Aether stood amidst the rubble, his breath ragged, but no tears fell.
He stared at his brother's motionless body beneath the debris, and at his trembling mother clutching little Kartithia, who wouldn't stop crying.
But he... didn't scream.
Didn't cry.
Didn't move.
His eyes—pure white—glowed with a strange light, as if reflecting a moon from another world... a mixture of deep sorrow and apathy.
Outside the ruined home, chaos reigned.
The once-beautiful village, full of life, had become a slaughterfield.
People ran in terror, children screamed, soldiers fought to hold back the wave of monsters.
At the heart of it all, Mark—Aether's father—stood his ground, trying to protect what remained.
But Aether…
He remained still, watching.
Like a statue.
Watching soldiers die, villagers fall, and monsters devour everything.
And with every passing moment, the fire and darkness reflected in his eyes…
as if something inside him…
was waking.