Thirteen years had passed since the flames of Izu consumed Alex’s world. Now a man of twenty, he bore the physical scars of his past. The wilderness had etched a feral resilience into his being, and now that he was no longer afraid to hold company, he was untouchable by the slings and arrows of ridicule. Within him still flickered the embers of hope for revenge, fueled by the memory of his fallen village and hardened by his love of firepower.

For the past four years, since the prophecy of the wizard Pyros (whom he had not encountered since), Alex had loyally carried the ancient shoulder cannon wherever he went. The shoulder cannon was an archaic weapon, wielded in days of giants, days in which men grew much taller and stronger than in Elysium today. His ability to shoulder the mighty weapon was uncanny, but its weight caused Alex’s back to hunch even further as the years went by. He welcomed these changes with good humor, knowing the cannon would be a part of him forever.

With his fears of people since defeated, Alex enjoyed traveling about, spending time with the inhabitants of various towns and villages throughout Elysium. With his cannon and firepower to protect him, he needed not even worry about the more perilous lands toward the center of the continent, where the Ring of Ruin exuded a strange and evil magic that produced nightmarish monsters. So Alex explored the lands looking for good company.

One evening he found a crowd in the bustling eastern tavern of Havenfall, nestled along the rugged coast, where he regaled the patrons with his outlandish tales, oblivious to the whispers of amusement that followed him.

But the evening’s merriment was all but shattered when a ragged and black-toothed sailor uttered a single phrase: Dark Sun. It was a name carved into Alex’s soul like a knife of fire, a name that awoke a dormant beast of rage within. Years of friendliness and genial composure crumbled, replaced by a primal fury that threatened to consume him. In a fit of confusion and rage, Alex nearly lit his cannon and set the entire place ablaze.

A seasoned sailor named William, with a handlebar mustache and a mighty anchor held as a weapon at his side, sensed the storm brewing within Alex. He left his place at the bar and quickly intervened, his voice a calming wave against the rising tide of anger in the young man. He took Alex aside, befriended him and listened to his tragic story, a tale of a lost village and a thirst for vengeance. William, seeing in Alex a reflection of his own past struggles, was moved with sympathy and camaraderie.

Together, they forged a plan. The sailor who had mentioned Dark Sun was a mate for Crimson Dawn, a notorious pirate crew rumored to be suppliers of gunpowder to the Dark Sun, became their target. Alex, with his imposing presence and shoulder cannon — an archaic relic from a forgotten age — and William, with his stoic strength and formidable anchor-axe, presented themselves as prospective mates for Crimson Dawn.

Their offer to join the crew was met with mixed reactions. The sight of Alex’s cannon intrigued the pirates, its power a tempting tool for their nefarious plans, but Alex’s wildness caused hesitation.

While the Crimson Dawn mates were unsure about Alex, William’s reputation as a skilled sailor and his calm demeanor spoke volumes for both of them. The crew, primarily from fear of treachery, decided to split them up. Alex, with his cannon, was granted immediate acceptance on the harbored ship’s crew. William, they declared, would have to prove his worth aboard another ship due to arrive within three days.

Disappointment flickered across Alex’s face, but William’s hand clasped his shoulder in a reassuring grip. “Remember our plan, brother,” he whispered, his voice a low rumble. “We will meet again soon, and together, we will see the Dark Sun extinguished.”

With a heavy heart, Alex watched his friend disappear into the crowds of Havenfall. He knew the plan was risky, but trust in William burned bright within him. It was time to infiltrate the enemy’s ranks, to gather information, and to strike the first blow against those who had stolen his childhood and his family.

The fire of vengeance burned brighter than ever, fueled by a newfound purpose. He would finally become the instrument of justice that would reclaim his lost innocence, bring peace to his thirsty soul, and forge a new destiny.

But the journey ahead was fraught with dangers. The Crimson Dawn was a crew of hardened criminals, and Alex, despite his feral skills, was an outsider. He had to tread carefully, walk a tightrope between suspicion and acceptance, all while carrying the weight of his past and the burden of his vengeance.

He knew that this was only the beginning. The path to justice would be long and arduous, but Alex was determined to walk it. He would not rest until the flames of his cannon’s vengeance had consumed the darkness that had consumed his world.

When you open yourself to the wonders of life, they will often light a fire within you somewhere along the way.

The sun, a fiery orange globe peeking over the horizon, cast long shadows across the beach as Alex skipped down the shore. His laughter, a symphony of joy and childish abandon, echoed in the crisp morning air. He was a whirlwind of energy, his eyes sparkling with the excitement of a new day, his dark hair adorned with seashells and coral fragments, a testament to his adventurous spirit.

Alex, despite years spent alone, had cultivated a remarkable resilience, a fractured personality that housed both solitude and companionship. He conversed with himself, weaving intricate tales and cracking witty jokes that left him doubled over with laughter. His humor, born from the solitude, was as unique as his spirit, a beacon of joy in a world that had seen so much darkness.

