The wind howled across the fields of Storm Village.
Above the sky of Eliria, thousand moons illuminated the night. Some were blue, others silver, others red like glowing embers.
Beautiful.
And dangerous.
Everyone in Eliria knew the same truth:
If a moon were to break apart, it could destroy entire cities.
Abraão learned this lesson when he was only five years old.
He still remembered the screams.
The sky trembled during a cosmic storm. One of the smaller moons shattered, scattering fragments of lunar rock across the land.
His father wrapped his arms around his mother and looked back one last time.
"Run, Abraão!"
Then the sky fell.
The memory never left him.
Years passed.
The village was rebuilt.
Life went on.
But Abraão never truly moved on.
Now, at seventeen, he stood in a field of shimmering lunar roots, carefully pulling them from the ground.
The roots emitted a pale blue light that danced in his hands.
"Don't damage them," his grandmother always said. "Damaged roots attract beasts."
Abraão placed another root in the basket strapped to his back.
Sweat trickled down his forehead.
His power level was 65.
Above average.
Insufficient.
Never enough.
Most villagers would have been proud.
Not Abraão.
He wiped his brow and gazed at the distant mountains.
Strong warriors could split rocks with a single blow.
Some legends could even influence the moons themselves.
And him?
Level 65.
After years of training.
The thought troubled him.
When his basket was finally full, he began the walk home.
The cabin appeared in the distance among the trees.
A thin column of smoke rose from the chimney.
Home.
But before entering, Abraão changed direction.
He walked behind the cabin.
Toward a small clearing.
The grass there had been flattened for years by practice.
His training ground.
Leaning against an old tree was his father's sword.
Abraão picked it up.
The blade was covered in rust.
Old.
Worn.
Ordinary.
Even so, he carried it every day.
He took a deep breath.
And brandished the sword.
Once.
Twice.
Ten times.
Twenty.
The blade cut through the air with dull hisses.
His arms burned.
Sweat trickled down his chin.
But he continued.
Again.
And again.
And again.
He imagined the heroes of the stories.
The legendary swordsman Satoru.
The warriors who protected entire nations.
Each of them had once been weak.
At least…
that's what Abraão wanted to believe.
He delivered one last blow.
The blade stopped mid-swing.
His muscles trembled.
The rusty sword felt heavier than ever.
"…it's still not enough."
With a sigh, he lowered the weapon and returned to the hut.
The familiar smell of soup greeted him.
His grandmother, Elara, sat near the window, weaving fishing nets with trembling hands.
"You're late," she said.
"It took me longer because there weren't many roots around. I had to go deeper into the forest."
Elara looked up.
"As long as you're safe."
A small smile appeared on her face.
"Just don't make me worry too much."
"Okay."
She nodded and continued weaving.
Abraão placed the basket on the table.
For a moment, the hut was quiet.
Warm.
Comfortable.
Then—
BOOM!
The door suddenly burst open.
"ABRAÃO!"
A boy rushed in.
Elias.
Twelve years old.
Disheveled hair.
Bright eyes.
Bursting energy.
He almost tripped over his own feet.
"You won't believe it!"
Abraão raised an eyebrow.
"What is it now?"
"I saw a Moon Hare!"
"Oh, no."
"Oh, yes!"
"You chased it again, didn't you?"
"…maybe."
"Elias."
"Okay, yes."
Elara sighed.
Abraão couldn't help but smile.
The same thing happened almost every week.
One day it was a Moon Hare.
Then it was a shining fox.
Then a strange bird.
Elias somehow managed to stir up trouble everywhere.
"I almost caught it this time!" Elias said proudly.
"You say that every time."
"Because next time I will catch it!"
Abraão laughed.
For a moment, everything seemed normal.
Safe.
As if the world couldn't touch them.
—
That night, the three of them had dinner together.
The soup was simple.
Moon roots.
Vegetables.
A little fish.
Nothing special.
But it was enough.
After dinner, Elias ran outside while Elara slowly washed the dishes.
Abraão stood up to help.
Before he could begin, Elara spoke.
"You're becoming more and more like your father."
He froze.
The words caught him off guard.
"Really?"
She nodded.
"Especially when you're worried."
A silence followed.
Abraão lowered his gaze.
He rarely spoke about his parents.
Not because he had forgotten.
Because he remembered them too much.
Memories surfaced before he could stop them.
A warm summer afternoon.
His father stood in the same clearing behind the cabin.
The old sword looked much newer back then.
Abraão had been too small to even lift it properly.
Every swing made him lose his balance.
Every step ended with him falling into the dirt.
Yet his father never laughed.
He simply helped him stand again.
"A sword isn't heavy because of its weight," his father used to say.
"It's heavy because of the responsibility of the one holding it."
Young Abraão never understood those words.
He thought strength was everything.
His father disagreed.
Then another memory appeared.
His mother sitting outside the cabin beneath the moonlight.
Her gentle voice carried through the night.
She would point toward the sky and tell stories about the thousand moons.
Stories about heroes.
About courage.
About hope.
"The moons aren't just disasters waiting to happen," she once told him.
"They're also proof that even fragile things can shine."
Back then, Abraham believed she would always be there.
He believed his father would always be there too.
But the storm had taken both of them.
And sometimes…
it still felt like it had happened yesterday.
Elara smiled sadly.
"Your father always carried everyone's problems on his shoulders."
Abraão looked at the floor.
"And what did he gain from it?"
Elara placed a hand on his shoulder.
"He would be proud of you."
Abraão didn't answer.
Because he wasn't sure if he believed it.
—
Later that night, the brothers sat outside the hut.
The sky of Eliria stretched endlessly above them.
Unlike most worlds, Eliria didn't have one moon—
but a thousand.
Some looked like tiny silver dots.
Others were larger than mountains.
Blue moons.
Red moons.
Golden moons.
White moons.
Beautiful lights decorating the heavens.
However, each one carried danger.
Children grew up admiring them.
Adults grew up fearing them.
The moons filled the sky.
Elias pointed upwards.
"Do you think heroes really exist?"
Abraão followed Elias's gaze.
"I don't know."
"What about Satoru?"
The legendary swordsman.
The man who cut through Infinity itself.
Abraão stared at his father's old sword beside him.
The blade was covered in rust.
Old.
Ordinary.
Nothing special.
Just like him.
"…maybe."
Elias smiled.
"One day you will be stronger than him."
Abraão laughed.
"That's impossible."
"It's not."
"Yes, it is."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
The discussion continued until they both started laughing.
Finally, Elias's eyes began to close.
His speech slowed.
And within a few minutes, he fell asleep.
—
Abraão remained awake.
Watching the moons.
Thinking.
Remembering.
The smile slowly faded.
His gaze fell to the old sword.
To his calloused hands.
To the scars left by years of training.
Level 65.
After all these years.
Only 65.
A bitter feeling settled in his chest.
Why?
Why did his parents die?
Why did the moons continue to destroy lives?
Why was he still so weak?
The night offered no answers.
Only silence.
And high above the clouds—
one of the distant moons trembled.
Just once.
A small vibration.
Almost invisible.
But something about it seemed wrong.
Abraão stared at it.
A strange feeling crept into his chest.
As if the sky itself were holding its breath.
The moon became still again.
Nothing happened.
No explosion.
No crack.
No fragment falling.
But the feeling of unease persisted.
Far away—
something had begun.
And neither Abraão nor anyone in Storm Village knew that their lives were about to change forever.