The world wasn't made for people like Kyren Omari.
At least, not the part of the world that mattered.
He was born in the belly of Oraka—a city that stretched upward like ambition and downward like guilt. Up above, the highborn floated in towers wrapped in clouds and clean energy. Below, in Sector Twelve, kids choked on dust, begged machines for heat, and learned fast that nobody came to help.
Kyren grew up with a brother and a busted spear.
The brother—Jamo—was trouble. Fast-talking, always betting on the wrong dice, and somehow smiling even when they hadn't eaten. Kyren kept him out of fights the way a broken umbrella keeps off rain: poorly, but with stubborn effort.
The spear—well, it used to belong to someone important. That's all Kyren knew. It was old, the handle was cracked, and it hummed sometimes when you weren't looking. He found it in a dumpster behind a decommissioned training center when he was nine.
He kept it because it made him feel like he mattered. Like maybe one day he'd be good enough to carry something that wasn't just trash with a story.
---
Now he was seventeen, hungry, and stirring soup in a pot that smelled like boiled regret.
"You burned it again," Jamo said from the doorway, arms crossed, brow furrowed.
"It's soup. You can't burn soup."
"You can when the only ingredient is old beans and fake garlic."
Kyren flicked him a tired look. "Then don't eat it."
"Oh, I won't."
They fell into silence, the kind that only grows between people who've shared a lifetime of cramped rooms and broken promises. Wind howled past the thin walls of the old food cart they'd claimed as shelter. Somewhere outside, sirens screamed and shut up fast.
Jamo leaned against the wall. "You ever think about getting out of here?"
Kyren stirred the pot. "Every day."
"And?"
"And I wake up still here."
---
Then something changed.
A pressure hit the air—like thunder winding up.
Kyren's hand froze. He felt it deep in his teeth.
Jamo looked out the tiny window. "That's not normal."
The sky didn't crack so much as it peeled. A line of red light split across the clouds, cutting the city in half.
Then, glowing letters—massive, floating, impossible—burned across the skyline:
> KYREN OMARI – INHERITANCE DETECTED
> DANGER LEVEL: UNKNOWN
> STATUS: UNCLAIMED POWER – INITIATION IMMINENT
Jamo dropped his tablet. "Bro. What did you do?"
Kyren took one step back—and then collapsed.
---
Pain lanced through his chest like someone was tattooing his lungs with lightning.
His arms lit up—lines etching themselves into his skin, moving fast, glowing hotter by the second.
He writhed on the ground, choking on air that didn't feel real. Something inside him roared. Not a beast. Not a voice.
A laugh.
> "There you are," it said. "Late to the party."
> "Let's keep this simple: you just inherited a style that shouldn't exist. Try not to die in the next ten minutes."
> "Welcome to the Laughing Devil."
Kyren screamed as his spine arched off the ground.
---
When it was over, he lay in a puddle of sweat and broken glass.
His shirt was gone. His skin glowed faintly with red markings that didn't look like scars. They pulsed when he breathed.
Jamo crouched over him, eyes wide. "You okay?"
"No," Kyren croaked. "I think I just caught fire from the inside out."
> "Good news," said the voice in his head. "You survived. Bad news? Everyone else saw that sky message too."
Kyren sat up slowly, vision still swimming.
The spear—his old, useless spear—was hovering off the ground.
It dropped at his feet like it had been waiting.
"I don't like this," Kyren whispered.
> "You weren't chosen because you liked anything," the voice said. "You were chosen because something needed breaking."
---
Then the window shattered.
A figure dropped into the room—fast, silent, dangerous. Cloaked. Face hidden. Blade drawn.
Kyren barely got his hands up in time.
The fight wasn't fair.
He didn't know what he was doing. He just moved.
Blocked. Stumbled. Swung.
The spear moved like it had a mind of its own. Because it did.
> "Let me help, genius."
The weapon snapped forward, crackling with red light.
> "Technique One: Debt Collection."
It struck.
The attacker hit the wall and didn't get up.
---
Kyren stood there, panting.
His arms burned.
His ears rang.
Jamo was holding a broom like it could help.
"You okay?" he asked.
Kyren looked at the spear in his hand. Then at the body across the room.
"No," he said.
And for the first time in his life, he meant it.