They say he was born in the cracks of the earth,
Where even the gods refused to look.
A man with no name,
No bloodline,
No right to rise—
And yet, he did.
He was the lowest of the low.
Unfit by blood.
Unchosen by fate.
But the one who would lead the living,
Not to conquest,
But to freedom.
He wore no crown.
No crest.
No armor forged by kings.
Only rags,
Torn by time,
Worn by hardship—
A banner of the broken.
His face was carved by struggle.
His hands, hardened by survival.
His presence was not royal—
But real.
He did not rise to rule.
He rose to liberate.
When the world sat in despair,
Their cries reaching even the deepest depths of Hell,
He was there.
A whisper in the storm,
A flicker of light in the darkness,
A hope when hope seemed lost.
Among slaves and exiles,
He became a legend.
A flame that danced in the shadows.
They said he brought smiles
To those who had forgotten how.
He was kind—
But never soft.
No velvet tongue.
No gilded heart.
Only fire—
That warmed the wounded,
And burned through chains.
He did not call himself king.
They did not call him lord.
They called him:
Joyboy.
For he smiled—
Even when the world pressed down.
Even when pain was all he knew.
His smile was not for himself,
But for them—
For the shackled,
The silenced,
The scorned.
It was whispered through iron bars and battered scrolls:
He would rise.
Not above,
But among.
To lead the final war—
Not for power,
But for peace.
To stand against the Seven Heirs of Power—
The Elder Bearers.
And when the last chain broke—
When the final cry became a laugh—
He would sit upon the Throne of Diavolo,
Not in gold,
Not in glory,
But in peace.
Upon his head,
No jeweled weight.
No iron forged by fear.
But a crown
Of praise,
Of laughter,
Of voices once voiceless.
He would not be remembered
For what he conquered—
But for what he set free.
The Man of Liberation.
The one they called—
Joyboy.