Smoke swallowed the sky. Buildings groaned under the weight of flames. Screams blurred with gunfire as District 17 crumbled under the assault.
He ran.
His father's blood still stained his hands. He could still hear the man's final words echoing in his ears—"You must survive, Kyre… Live, even if I cannot."
For days, they had fled. From alley to sewer. From mountainside to ruins. Government drones buzzed overhead, and hounds tracked their every breath. The boy—once a quiet son of a high-ranking official—was now a fugitive.
And his father, General Kyros, was gone. Slain like a criminal.
When they were finally surrounded, Kyros had made the decision. With a flash of steel and a roar of power, he turned and faced the pursuing soldiers alone. His final stand carved a path for his son's escape. But in return, he paid the ultimate price.
The boy hadn't screamed. Not even as he saw the soldiers shoot his father down in cold blood.
He simply… ran. Holding back the pain, burying the terror, locking it deep within.
Somewhere, in a hidden cave outside the city's walls, he collapsed.
But he wasn't alone.
A few others—followers of Kyros—had also escaped. Broken, bleeding, but alive. Rebels. Survivors.
That night, as the last embers of the rebellion flickered in their eyes, the boy stood.
"If we die here, everything he stood for dies with us."
He turned to them, eyes burning not with vengeance, but clarity.
"We will rise again. Not as victims… but as a force they cannot silence."
From that day forward, the boy—now only a shadow of his former self—began to forge a path in blood and ashes.
Not as the son of a general, but as the commander of the next rebellion.