Fear of the military transcended ages and eras when certain beasts in human forms invaded the planet with the malevolent intent to annihilate a bloodline. These humanoid creatures arrived astride monstrous animals, which served as mounts and carriers of unimaginable abilities. Their grotesque appearances varied—from towering reptilian riders to clawed, tusked monsters resembling forgotten nightmares. Each one bore the essence of power untamed and hatred unquenchable.
They thrived and subdued the ruling powers, making kings, rulers, and lords of kingdoms either bow in submission or perish. Lightning cleaved the earth amidst irregular thunderclaps, yet no rain ever followed—only fire, brimstone, and panic wherever these beings chose to exist and operate. The very skies seemed to shudder at their presence, and even the winds howled in retreat.
It soon became known that some humans, either through persuasion or desperation, pledged allegiance to one of these monstrous factions—Chatka. This was the first faction to receive human affiliation. Men who joined Chatka were endowed with extraordinary abilities, such as resistance against solar flame assaults and the power to produce thunder-links—thin chains of charged current capable of subduing any living creature upon contact.
These disciples of Chatka countered attacks involving fire, lightning, and thunder. Their powers varied in scale, each limited to the level of strength possessed by the individual. The stronger the vessel, the more terrifying their output. This affiliation marked a person not only with enhanced abilities but with a twisted sense of loyalty. Many were feared, even among allies.
Opposing the Chatka were a formidable faction known as the Six Angels, also called the Tamers. They were ferocious and unrelenting in battle, particularly when confronting an adversary. Their hierarchy was strictly maintained, with structured ranks within their order. They were considered messengers of wrath and redemption, warriors who could silence an army with a whisper or a glare.
Suddenly, without warning, both factions vanished from the face of the earth. It was as though the soil had swallowed them whole, leaving no remnants. Peace returned, but the military preserved meticulous records of those who had once aligned with either side. The few men who had allied with these ancient entities were integrated into the military structure. Archives were established to safeguard vital information, and the families of those involved were closely monitored. Generations passed, but the shadow of those ancient wars lingered.
Each bloodline tied to that ancient battle was required to have a representative in the armed forces—for they were the rightful inheritors of rare power essential to the nation's future. DNA tests were often disguised as medical routines. Histories were reviewed covertly. Entire families were blacklisted, documented, and conditioned for future conscription.
One such family was the Barbers, into which Kilos had been born. The name was recorded under restricted scrolls—files only accessible to the highest echelon of military strategists. Yet even Kilos himself was unaware of the magnitude of his heritage.
Kilos's eyes flickered open. To his surprise, he found himself behind steel bars, from where he could survey his surroundings. There were five individuals in his cell. He looked around, letting his gaze settle on each one, studying their features, breathing in the stale air.
The first person had the weathered appearance of someone who had endured countless battles. His head had a rectangular shape, with veins protruding prominently across his face. Muscles twitched along his jawline, and his arms rested limply, yet there was a dormant power about him.
Kilos offered a tentative smile, attempting to break the tension, but the man only stared at him blankly, his expression fixed and indifferent. There was no trace of friendliness.
"Hi," Kilos said, hoping to provoke a response. His voice cracked from dryness.
Nothing.
Kilos then heard a loud, irregular breathing and instinctively turned. A lean boy with a hardened expression was panting furiously. His chest rose and fell as if an engine churned inside him, his soaked clothes plastered with sweat. His eyes darted about wildly.
Kilos thought the boy must have just been brought in. His restlessness was unmistakable. There was a wildness to him.
"C'mon, you're watered," Kilos said with a grimace, trying to cope with the stench that would surely emerge soon. His nose wrinkled involuntarily.
Yet, just like the square-headed man, the sweating boy offered no reply. His indifference was unshaken. Silence had become the law of this small cell.
"Oh!"
Kilos winced as pain seared through the side of his head. His vision blurred, and a heavy drowsiness enveloped him. His knees buckled. Staggering, he tried to reach the cell bars for support, but he collapsed before making it.
"What's happening to me?" His thoughts remained trapped within him, silent and desperate. Darkness threatened to consume his senses.
Just before his head struck the hard floor, the lean boy dashed forward with startling speed, catching Kilos's head with one hand and supporting his back with the other. He gently lowered him, then quickly stepped away, as though reluctant to form any connection. As if comfort was dangerous.
Soon, Kilos stirred and began to rise again, blinking rapidly. The room felt surreal.
"I welcome you to the Academy," a voice rang through the air—calm but commanding. It was Sergeant Lucas.
At his words, a pedestal began descending from the ceiling with a series of beeps. Enclosed in a glassy, elevated chamber were four figures—two women and two men—all in military uniform. Their faces bore no emotion. The room also housed a machine designed to assess latent powers and innate potential.
From his cell, Kilos noticed something odd: there were sheets of translucent veils separating his chamber from others. As the sergeant spoke, a system triggered the removal of these barriers. With a final series of beeps, the veils dissolved into nothingness, revealing several other cubicles. Inside were more youths—some clearly abducted like him. Many still bore signs of resistance and defiance. Some looked broken; others, furious.
Sergeant Lucas's voice carried an air of calculated assurance.
"Do not be afraid. We are here to help."
"We must assess your inner capabilities in order to categorize you appropriately. You will then be assigned to the class most suited to your unique strengths."
"What's he saying?"
"I don't trust him."
"We play along…"
Suspicion clouded every mind. Despite the sergeant's assuring tone, distrust held them in a quiet, unified rebellion.
"We begin with those stubborn," Lucas announced sharply, his eyes narrowing.
Confusion followed. Who exactly did he mean?
The cubicle finally descended fully, and its door slid open with a hiss. Lucas strode toward Kilos's cell and tapped a card against a sensor, opening it.
"March forward," he ordered, his focus on Kilos unwavering.
The five boys filed out silently, Kilos last—more by circumstance than choice. They halted before a stern-faced woman in military attire.
She wore a long army-green coat over combat trousers, her piercing gaze like a blade, seeming to cut through flesh and bone to find the soul beneath.
"Number One," she called, her tone firm but not harsh.
"Go first," Lucas said, giving Kilos a small nudge.
"Go first?" Kilos echoed, a mix of confusion and unease in his voice.
As he turned to walk forward, he noticed an inscription on his cell: "Those Stubborn."
"Those stubborn?" he muttered, realizing that he and his cellmates had been classified as potentially volatile—worthy of extra caution. It made sense now. The lack of friendliness, the silence. These were not just any boys. They were marked.
Lucas's push irritated him, but he suppressed the urge to retaliate. He already bore the weight of the label, and he didn't want to worsen his image.
"Tamer!" the machine announced as he stepped into it.
"Tamer? What does that mean? I've heard that word before…" he mused aloud, grappling with the name as he exited the platform. The word rang like a bell in a memory he couldn't grasp.
Another boy stepped forward.
"Chatka!" the machine announced.
"Who's Chatka?" Lantern Monroo asked, narrowing his look to the officer.
The announcement left a visible mark of concern on Lucas's face. He moved closer, scrutinizing the boy. It was the rectangular-headed one.
"I am Lantern Monroo," the boy stated boldly, rejecting the name.
"That is your descent name. That is your true self—yet to be awakened," Lucas responded, his long face adorned with a deceptive smile.
The word Chatka brought a chill. That faction had been synonymous with destruction and mercilessness.
But Lantern Monroo was blissfully unaware of the weight his name carried. He would need to be trained, molded, and tamed—like a wild young lion unknowing of his own claws.