It is said in the legends… that before the world truly falls, there will be seven minor apocalypses.
These "minor apocalypses" are not total destruction.
Not the end of everything.
But they are enough to crack the world. Enough to stain the sky in unnatural colors. Enough to make every living being realize… that they were never truly safe.
Five of them have already passed.
And now… ten thousand years have gone by since the fifth apocalypse.
Ten thousand years—long enough for fear to fade. Long enough to bury the truth beneath layers of stories.
No one knows when the next apocalypse will arrive. No one knows… if it will even come at all.
And strangely, that fear no longer feels like fear.
Because it has become… a story. A story no more than a legend, or perhaps even… a myth.
---
This legend… has been passed down from generation to generation. From parents to their children. From old books to entertainment stages. From history… into fairy tales.
It is not only about disaster, but also about the heroes who stopped it.
About those who dared to stand against catastrophe. About beings that came from beyond the boundaries of the world. About the calamities themselves.
And above all, the legend of the savior of the fifth apocalypse became the most popular of them all.
Because whether it is true or not, the story is not just about salvation—but about the one who reshaped and defined the world as it is today.
A man.
A man called a king, a hero, a guardian. A man who stood at the peak of the world… and held back destruction alone.
He is no longer portrayed as human. But as something higher. Something purer. Something… absolute.
And in the end, he became a fairy tale. The kind children love the most.
---
In a small, worn-down, dimly lit house… that fairy tale was told once again—a popular bedtime story for children, especially those born into hardship, who needed something to dream about.
The night wind slipped through the cracks of the aging wooden walls. A soft creaking sound echoed every time the wind grew a little stronger.
A dim lamp hung from the ceiling, swaying gently, casting unstable shadows across the room.
In one corner, a thin mattress lay on the floor.
And there, a young boy rested—his head on a woman's lap. His eyes sparkled. Full of curiosity. Full of hope.
"Mom…" his voice was soft, almost a whisper. "Am I really… a descendant of that hero?"
The woman didn't answer right away.
Her face was hidden in the shadows. Only the faint outline of her chin could be seen under the dim light. But that small smile… was still there.
She knew. Everything she told him… wasn't entirely true.
For people like her, born and raised among the lower class, even accessing popular stories was difficult. So, people like them created their own versions from fragments of information.
There were more false versions than the amount of money they could earn in a day. But that was how they entertained themselves—and their children, who were filled with dreams and imagination.
And so, like the others, she made her own version. Adjusted. Simplified. Turned into something her child—who barely understood the world—could grasp.
But still… what was wrong with giving him a beautiful lie, just for tonight?
Their lives were already harsh enough. Days filled with scarcity. Nights filled with hunger they had to endure.
A quiet fear that never truly went away.
If a small lie could bring even a little happiness… then to her… it wasn't a sin.
The woman let out a soft laugh.
"Yup," she answered lightly. "And you'll be his successor."
She gently pinched the boy's cheek.
"You'll have amazing powers. Strong… super strong, hehe."
The boy's eyes widened instantly. As if his small world suddenly grew much bigger.
"Woah… his successor…"
He lifted his head slightly, looking at her with excitement.
"Yeah, Mom! I want to be like that hero!"
"Strong! Unbeatable!"
His small hand clenched, as if grasping something invisible.
"So no one will ever dare mess with us again!"
The word "us" came out without hesitation.
As if his world consisted of only himself… and the woman in front of him.
He paused for a moment.
Then, a wide grin spread across his face.
"Maybe I can just be lazy and still beat all the bad guys. Just like the hero, right?"
The woman raised an eyebrow.
"Like—just snapping my fingers while lying down, and the bad guys lose! Hehe!" the boy continued, wiggling his fingers as he demonstrated.
The woman laughed.
Not just a quiet chuckle—but a real laugh. Light. Warm. Rare.
Her hand gently stroked his hair.
