cracking with fear. "Stand and fight!"
Arion blinked. Time slowed. He did not yet understand why, but he felt the world bending slightly around him, responding to the quiet, unfocused will that had begun to awaken. His eyes swept over the charging soldier. There was nothing in them—no hatred, no anger, only detached curiosity.
"Wait…" the soldier hesitated, lowering his weapon ever so slightly. "You… you are—"
Arion's voice had not yet formed. Words were not necessary. One step, deliberate and slow, and the earth beneath the soldier's feet cracked. A jagged fissure split the ground, running toward the advancing man like a warning drawn in stone. The soldier stumbled, eyes wide, and froze entirely. "W-what… what is this?"
Nearby soldiers, previously hidden in the smoke and shadows, faltered. Murmurs broke out, a trembling chorus. "Did you see that?!" "Is he… human?" "He's a god!"
The charging soldier gritted his teeth and swung his blade in desperation, aiming straight for Arion's chest. For a moment, the world held its breath. And then—the sword disintegrated midair. Dust and sparks fell like raindrops, leaving only the soldier staring, mouth agape, as his weapon vanished as if it had never existed.
"Impossible…" he whispered, falling to his knees. Around them, the sound of collapsing structures and crackling fire filled the air, but all attention was drawn to this singular anomaly—the man who could unmake a weapon with barely a thought.
Another soldier screamed. "Fall back! Fall back! This… this is—" He never finished. Arion had shifted his gaze toward him, and the air itself seemed to push the man back, forcing him to stumble over the scorched rubble.
From a nearby mound of debris, a commander shouted orders, voice cracking but loud enough to pierce the chaos. "Form up! Stand your ground! Kill him!"
One by one, the soldiers faltered. Some turned to flee, tripping over fallen comrades, while others froze entirely, their minds incapable of processing what they saw. Fear radiated from them, tangible and thick, and Arion watched, detached, almost amused.
A new voice rang out—a child's voice, small and trembling, from somewhere amidst the ruins. "Is… is he a god?"
"Shut up!" a soldier snapped, yanking the child behind him. But even as he did, Arion's attention flickered for the briefest moment toward the trembling figure. Curiosity stirred again.
The charging soldier, desperate and panicked, made one last attempt. He lunged, eyes wide with terror. Arion did not move. A simple tilt of his hand, and the air seemed to reject the attack. The soldier stumbled, fell, and slid to a stop on the scorched earth, staring at the man before him with a mixture of awe and horror.
"W-who… what are you?" the soldier gasped, voice breaking.
Arion finally spoke, his words calm, measured, and carrying a strange, magnetic weight. "I am… nothing yet. And everything."
A long silence stretched between them. The smoke swirled, the fires roared, and the battlefield seemed to hold its breath. Somewhere in the distance, a tower collapsed, sending shards of stone scattering like rain. Yet all eyes—if anyone still had the courage to look—were fixed on him.
A sudden shout rang out from the far side of the ruins. "Commander! He's… he's just a man!" one soldier cried, disbelief lacing his voice. "But—he—he stopped our weapons! Our men are… gone!"
The commander's face twisted in confusion, terror, and rage. "Rally them! Everyone—attack together!"
Arion turned slowly, surveying the battlefield. Nothing moved without his notice. Every cry, every flicker of fear, every broken weapon seemed almost… trivial. And yet, somewhere deep inside, a spark of something new stirred—an instinct.
Another set of cries drew his gaze—a distant wail, faint and eerie, carried on the wind from the northern ruins. It spoke of chaos, of creatures, of forces waiting beyond the city. Arion's brow furrowed slightly, curiosity lacing the calm that surrounded him.
The soldier who had charged him finally stumbled to his feet, trembling. "Please… don't…"
Arion did not answer. He merely observed, and in that observation, the world seemed to bend slightly closer to him.
The flames roared. The ruins smoked. And in the midst of it all, a single, profound question lingered in the air, carried by the ash and the fear: if a single soldier cannot touch him, what chance does an army have?
And with that, the world began to notice the awakening of something far beyond comprehension.