Chapter 11: The Child Beneath the Ruins
The canal of Armagoth did not forgive the weak.
It swallowed them.
And Daito should have been swallowed.
When the Freakers came for him in the dark water, he did not fight like a man.
He fought like something starving.
FLASH!
Steel flashed in broken arcs.
THWACK!
Hands tore
.
TRRR!
TEAR!
Bones snapped.
CRACK! CRACK!
He did not feel the bites.
SNAP—SNAP!
He did not hear the tearing of his own flesh.
He only moved.
Until nothing moved back.
When dawn bled faint gray into the smog—
He stood alone on a mound of corpses.
Blood dripping.
Skin shredded.
Eyes—
White.
Not glowing.
Empty.
Predatory.
Like a rabid hound guarding its kill.
TREMBLE!
SHAKE!
Then his knees buckled.
And the monster fell.
* * *
The Wildmen
They watched from the upper ruins.
Silent.
Painted in ash and earth.
Not Freakers.
Not city survivors.
Natives.
Hidden from the world long before the NBA existed.
They called themselves the "Wildmen."
But they were not savages.
They were disciplined.
Ancient.
Hidden.
Their power was not chemical.
Not engineered.
It was called "Aura."
A force drawn from the inner well of a person's spirit.
The stronger the will—
The stronger the Aura.
And what they felt from the fallen man below—
Was not normal.
It was violent.
Distorted.
But vast.
They approached cautiously.
FLASH! SLING!
Blades drawn.
VRRSSH!
Aura faintly shimmering around their arms like heat distortion.
POKE!
One of them nudged Daito with a spear.
No response.
His body was covered in Freaker blood and fragments of bone.
Scratch marks.
Bite wounds.
Deep lacerations.
He should have turned.
He should have mutated.
But his pulse—
Was steady.
Human.
The youngest warrior whispered, "He's a demon."
The oldest among them stepped forward slowly.
Bent with age.
Eyes clear as still water.
The tribe's shaman.
Touch..
He placed two fingers on Daito's forehead.
Closed his eyes.
And inhaled.
"Hhmmm.."
Then he opened them sharply.
"Seontaekdoen ja," he murmured.
The chosen child.
Long before Armagoth rose—
Before the NBA was formed—
Their ancestors spoke of a storm child.
A warrior who would fall into darkness and return unbroken.
One who would carry death but remain human.
One whose Aura would not shine—
But devour.
The shaman looked at the others.
"He walks between."
"Between what?" one asked.
"Man and abyss."
They carried Daito deep into hidden territory beneath the ruined districts.
Not underground like tunnels—
But into a concealed valley carved within the city's forgotten foundations.
A place no drones could see.
There—
Stood their leader.
A towering presence seated upon a carved stone platform.
Scarred.
Unforgiving.
Eyes sharp as drawn steel.
Bugardi Helensfield.
Native.
Sword master.
Ruthless ruler.
His Aura was visible without effort—
A deep bronze pressure that weighed on the air itself.
When they laid Daito before him—
Bugardi did not stand.
He simply looked.
"Why is he alive?" he asked.
"Freaker bites," one warrior said. "Many."
The shaman replied softly.
"He does not reject corruption."
"He contains it."
Bugardi's gaze narrowed.
"A weapon?"
"No," the shaman said.
"A threshold."
* * *
They patched Daito with herbs long forgotten by modern medicine.
Sew
Stitched head wounds closed.
Vrrssh
Burned infection out with ancient poultices.
Wrapped his body in treated bark fibers and bandages soaked in healing resin.
Days passed.
He did not wake.
But he did not turn.
At night—
Viii...
His body radiated faint pulses.
Not light.
Pressure.
The Wildmen felt it even in sleep.
It was unstable.
Untamed.
On the fifth night—
Daito's eyes snapped open.
He lunged upright—
FWOOSH!
GRAB!
Grabbing the nearest warrior by the throat.
His eyes—
White again.
Feral.
Aura erupted from him instinctively—
But it was not like theirs.
The air around him bent inward.
Like gravity folding.
Bugardi stood instantly.
Unsheathed his blade.
VRRSSH!
SWOOSH!
Aura flared bronze around him like armor.
BRRMM!
The entire chamber trembled.
"Stand down," the king commanded.
"Haarrgh!"
Daito growled like an animal.
Then—
FALL!
Collapsed again.
Breathing heavy.
The white faded.
Human eyes returned.
Confusion.
Pain.
Memory.
Sakumo.
The kick.
The fall.
The betrayal.
His uncle's words.
"Don't trust anyone."
He looked around slowly.
Strangers.
Weapons drawn.
But not attacking.
Bugardi stepped forward.
"You are not dead."
Daito's voice was hoarse.
"Unfortunately."
The king's lips twitched faintly.
"You carry something unstable."
Daito said nothing.
Bugardi leaned closer.
"In this land, we master what is inside us."
He turned.
"If you remain here, you will learn Aura."
He paused.
"But if that darkness consumes you—"
VRRSSH!
His bronze Aura flared violently for a split second.
"I will cut you down myself."
