Grey clouds hovered low over the orphanage’s concrete courtyard. A wind whistled through rusted fencing, but no one noticed. They were too busy laughing.

  

  Child 1: Worthless stray.

  Child 2: He eats alone again.

  Child 3: Maybe his parents left because even they hated him.

  The taunts blurred into one another — daily, bitter echoes. Belial 1, or the boy who would become him, sat on a splintered bench, knees to his chest, unmoved. Not stoic — simply numb. He had learned early that silence made him invisible.

  Then one day, she appeared.

  A soft voice was behind the chain-link fence.

  Girl

  “Why don’t you ever smile?”

  He turned. On the other side of the fence, across the road in a forgotten city park, a girl stood beneath the blooming branches of a worn cherry tree. She wore a red scarf and mismatched gloves. Her smile didn’t mock — it invited.

  He didn’t answer.

  Girl

  “If you come over,” she said, tilting her head, “I’ll give you half my bread.”

  From that moment, the world wasn’t so gray.

  They met there often, separated by metal and policy, but united in something gentler. She would draw chalk lines on the ground. He’d watch in silence. Sometimes she sang. Once, she gave him a folded paper bird through the fence.

  Girl

  "You need wings,” she whispered. "To fly away from here."

  He never saw her again after the winter ended.

  But he kept the paper bird. Even now, decades later, it sits in the cockpit of his jet — taped near the throttle, faded, but whole.

  He doesn't remember her name. Just her scarf, her voice, and the way her eyes saw him… not as a burden. But as someone waiting to fly.

  The chimneys burned black that day. Not for warmth. For destruction.

  The orphans had heard the rumors — whispers of the Velkarian Conscription Act, of the special units being formed. “Patriot Sons,” they called it. Nothing glorious about it. Everyone knew what it meant.

  And then, the trucks came. Steel beasts marked with the crimson sigil of Velkaria’s rising military. Soldiers in matte black stepped out with batons and rifles. Their orders were silent but final: Take the boys. Leave the weak. Break the defiance.

  Some of the older children — fifteen, sixteen — tried to run. One climbed the back wall. Another struck a guard with a stone. The sound of a rifle cracking across the courtyard shattered the silence like glass.

  “Let this be a lesson to the rest,” a voice said. Cold. Bureaucratic.

  “You don’t serve your nation by dying in the dirt.”

  Belial 1, barely twelve, stood motionless. His fists clenched so hard his knuckles bled. The paper bird was still in his pocket. He thought of giving it away, of letting the wind carry it somewhere safer than this concrete cage.

  But he stayed silent.

  He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He stepped forward.

  Velkans Air Force Base

  The concrete walls stank of oil and fear. The "training" had only begun, but it was no discipline — just cruelty refined into routine. They told the boys they'd become elite. That the weak would wash out.

  But it was never about strength. It was about breaking what was left of them.

  And the other orphans — the bullies — still clung to the old power they once held over him.

  

  Bully: You may have fooled the instructors, freak. But we know who you are, you’re nothing.

  They dragged him into the empty barracks wing. After lights-out. No instructors. No rules. Just their boots, fists, and grins. But this time, he wasn’t empty-handed. He had stolen a pistol. Not from arrogance. From foresight. They didn’t see it until it was aimed.

  The first shot rang out and echoed like a fire alarm through the metal rafters.

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  One down.

  The second tried to run — he didn’t make it far.

  The third begged. Pleaded. Said it was all a joke.

  The fourth just froze — he couldn’t believe the silence.

  Then four lay still.

  Blood pooled beneath the bunks.

  Steam rose from the warm barrels in the cold air.

  Belial 1 stood over them, breathing shallow, hands steady.

  No one came running.

  No alarms sounded.

  Because the instructors were always watching — and this was exactly what they wanted.

  Later that night, a masked officer approached him in the hall. No emotion. Just approval.

  

  Officer: You survived. You chose dominance. You chose to live.

  The boy didn’t answer. He just walked past them, head held higher than ever before.

  That was the true birth of Belial 1 — not in the cockpit, but in the quiet aftermath of his first, irrevocable choice.

  Enemy territory, scorched desert base near dusk. Belial Squadron leads the strike.

  The runway was ash. The enemy base, broken.

  Smoke curled from hangars and scattered barracks.

  The mission was all but finished.

  Then he saw it.

  A transport carrier, lifting off just beyond the flames. Unarmed. Marked with a red cross.

  Its engines sputtered under the weight, overloaded with civilians. Families. Refugees. Children.

  Belial 2 chimed in over the comms, uncertain:

  << Belial 2 >>

  << Target locked… That’s a non-combatant transport, sir. Orders? >>

  There was silence.

