A domain of chaos and myth—the "Outer Wall". But calling it a "wall" was misleading, for it was not merely a structure but a boundless, living realm. It stretched endlessly, filled with vast forests that breathed like beasts, rivers that shimmered with the blood of fallen soldiers, and seas that swallowed entire civilizations without a trace. It was a world unto itself, self-contained and lawless, where the only constant was conflict.
Across this terrain, countless races and uncountable beings made their homes—or their battlegrounds. Here, life bloomed in one breath and was extinguished in the next. Civilizations rose like wildfires and crumbled like ash within the same heartbeat. Kingdoms of light and cities of steel stood not as sanctuaries, but as graves-in-waiting. Blood bathed the soil so thoroughly that the earth no longer remembered its original color. War was not a tragedy—it was tradition.
To speak of the "Outer Wall" was to speak of "hell", though to some, it may as well be hell. It was chaos incarnate, where survival was both victory and curse. And yet, from time to time, hope—cruel and beautiful—descended upon it in the form of an "Emissary".
Mysterious and otherworldly, the Emissary would appear like a blade of sunlight through smoke, bestowing upon a select few an invitation: the right to ascend toward the Inner Walls. No one knew who controlled the Emissary or where it truly came from, only that it appeared once a year, cloaked in divine stillness, to choose children between the ages of ten and thirteen. These chosen were called "Breakers"—those who dared to challenge the trials of the Inner Walls, in pursuit of the ultimate freedom said to lie beyond them.
In a war-torn town that had long since forgotten the taste of peace, a child sat alone amid the rubble of what used to be a home. Alpas, a boy of ten winters, clutched a worn leather-bound book tightly against his chest. Though dirt-streaked and threadbare, the book was his most treasured possession—the last gift from his mother before war took her away.
She had told him stories passed down from a wanderer—rumored to be a former Breaker—who claimed to have glimpsed the world "beyond the Inner Walls". According to the wanderer, beyond the labyrinth of impossible trials, there existed a paradise untouched by war, unbound by the blood-soaked laws of the Outer Wall. A place of sky-wide freedom, where beauty reigned and peace was not just a dream but reality.
Alpas had believed in that world from the moment he heard of it. He yearned for it. Not just to escape the ruin around him, but because he wanted to prove he was more than what this cursed land had tried to make him.
Now, seated on the cracked stones of a plaza surrounded by the echoes of dying gunfire and fading screams, Alpas looked up to the reddening sky. The sun was dipping beneath the horizon, casting long shadows that stretched like the fingers of despair.
But the Emissary had not yet come.
Children his age had gathered earlier, filling the square with restless hope and anxious whispers. But one by one, as the hours passed, they left—some in tears, some in silence. Only Alpas remained, still waiting, his eyes scanning the heavens for the shimmering glow that would mark the Emissary's arrival.
It was almost dusk.
His heart pounded. He gripped the book tighter, knuckles white. Doubt crept in slowly, like cold wind beneath a thin blanket.
"Why?" he whispered to himself. "Why hasn't the Emissary come yet?"
His voice cracked under the weight of despair. "Am I not worthy yet?
he cried, louder this time, voice trembling.
He had waited all his life for this moment. For years, he had prayed to whatever gods might still linger beyond the Wall. Every heartbeat he had lived, he had lived for this chance—to become a Breaker. To ascend. To escape.
And yet… the sky remained still.
Tears welled in his eyes, but he bit his lip to stop them. The Emissary had not chosen him—not this year. But that did not mean the story had ended. Breakers were chosen between ages ten and thirteen. He still had three more chances. Three more years to prepare, to grow, to endure.
The fire in his chest flickered but did not die.
Alpas stood, brushing the dust from his ragged clothes. Around him, the ruins of war stretched on—but in his hands was the book, and in his heart, a seed of belief. Perhaps, one day, he would be among the chosen. Perhaps the Emissary was simply waiting for the right moment.
After all, some lights only shine brightest when the world is darkest.
And Alpas… Alpas would not stop until he reached that light.