As Alex stooped to pick up a particularly beautiful starfish, his eyes caught a glint of light in the distance. An orange-cloaked figure stood at the mouth of a nearby cave, watching him with curious eyes. Intrigued, Alex momentarily forgot his usual aversion to strangers.

The figure, cloaked in orange robes, chuckled softly, then lit a curious device in his hand. A stream of fireballs, shimmering with an array of colors, erupted from the device, painting the sky with an ephemeral spectacle. Alex watched, mesmerized, as the fire danced and twirled, a captivating display unlike anything he had ever seen.

The stranger beckoned Alex closer, a warm smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. As Alex approached, the fear of people that had clung to him for so long like a shadow began to fade. The fire ignited a warmth within him, melting the isolation that encased his heart.

“I am called Pyros,” the stranger said, his voice deep and resonant. “And you, young one, are destined for great things.”

Pyros, with an uncanny knowledge of Alex’s past and future, sensed the boy’s yearning for connection and purpose. He saw the potential within him, a raw talent waiting to be nurtured. With a twinkle in his eye, he introduced Alex to the wonders of firepower.

“This is no magic,” Pyros explained, gesturing to the cave floor, where an intricately carved and ancient looking cannon sat. “This is the power of fire, a force that can forge both destruction and creation.”

For the next fortnight, Alex became Pyros’ student, learning the secrets of fire and gunpowder. He honed his aim, mastered the intricate mechanics of the cannon, and absorbed Pyros’ wisdom like a parched sponge. The fear that once ruled him slowly gave way to confidence, replaced by a newfound sense of purpose.

When the time came for farewell, Alex stood tall, the cannon resting comfortably against his shoulder. He was no longer the scared boy who wandered the wilderness. He was Alex Reborn, a warrior forged in fire, ready to face the world with newfound courage and a heart filled with the warmth of friendship. As he turned to leave, Pyros’ parting words echoed in his ears, “Remember, Alex, fire is a powerful tool. Use it wisely, and it will guide you to your destiny.”

With a final wave, Alex ventured out into the world, his heart ablaze with newfound hope and the promise of a future illuminated by the flames of his cannon. He was a misfit no longer, but a warrior, a friend, a survivor, forever marked by the fire that had illuminated his way back to the true path, whatever that may be.

Fear not, misfit. Fate has a plan for you in the end, and the future will know your name.

The sole survivor of the Izu massacre emerged from the depths of his cave, a boy reborn. The world that greeted him was a desolate canvas painted with the hues of death and destruction. His home, once a haven of laughter and love, was now a haunting reminder of the brutality that swept through his life.

The once vibrant village of Izu lay in ruins, its streets littered with the remnants of shattered lives. The silence was deafening, broken only by the mournful cries of carrion birds circling overhead. The corpses were so unrecognizable that he couldn’t even find the bodies of his parents.

With a heart heavy with grief but hardened by darkness, Alex wandered through the wreckage of his past, his young mind struggling to grasp the enormity of his loss. With nowhere to turn and no one to call his own, he ventured into the unforgiving wilderness, seeking solace in the embrace of nature.

The land, scarred by the Black Sun’s reign of terror, offered little sustenance and shelter. Driven by an instinct to survive, Alex honed his primal skills, learning to hunt and trap the elusive creatures that roamed the wilderness.

His body grew lean and wiry, hardened by the harsh elements. His hands, once the soft and delicate hands of a child, became calloused and strong, bearing the marks of his newfound struggle. His back hunched over as he imitated the prowl of night monsters. The boy who once played in the streets of Izu was now a feral creature, a survivor shaped only by twisted darkness and an unforgiving world.

Months turned into years, and Alex, now a young man, roamed the land, a solitary figure haunted by the ghosts of his past. Civilized folk wherever he found them, wary of his wild appearance, twisted back and haunted eyes, shunned him and treated him as an outcast.

One day, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows like knives across the darkening ground, Alex found himself drawn hopefully to a village. The flickering lights of homes and the sounds of laughter and conversation stirred a long-forgotten yearning within him.

With an anticipatory pounding in his heart, Alex approached the village, hoping to find acceptance and companionship among its inhabitants. But his hopes were soon dashed as the villagers, upon seeing his ragged appearance and feral demeanor, recoiled in fear and disgust. In the town square, onlookers called out to friends and family to join in the ridicule. Eventually, someone threw a stone and Alex was forced to withdraw when it struck his forehead.

Alex, his heart shattered once more, turned away from the village, sinking deeper into the abyss of despair. He climbed a nearby hill that overlooked the village, his eyes burning with tears of humiliation and rage.