  Belial 1 hovered just above, Su-35 casting a long shadow across the fleeing aircraft.

  He said nothing. He didn’t have to.

  His finger curled around the trigger.

  His eyes didn’t flinch.

  He fired.

  The missile streaked toward the helpless carrier.

  A moment later, it bloomed into a red blossom of death against the darkening sky.

  There were no screams — just the sound of metal cracking and wind catching fire.

  << Belial 3 >>

  (whispering)

  << …They weren’t armed. >>

  The comms went silent again.

  No questions. No mercy. No witnesses.

  As the debris scattered across the sand, Belial 1 banked right and rejoined the squadron — eyes forward, face unreadable.

  He wasn’t a soldier. He wasn’t a hero.

  He was what Velkaria had made him: a weapon.

  The wind roared outside the canopy, but inside, it was quiet. Almost peaceful.

  The carrier was gone. The screams were imagined — if they existed at all.

  Belial 1 didn’t flinch. Didn’t tremble. He let his hand rest lightly on the throttle, breathing measured and deep.

  No anger.

  No doubt.

  Only relief.

  Not because he killed. But for a moment, the chaos in his mind stopped screaming.

  The ghosts of the orphanage. The boots. The beatings. The laughing boys.

  The smell of sweat, piss, and blood on concrete.

  Gone.

  The agony he wore for years — the heavy armor of trauma — lifted.

  He felt… light.

  Not happy. Not proud. But satisfied. The way a blade must feel when sharpened. Purpose fulfilled—steel at rest.

  He banked gently with the dying sun at his wingtip.

  Not the memories. Not the guilt. Not the silence.

  Just wind. And fire. And freedom bought with ash.

  He smiled.

  A small, quiet curve of the lips. The first in years.

  And in that moment, Belial 1 didn’t see himself as a monster.

  He saw himself as cleansed, forged in pain, and finally, above it.

  Flight Deck, BMS Tempest Warden (Beulah’s Aircraft Carrier)

  Present Day

  The deck lights hummed low, casting long shadows across the aircraft lined in solemn silence. The sea breathed below — endless, dark, unknowable.

  Cinder stood near the edge of the deck, arms resting on the railing.

  The ocean glimmered beneath the moonlight like a vast mirror of memories.

  Alex stood beside her, silent as ever — helmet tucked under one arm, his eyes fixed out on the waves.

  The wind teased Cinder’s hair, but she didn’t mind. Her voice was quiet — the kind you use when trying not to break something fragile in your chest.

  Cinder

  “You know... being up here almost makes it feel like the world isn’t burning.”

  She glanced at him, then back to the horizon.

  Cinder

  “There was this kid. Back before everything... when we were still living near Gospel.”

  (small, almost guilty smile)

  “He was in the orphanage that Mom used to visit. Kinda quiet. Always sat near the window. Didn’t say much, but he had these eyes that… stayed with you.”

  (She tightened her grip on the railing.)

  Cinder

  “I gave him a paper glider once. Just something I folded out of scrap. He smiled — like it was the only good thing he’d ever been given.”

  Her voice faded for a moment, lost beneath the wind and the sound of waves colliding with steel.

  Cinder

  (softly)

  “Then the soldiers came. Velkarians. Took most of the boys away. He didn’t cry. Didn’t fight. Just stared. Like he already knew what would happen. I don’t know why I’m thinking about him now. Maybe it’s the way things are going. Maybe it’s… guilt. Sometimes I wonder if I’d even recognize him. If I passed him in the skies... would I know?

  (She glanced sideways — her voice lowered to a whisper)

  Cinder

  “What if he’s one of them now, Alex? What if we’ve already fought him... and just didn’t know?”

  The waves answered her in silence.

  Alex reached out — not with words — but rested his gloved hand gently over hers on the railing. A silent anchor in turbulent waters.

  Cinder closed her eyes.

  Cinder

  “Whoever he became... I hope he forgave the world.”

  Cinder rested her head on her brother's shoulder as she needed to be comforted.

  The Tempest Warden sailed on beneath them, slicing through the sea like a blade through memory.

  

  "Blue Spider 1... doesn't speak. But his hands do. His maneuvers. His precision. His silence. It's not arrogance—it's something deeper. Familiar."

  Demon Lord of the Round Table. She had been a young naval officer then, part of a diplomatic escort caught in the wrong sky at the wrong time. She should have died. But she didn’t.

  

  "It’s not him. I know that. But something about the way he moves… it’s like the sky remembers."

  

  "Maybe he’s his student. Or maybe blood speaks in clouds and contrails. Whatever the truth is… he’s not flying alone."

  Sometimes, they pass the torch—one silent warrior to the next.