Zenit walked back home with thoughts spinning faster than his legs. The ring was now part of him. Not just an object—it was like something ancient lived inside it, whispering things he didn’t yet understand.

  When he got home, he went straight to his room. Aunt Rema didn’t even notice. He locked the door, shut the windows, and pulled out a little box hidden beneath the floorboards.

  Balbúria. The sacred herb of the Eastern monks, used in rituals to open the mind to “the vibrations of the cosmos.” Or, in Zenit's case, to calm the hell down.

  He lit the joint with trembling hands. The first drag came with a bitter, pungent taste, but soon his body relaxed. His thoughts slowed. His vision sharpened—colors breathing, pulsing. He laid back on the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, listening to the whispers of the ring like a distant choir.

  He fell asleep right there.

  The next day came heavy and humid, the sun buried behind thick clouds. Zenit got up still groggy, but something deep in his chest buzzed with strange anticipation.

  He met Mike on the village’s main street.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  — Sleepyhead! — Mike said, slapping his shoulder. — Come on, Elemental class is about to start, and I wanna see if the professor loses it again with the kid who summoned a tornado inside the classroom!

  Zenit laughed, though inside he still felt the ring pulsing.

  But the laughter stopped suddenly.

  A roar tore through the sky.

  Far off, toward the village’s commercial zone, a tower collapsed. A monstrous, distorted creature—made of flesh, metal, and shadow—rose from the debris.

  An Abysmal.

  Claws like spears. Teeth like swords. Eyes glowing with pure hatred. People ran screaming. Guards were shredded like paper.

  — Stay here! — Mike yelled, his blue aura already blazing around him. — I’ll hold it off!

  Before Zenit could reply, Mike was already charging toward the monster, summoning his fireblades. The blue flames slashed the air as he leapt, striking the Abysmal with precision and skill.

  The hits landed, but they weren’t enough. The Abysmal roared, counterattacking with a tail made of blackened spikes. Mike was thrown against a wall, leaving a streak of blood in the air.

  Zenit screamed:

  — MIKE!!!

  The monster raised one clawed limb, ready to crush his fallen friend.

  And then it happened.

  Something inside Zenit ignited. A wave of memories that weren’t his flooded his mind. Battlefields. Orders shouted in a dead language. The name of the King of the Dead echoed in his heart.

  His feet moved on their own.

  Zenit sprinted.

  Over 100 km/h. Wind tearing at his eyes. Each step was like the beat of some ancient war drum. He leapt.

  — SWORD OF THE KING OF THE DEAD!!! — he roared, his voice fused with another—deeper, older.

  The sword appeared like a bolt of darkness. Long, heavy, grotesque. The metal seemed to scream.

  He fell from the sky, driving the blade straight into the creature’s skull.

  Silence.

  The Abysmal dropped to its knees. Then toppled, dead.

  Zenit stood on the corpse, gasping, eyes staring into nothing. Everyone around stared. In shock. In fear. In reverence.

  The boy with no magic had just saved the village.