* * *
Later that night, the shaman sat beside Daito.
"You are called Seontaekdoen ja," he said softly.
Daito stared at the ceiling stone.
"I didn't choose anything."
The old man smiled gently.
"Prophecy never asks permission."
He leaned closer.
"Your Aura is not light."
"It is depth."
"And depth… can drown the world."
And in the hidden valley of Armagoth—
The Wildmen began preparing the Chosen Child.
Not to be a pawn.
Not to be a Savage.
But to become something the world had finally been waiting for.
Daito did not speak.
Not the first day.
Not the tenth.
Not the thirtieth.
He simply moved.
Watched.
Breathed.
The hidden valley beneath Armagoth became his world.
No steel towers.
No drones.
No missions.
Only wind through broken stone and the smell of earth.
They wore animal skins stitched with bone needles.
Their huts were built from salvaged timber, stone, and layered bark sealed with resin.
Some hunted.
Some farmed small terraces carved into the inner valley walls.
CLING—CLANG!
Some carved tools from scavenged metal.
They lived in freedom.
They slept without alarms.
They laughed without surveillance.
But peace did not mean softness.
Their laws were absolute.
Stealing meant judgment.
Cowardice in battle meant judgment.
Betrayal meant death.
There were no prisons.
Only verdicts.
And only one executioner.
Bugardi Helensfield did not delegate punishment.
He delivered it himself.
He stood taller than the others.
Broader.
Scarred like a battlefield.
While most of the tribe were lean from rationed harvests and careful hunting—
Bugardi was massive.
Muscle layered upon muscle.
Because he was the best hunter.
He returned with larger prey.
He ate first.
Strength reinforced strength.
Power maintained power.
When judgment was called—
He would step forward without hesitation.
Sometimes with necessity.
Sometimes—
With enjoyment.
And no one challenged it.
Because no one could.
His Aura was crushing bronze pressure.
Ferocious.
Direct.
Overwhelming.
If someone broke the law—
He ended them swiftly.
Sometimes too swiftly.
* * *
Daito's Silence
Daito watched one such judgment.
A man accused of hoarding food.
Rattle—Rattle!
The tribe gathered in a circle.
The shaman spoke.
Witnesses testified.
Bugardi listened.
SLING!
Then drew his blade.
SLASH!
PSSSH!
The execution was clean.
"No!" The wife cried.
"Father..." His children followed.
Final.
Daito did not react.
He simply walked away, gripping his hands tight.
But something behind his eyes hardened.
* * *
That night, the shaman sat beside him.
"You disapprove," the old man said.
Daito did not answer.
"Freedom requires order."
Still silence.
"Order requires fear."
Daito finally spoke.
One sentence.
"Fear rots."
The shaman studied him.
"You think differently."
"I've seen what fear builds."
The old man nodded slowly.
"And what did it build?"
Daito's gaze lifted toward the broken skyline above.
"An organization."
He did not say the name of the NBA.
He did not need to.
But he had the feeling that the shaman, would understand.
---
The next Day
The shaman did not teach him to fight first.
He taught him to sit.
To breathe.
To listen to the pulse inside his ribs.
"Aura is not muscle," the shaman explained.
"It is truth."
"When your inner truth is stable, your Aura flows outward."
"But yours…"
He touched Daito's chest lightly.
"Yours sinks."
Daito closed his eyes.
When he focused—
TRRTLE!
SWOOSH!
The air did not shimmer like bronze.
It did not flare like flame.
It felt like gravity.
Like depth.
Like something pulling inward.
Unsettling.
Heavy.
The Wildmen avoided sitting too close when he meditated.
Animals refused to approach him.
Even the firelight seemed dimmer around him.
Bugardi watched from a distance.
He saw how Daito never asked for more food.
Never competed.
Never laughed.
Never challenged.
But when they trained—
SWOOSH!
Daito adapted too quickly.
He learned their blade forms in weeks.
His body recovered unnaturally fast.
Scars faded into silver lines.
One evening, Bugardi approached him directly.
"You do not bow," the king said.
Daito looked up calmly.
"I don't belong to you."
A murmur rippled through nearby warriors.
Bugardi smiled faintly.
Most would have been struck down for less.
Instead, he drew his blade halfway.
SLING!
"Good."
CLICK!
Then he sheathed it.
"Strength should not kneel easily."
He leaned closer.
"But remember this."
"In this valley, I decide who breathes."
Daito's eyes did not shift.
"For now."
The air tightened.
VRRSSH!
Aura pressure brushed against Aura depth.
TRRRTLE!
Bronze force met silent gravity.
Neither flinched.
Bugardi stepped away first.
Laughing.
"I like him."
* * *
Some of the Wildmen began to fear Daito.
Others admired him.
The younger warriors whispered that he might surpass the king.
The elders worried prophecy was unfolding too quickly.
The shaman alone seemed calm.
"The Seontaekdoen ja does not rise by comfort," he said.
"He rises by fracture."
The valley no longer breathed the same.
Conversations stopped when Daito walked past.
Children stared.
Warriors measured him in silence.
To be Continued....