About

It felt like a story destined to be less than a wildflower under the night sky. My childhood memories began in a semi-basement barely large enough for three people to lie down. When dark mold bloomed on the walls from the rising damp, I would lean against them and watch my mother slowly die. My father threw rice bowls, and my mother looked at me with resentment while soaked in filthy food waste. Under those gazes, I clung to the wall like the mold itself. Even with the awakening of powers, the world did not change. People still fail to understand one another, remain indifferent, and submit only to power and money. I still wandered the back alleys. The title of 'Hero' clearly belonged to the sons of the wealthy. Why must I always look up at them? No matter how I reached out, I couldn't touch them; all I ever touched was a small, frost-covered window. The sudden phenomenon of power manifestation seemed like a miracle, but it was nothing more than a fading afterimage. Everyone gained abilities, yet the hideous clamor never ceased, and the more one craved, the more only a stripped-bare nature remained.