Striker had never believed in talent.
Not once.
In his eyes, it was just a convenient word used by those too afraid of effort—an excuse for failure, or worse, arrogance.
To him, power was earned.
Through blood.
Through grit.
Through relentless, unforgiving work. And if anyone needed proof, they only had to look at his journey.
Striker had risen from nothing.
No noble background.
No rare awakening. No sudden miracle.
Just a raw, burning desire to never be weak—and the discipline to turn that desire into power.
That was how he carved his name into the ranks of the strongest in his clan.
A self-made weapon.
But all of that changed... the day he met him.
Just a new recruit at the time—barely awakened.
But the moment he did, the whole clan knew.
Why a Mythic S-Class Hero was one in ten million.
Striker hadn't thought much of it at first.
He thought hard work would still win.
But the recruit didn't just rise—he ascended, leaving the rest of them in the dust.
Breaking records, defying logic, and surpassing veterans who had fought for decades.
So Striker did what he always did—he trained harder.
If one workout didn't do it, he did three.
If he broke, he healed.
Then broke again.
But reality was cruel.
The gap between them only widened.
Worse… that recruit never even saw him as a rival.
Striker was nothing more than another name. Another speck behind him.
That's when the truth hit him like a blade to the gut:
Talent beats hard work.
Always.
But Striker didn't quit.
Instead, he changed his purpose.
If he couldn't be the strongest, then he'd become the shield for those who could.
He would protect the future.
Nurture the next generation—so when their talent fully bloomed, they could protect humanity in ways he never could.
That's why, when he saw Ethan, everything changed again.
He didn't even know his name.
But the talent he saw in him… was greater than anything he had ever witnessed.
Greater than even that mythic recruit.
And so he made a vow.
He would protect Ethan. No matter what.
---
Now, with Mireveil lunging toward him, that vow roared to life.
Striker's instincts surged as a violet strike aimed for his chest.
"Aegis Bloom!" he roared.
Golden light burst forth, instantly forming a dome-shaped radiant barrier around him.
The attack collided—but was absorbed with a shimmer of golden light.
Then, in the next breath—
"Titan Veil!"
The golden avatar exploded into existence once more, and this time it acted without mercy—its massive hand swinging with blinding speed.
SLAAAAAM!
Mireveil was sent flying, crashing into the den wall with a deep crack, lodged into the stone.
Striker didn't hesitate.
"Unit! Shield the boy! Now!" He instructed.
As He blasted off the ground, a golden blur, streaking toward the villain.
He reached the cratered wall where Mireveil was stuck and unleashed a storm of golden fists, each one hammering into the robed figure with ferocious speed.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
But as he prepared to land a final blow—Mireveil vanished.
"Teleportation ability—!" Striker cursed, instantly calling up his barrier again, eyes scanning.
Silence.
Then—screams.
He turned sharply.
Mireveil stood among his team all battered but alive regardless.
One hero—Varnel—barely reacted before Mireveil's hand clamped around his face.
Dark violet energy surged.
And just like that—his head turned to ash.
The hero fell.
Dead.
Another hero, Flint, roared in rage, hurling fire at the killer—but Mireveil dodged easily, weaving through the flames with unnatural grace.
"You bastard!" Flint screamed.
"You killed Varnel! You'll pay for that!!"
The others followed, faces twisted in pain and fury, activating their abilities.
Striker rushed in from the side, his expression hard.
But grief seeped through his cracks. Varnel was one of them.
A comrade and a friend and he was gone like that.
The villain had to pay.
Mireveil looked to Ethan once more, eyes hateful.
"It's not worth it now."
"But I'll be back for you."
And just as a massive golden palm slammed down where he stood—he vanished.
Striker's fist clenched.
"Damn it… he got away."
He turned slowly, gaze falling on Varnel's lifeless body.
The others were solemn—some trembling. Some crying silently.
Striker stood over the fallen hero for a moment longer.
But he couldn't break. Not now.