As the sun dipped with finality below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of crimson and gold, Alex unleashed a primal cry, a guttural roar that echoed through the valley and chilled the bones of everyone in the village. It was a cry of defiance, a cry of rejection, the cry of a misfit who had finally accepted his place in a world that had no place for him.

From that day forward, Alex embraced his solitude, his misfit identity becoming his shield against the cruelty of the world. He vowed to never again rely on others for survival, for he was a creature of the wild, a survivor who had conquered the harshest of trials.

And so, Alex, the misfit, the survivor, the child of Izu, forged his own path in the unforgiving world, his spirit unbroken, his heart scarred but resilient, forever marked by the dark sun that had once threatened to extinguish his light. But his light would not be extinguished.

Like time, the wheels of fate rarely spin with any sort of predictable precision. We long to believe certain tales, we cry out with weapons like reason and logic, we pray for patterns by which we can govern the world, but too often we are scattered like snowflakes in a brutal winter storm.

The stories we tell ourselves do not always resolve into happy endings, and to the story of our lives there is only one true resolution in death. But take heart, for while the great tragedy ensnares everyone we shall ever know and love, not every sad story ends in death, and some begin with it.

In a peaceful village called Izu, one such story began over two decades ago with an omen of blood-red skies and darkness during the day. The people of Izu knew nothing of Black Sun, the ancient secret society whose legacy was terror and blood sacrifice. They knew nothing of the history of their local ruin, known as Sarem. After all, if the people of Izu had known even a speck of that story, they would not have established their settlement in the midst of Black Sun’s most sacred sacrificial site, the altar of Sarem.

Evil altars may be worn down to ruins over time and forgotten by the ages, but their evil remains, like a stain on the fabric of reality, a dark shadow that lingers in the corners of a child’s nightmares.

Behold the innocent child of this cruel fate, a boy of seven, a boy called Alex. He was not made for this world, and such nightmares plagued his early years. Each night, an eternity would pass as the terrors of Black Sun’s legacy paraded through his dreams. He often thought the nightmare was over, only to discover that he had been tricked. The poor lad spent more time in nightmares than in the world; the dreams were strikingly real, and their memories stuck with Alex all his life into adulthood.

To share the horrific details of these dark dreams would not serve our purpose, so instead we focus on how Alex’s torment made him stronger. Trapping an innocent in a prison of nightmares is not a natural thing. Compare it to tossing a kitten or chicken into a raging ocean maelstrom. Chances are that the small creature will be broken and dragged under within seconds. But if that kitten survives, if that chicken somehow escapes from the whirlpool and struggles eventually to the shore, it would be counted worthy among all kittens, exalted among chickens.

Alex’s destiny was not to die when the maelstrom of Black Sun finally enveloped the village of Izu. He had been set aside by fate, marked by time and called to the Eternal Paradox much later in life. He had survived his nightmares, and he would survive what was coming.

The clansmen of Black Sun had cast powerful darkness spells, then set out for Izu in great force to restore their sacred altar at Sarem. The parts of the world that had already experienced their terror firsthand knew that fear was their primary form of attack. The ancient magic would strike despair and chaos into the hearts of their victims even before the physical onslaught from the legions.

The sun over Izu turned black three days before the attack. By day the sky was a dark, blood red. The moonlight and starlight were stolen from the night skies. The leaders of Izu fought bravely against the fear of these omens, praying to their gods and mustering their defenses against any possible enemy. Even in this far corner of the world, they had heard tales of evil magic preceding a slaughter from afar known as black punishment.

Under the impending curse of black punishment, weaker villages would scatter their leadership and run for the hills, but Izu stood strong, even as the Black Sun legions appeared in full force on the hill that overlooked the village, ready to charge. They stood like a thousand shadow statues. When the charge commenced, walls rattled and the earth shook.

We will not tell you of the bloodshed upon Izu that day. We will not describe the wails of the women nor the cries of the babies as they were ripped from their mothers’ arms. We will not recount the stench of slaughter in the air as every living creature was cut down and destroyed at the hands of a vile cultist mob called Black Sun.

Instead, we will look with hope for the future at the one child who survived, hungry and shivering in the depths of a cave where the invaders would never find him. Before departing to join the fight and meet his own end, Alex’s Father hid him away in this secret place with instructions not to emerge for at least seven days, when he knew the cultists would have moved on to their next bloody target.

The youth did as he was told. The damp and treacherous blackness was no more terrifying than the dreams through which he had suffered all his life: An eternity of darkness. While lost in those depths, Alex discovered his life’s purpose and was born anew. When seven days had passed, so did his fear, so he knew it was once again safe to emerge from the cave. He did so, but he was no longer a child.

At first the light burned his eyes, but he felt its warmth and moved toward it, staggering with disorientation. With blurred vision, Alex trudged bravely through the carrion birds and along the bloodspattered stones, toward the smoldering ruins of his home.