Kyren was only thirteen when his father—once the strongest superhero in Epsilon and now the ruthless commander of its military—cast him out onto the streets like a stray.
He wasn't a troublemaker. He was quiet, introspective—content with being on his own. He didn't seek approval, didn't flaunt strength he didn't have. Unlike his brothers, who had inherited the arrogance of their legacy, Kyren had never developed a power. Kylien, the oldest, had awakened his abilities at ten. Baron, the second youngest, made headlines as the second earliest recorded power user in the world—at nine.
Their father, the crown jewel of the fourth generation of heroes, ruled Epsilon with an iron will and colder heart. By the fourth generation, nearly ninety-five percent of the population had some kind of ability. And by then, Kyren's lack of powers had become unforgivable.
On his thirteenth birthday—the day he'd quietly hoped would mark his turning point—his father's voice rang through the Warhammer estate like a death knell.
"Leave now, Kyren," his father said. His voice was sharp steel. His eyes, colder. "You are no longer a Warhammer. Any power you develop now will only tarnish this family. And if you stay powerless… it'll be worse. A powerless son couldn't have come from me."
Kyren's protest was a whisper lost to the marble halls. There was no one left to speak for him. His brothers, paralyzed by their father's wrath, stood silently behind him, their eyes fixed on the floor.
After their mother died—struck down fighting the sea monster that nearly sank half of Epsilon—their father had become something unrecognizable. Unyielding. Unforgiving. And now, Kyren, the one child who bore no power, was being erased.
Heart pounding, Kyren packed what little he could. A change of clothes. A few necessities. And the dagger his mother had given him on his tenth birthday—polished steel with a lion's crest in the hilt. She'd hoped, in vain, that he'd inherit her gift for speed and close combat.
He could still hear her voice: "The gift will come, Kyren. Maybe not today, but one day."
But that day had never come.
He turned one last time to face his brothers. They didn't look up. Didn't speak. And behind them, their father loomed like a stone monument.
The door slammed shut behind Kyren with a finality that hollowed out his chest.
No longer a Warhammer.
No longer a son.
The smooth, wide streets of Woodlawn Hills—the wealthiest part of Epsilon—stretched ahead of him, quiet and golden under the setting sun. His footsteps echoed like judgment. The cobblestones glistened, untouched by hardship, as Kyren moved farther from the heart of the city and closer to its forgotten edges.
Hours passed. Familiar faces blurred. He stopped in front of a small tailor shop—the one that had stitched his school uniforms, fitted his shoes, adjusted his blazers.
The old shopkeeper blinked in surprise as Kyren stepped inside.
"Kyren?" the man asked, cautious but kind. "What brings you here?"
Kyren's voice trembled. "My father kicked me out. I… I don't have a power."
The tailor hesitated, trying not to look amused, but his expression shifted—softened, then hardened with the weight of truth.
"Ah, my poor boy…" he said. "In that case… the only place you'll be welcome now is the outskirts."
Kyren's blood ran cold.
The outskirts. The place where the powerless, the broken, and the unwanted were left to rot. He'd heard the stories—ruins, gangs, violence. A dumping ground.
But it was the only place left.
He swore under his breath as he trudged along the dirt road that led out of the city's bounds. The tailor had been right. God dammit, he muttered, kicking at a loose stone. He had stopped at every orphanage, every food shelter, every halfway house between Woodlawn Hills and the borderlands. The answer had been the same each time.
No one hired the powerless.
No one helped the forsaken.
Only small acts of mercy kept him going—a crust of bread, a shared blanket, a bucket of clean water. When night fell, he found shadows to curl up in: under old wagons, behind dumpsters, in half-collapsed alleys. The road beneath him grew rougher. From polished stone to patchy asphalt to wild-packed earth, it narrowed into a single path barely wide enough for a cart.
Two months passed in survival mode.
Small, feral beasts prowled the darkness. Kyren had no real training with a blade, just the self-defense drills from his old prep school. But the dagger was a tool—and more than that, it was hers. The last gift from his mother. He gripped it like a lifeline.
Epsilon wasn't a city. Not really. It was a sprawl. A mega-region carved into what had once been Texas, bleeding into the remnants of Mexico. No one knew what the world truly looked like beyond it. The history books were filtered. Sanitized. Schools only taught the origin of powers, not the cost of them.
By the time Kyren reached the outskirts, exhaustion had made a home in his bones.
He had hoped for something—anything—resembling community. A place of understanding, even if it was rough around the edges.
But what stood before him crushed those hopes completely.
Ruins. Buildings that looked stitched together with desperation. Walls patched with scavenged metal and sun-bleached plastic. Cracked windows. Collapsed roofs. There was no welcome sign. No sanctuary.
This wasn't a new start.
This was exile.
Then came the footsteps—slow, deliberate.
A voice, low and raspy, cut through the dry wind.
"Son, that's some mighty fine clothes you got there."
Kyren turned. The man who approached was older, maybe mid-thirties. A few inches taller than Kyren's five-foot-five. His shirt was threadbare, pants torn, skin sun-weathered and grimy.
Kyren straightened despite the fatigue. "This is all I have," he said, voice flat.
The man's grin was crooked and rotted. "Too bad. Hand it over—clothes, bag, and that shiny little knife."
Kyren's heart jumped. Instinct roared to life. He yanked the dagger free, steel glinting in the dying light. His pulse pounded in his ears.
Move. Now.
He lunged.
A flash of movement—too fast. The man stepped aside and swept a leg toward Kyren's shins.
Kyren stumbled mid-strike but didn't fall. His blade slashed wide, carving a shallow cut across the man's cheek, then skimming down his back. Blood sprayed.
The man shrieked, staggering away, hands clawing at his face.
"You little brat! I'll—"
But Kyren was already running, dirt flying beneath his feet.
Adrenaline fueled him, silencing the pain in his legs and the burn in his lungs. The man's curses echoed behind him, growing fainter with every step.
Kyren didn't look back.
He couldn't.
He sprinted into the maze of shadow and ruin, deeper into the broken skeleton of what remained of Epsilon's edge.
And with every desperate step, he felt it—
The last fragments of his old life falling away.
And the brutal birth of the survivor he would have to become.