There are stories that begin with heroes.
There are stories that begin with kings.
But this one begins with war.
Not the kind sung in halls or written in proud records—
but the kind that leaves nothing behind.
No victory.
No glory.
Only silence.
The sky burned red.
Smoke choked the air, rising in thick black pillars that swallowed the horizon. What had once been a thriving kingdom now collapsed beneath fire and steel. Towers cracked and fell like brittle bones. The gates had long since been torn apart, their iron frames twisted and melted by relentless heat.
The battlefield stretched endlessly.
Bodies lay scattered across the ground—soldiers, civilians, knights. Armor shattered. Weapons broken. The earth itself had been torn open by the force of magic and violence.
Screams had filled this place hours ago.
Now—
there was only the sound of fire.
Crackling.
Consuming.
Ending everything it touched.
And in the middle of it all—
a child stood.
He was small.
Too small for a battlefield.
White hair clung to his face, stained with ash and dirt. His clothes were torn, marked with soot and dried blood that was not entirely his own.
Beneath his right eye rested a faint mark.
A half-moon.
The boy did not cry.
He simply stared.
In front of him—
two bodies lay motionless on the ground.
A man.
A woman.
Their hands were still reaching toward him.
As if they had tried to protect him until the very end.
The boy tilted his head slightly.
His eyes—silver-gray, quiet, and empty—studied them.
"…Get up."
His voice was soft.
No answer came.
The flames nearby shifted.
Wood collapsed.
Sparks rose into the air.
"…Why aren't you moving?"
Still nothing.
The boy took a step forward.
Then another.
His small hand reached out—
and touched the woman's arm.
Cold.
Unmoving.
The boy blinked slowly.
He didn't understand.
Not fully.
But something inside him felt—
wrong.
The wind passed through the battlefield.
Carrying the scent of ash and death.
For the first time—
his fingers trembled.
"…It's cold."
His voice barely rose above a whisper.
A distant sound echoed across the ruins.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Steady.
A man walked through the remains of the battlefield.
His cloak was worn, darkened by travel and time. A sword rested at his side, its presence quiet but undeniable.
His eyes moved across the destruction.
Not with shock.
Not with fear.
But with familiarity.
He had seen this before.
Too many times.
Burned kingdoms.
Lost lives.
Silence after chaos.
Then—
he saw the child.
The man stopped.
White hair.
Small figure.
Standing in the middle of death.
Alone.
The man's gaze sharpened.
Children did not survive battlefields like this.
Not like that.
Not untouched.
He walked forward.
His boots crushed broken debris with each step.
The boy turned his head.
Their eyes met.
For a moment—
the world stood still.
The man studied him carefully.
No panic.
No tears.
Just quiet… emptiness.
"…You're alive."
The boy tilted his head slightly.
"I think so."
The answer was simple.
Too simple.
The man glanced at the bodies near him.
Then back at the child.
"Your parents?"
The boy looked down.
At the unmoving figures.
"…They won't wake up."
Silence.
The wind passed between them.
The man closed his eyes briefly.
Then opened them again.
"…I see."
He stepped closer.
Now he stood just a few steps away from the boy.
Up close—
he noticed something else.
The faint flicker.
Not visible to normal eyes.
But to him—
it was unmistakable.
Aether.
Chaotic.
Unstable.
Like a fire that didn't know how to burn properly.
The man's expression changed slightly.
"…Strange."
The boy looked at him.
"What is?"
The man didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he asked—
"What's your name?"
The boy paused.
Then shook his head.
"I don't know."
"…You don't remember?"
Another small shake.
"No."
The man looked up at the sky.
The red glow of fire reflected against drifting smoke.
Then slowly—
he spoke.
"…Then I'll give you one."
The boy blinked.
"A name?"
The man nodded.
He looked back down at him.
"…Sora."
The boy repeated it softly.
"Sora…"
"It means sky."
The boy looked upward.
Through the smoke.
Through the ash.
There—
barely visible—
a piece of blue sky remained untouched above the destruction.
"Sora…"
He said it again.
This time—
it felt like something belonged to him.
The man turned.
He began walking away from the battlefield.
After a few steps, he stopped.
"…If you stay here, you'll die."
His voice was calm.
Certain.
No emotion.
Just truth.
Sora looked back one last time.
At the bodies.
At the burning kingdom.
At the only place he had known—
even if he couldn't remember it.
Then—
he turned.
And followed.
Small steps behind a wandering man.
Leaving behind a world that had already ended.
Far behind them—
the flames continued to rise.
The war would be recorded.
Names would be written.
Blame would be assigned.
History would move forward.
But this moment—
would not be remembered.
No one would write about the boy who survived.
No one would speak of the child who walked away from death.
And yet—
the world would one day tremble because of him.
Because the boy who could not control his own power…
who did not understand the fire within him…
had just taken his first step beneath the sky.
And somewhere—
deep within that unstable aether—
something had already begun to burn.