Later, he'd mourn.
Right now, he had to lead.
He turned to the team.
"Cover Varnel's body. We'll bring him home. He deserves a proper burial."
He pointed to another.
"Flint—collapse the pit. We're sealing this place."
Then to a healer.
"You—check on the boy. He's still breathing, but barely. He needs immediate treatment."
The team snapped into action—a rhythm born from pain and duty.
Striker stood at the center, his golden aura flickering low.
He looked up, gaze distant.
"The life of a hero… it's filled with loss. With risk. But it's the people we protect that give us the will to keep fighting."
"And we won't be stopping anytime soon."
With Ethan's unconscious body secured, and Varnel's body wrapped for honor, the team boarded the VTOL, rising from the blackened den.
Their destination:
The Hero Association HQ.
****
The warehouse was silent.
Too silent.
The kind of silence that made your heartbeat sound like thunder in your ears.
It was the middle of the night, the moonlight barely bleeding through the broken windows above.
Dust floated in the stale air, undisturbed, timeless—until Ethan appeared.
He blinked.
One moment, he had just felled the Guardian, a beast of overwhelming power.
Victory should've meant rest… clarity… anything but this.
Now, he stood in the middle of this abandoned warehouse, disoriented and unnerved.
His boots made no sound against the cold concrete.
Then he looked down at his hands.
His heart skipped a beat.
Transparent.
"What the hell…?" he whispered, barely audible.
He could see through his arms—veins shimmering faintly like glass soaked in light.
Was he a ghost?
That's when he heard it.
A sound.
Chains clinking.
Ethan's head snapped toward the source.
And what he saw nearly shattered him.
His breath caught.
His chest constricted.
Even though he was transparent, his blood boiled. His pulse surged.
And above all else—rage. Pure, feral rage erupted in his soul.
There, tied to a chair, bruised but alive, was a man.
A man with a face Ethan could never forget.
The face that haunted his darkest nights.
The face that ripped away his joy, leaving only ashes.
The face that painted his childhood in shadows and carved grief into his soul.
The man who murdered his parents.
His world tilted.
His hands trembled.
He could still remember the screaming.
His mother's last cry.
The gurgle of his father's breath as it was torn from him.
He was just a boy then.
Helpless.
And this man—this monster—had smiled as he did it.
His grief, long buried beneath trials and blood, came surging back.
Like a storm.
"Why… why are you here?!" Ethan whispered, voice cracking, even though no one seemed to hear him.
Was this a dream? A trick?
Had he returned to Earth? Had time rewound?
Why was the killer tied up?
Then—
A voice.
Calm and Familiar.
"You were really hard to find."
Ethan froze.
He turned slowly.
And there he saw something that made his stomach twist into knots.
Himself.
His past self.
The version of Ethan from Earth.
Still Young and innocent, but his eyes were hollow and burdened by pain.
"What is going on?!"
Ethan said—but his voice was an echo in a void.
Then—agony.
A searing pain bloomed in his skull.
He clutched his head, stumbling, vision splitting.
Memories—ones he didn't recognize—came flooding in.
Faster. Sharper. Louder.
Laughter… tears… a hand reaching for him… blood.
He dropped to his knees.
A voice, smooth and powerful, echoed through the warehouse—not from any one place, but from within:
> "For you to Passover… your memories must be remodeled… to ensure a smooth transfer."
Ethan screamed.
Light. Blinding light exploded in his mind as the voice continued.
And then—darkness.
Followed by the slow, agonizing awakening of even more memories—pieces of him he didn't even know were missing.
Still clutching his head, eyes wide and bloodshot, Ethan knelt in that warehouse.
And for the first time in a long time,
he felt like a boy again.
Afraid.
Angry.
And alone in a world that had always been too cruel.
But even through the pain, he knew one thing—
This was no dream.
This was something deeper.
And whatever waited on the other side…
It wanted all of him.
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A/N will release an extra chapter if I get 50 power stones or 25 Golden tickets.
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