"Yeah… yeah…" she murmured. "I'm sure you can."
She didn't argue. She didn't break his dream.
Not tonight. Not in this small world.
The boy's laughter slowly faded. His breathing became steady. The sparkle in his eyes gradually dimmed. His eyelids lowered… slowly… until—
darkness.
---
But… this darkness felt different. Not warm. Not comforting.
When his eyes opened again, the world had changed.
There was no more swaying lamp. No more soft voice of his mother.
There was only... cold. A dark room. Silent.
Moonlight slipped through a cracked window, casting long, distorted shadows across the floor.
The air felt heavy.
And... there was a metallic scent. Unfamiliar… yet impossible to ignore. The smell of… blood.
In front of him, a woman lay on the ground. Her body stiff. Unmoving. Blood pooled beneath her, slowly seeping into the gaps of the wooden floor.
Her face… looked like his mother's.
The boy froze. He didn't scream. He didn't cry. He just… stared.
His eyes trembled. As if his mind refused to accept what he was seeing.
Slowly… he looked down. His small hands—were covered in blood.
"Why…"
His voice was barely audible. Like it was stuck in his throat.
"Why…?"
In front of him, more than a dozen humanoid silhouettes stood in the shadows. Unclear. Faceless. But their presence… was real.
And they began to move. Step by step. Slowly. Closing in around him.
"Why are you…?"
His voice cracked. Something inside him broke.
"Why…?"
There was no answer.
Only footsteps. Closer. Closer.
The air grew heavier.
The boy shut his eyes. His body trembled.
As if the world itself was collapsing around him.
Darkness.
---
The boy suddenly jolted awake with a sharp breath.
His eyes snapped open in a dark room, lit only by faint moonlight slipping through the narrow gap between the curtains.
The silence felt heavy, disturbed only by the distant sound of wind brushing against the old walls.
For a few seconds, he stayed completely still.
His gaze slowly fell to his arm. The arm that used to be small and fragile was now much larger, marked with several scars here and there.
He was no longer that little boy.
He had grown... into a young man now.
Then he let out a long, quiet exhale.
"That dream again…"
His voice was low and tired, as if he had repeated those same words countless times before.
He slowly sat up from the bed and rubbed his face. Sweat clung lightly to his skin despite the cold air in the room.
His gaze shifted toward the calendar hanging beside the window.
Today's date was circled in red.
He stared at it quietly before his eyes drifted toward a small photo frame resting on the desk nearby.
A woman sat there in the picture, smiling warmly while holding a little boy on her lap.
The young man looked at the photo for a long moment.
Silent.
Unreadable.
Then his hand reached toward the table and grabbed a small lighter.
Click.
A tiny flame appeared.
Its orange glow illuminated part of his face, revealing calm crimson eyes staring into the fire.
He closed his eyes slowly.
For a brief moment, the room fell completely silent again except for the faint crackling sound of the flame.
Then he opened his eyes.
And blew the fire out.
Darkness returned instantly.
"Mom…" he murmured softly.
"You said… the hero's journey begins at the age of eighteen."
His gaze lowered slightly.
"And today… I finally turned eighteen."
A faint smile formed on his lips.
"The day my first step finally begins."
He leaned back slightly and looked toward the wall across the room.
Dozens of papers were pinned there—old notes, newspaper scraps, maps, symbols, and handwritten theories connected by lines and markings.
But among all of them, his eyes focused on one particular image.
Eight black silhouettes standing side by side.
And beneath them was a single image.
A photo of a young man.
The picture looked new, its surface still clean and untouched. Beneath it, small words had been carefully written in black ink.
Ray Dafelix.
The young man stared at it in silence.
"…the first step I'll take…"
His crimson eyes gleamed faintly within the darkness.
"…by going there."
And then—
he smiled.
A calm smile.
Yet beneath it, something dangerous quietly lingered.
Like a sleeping monster finally opening its eyes.