God Within: Early Days

Chapter 1 - Where I Started

The sun rose over the vast fields, spilling its rays across the neat rows of carrots and potatoes I had planted with my father. "My name's Azrael Villagrán, son of Alfonso and Esperanza Villagrán."

The morning air was crisp, filled with the scent of earth and freshly baked bread drifting from the bakery down the road. It was a peaceful life-simple, steady, and warm.I wiped the sweat from myforehead and leaned on the wooden handle of my hoe, watching the wind ripple through the crops like waves on a quiet lake.

"Damn I'm so tired but that's another row done"

I shouted to my father who is sipping tea in the comfort of the hut. My arms ached, but in that good, earned way. By the time other kids were still stretching out of bed, I was already halfway through my chores. At 12 years old, I was working the land like a grown man, plowing earth like it's my only form of living.

My father always said the soil teaches patience, strength, and humility. He was a soldier-broad-shouldered, lean and muscular with a voice that could both comfort and command. My mother, on the other hand, ran the bakery in town. Her hands were gentle from kneading dough, but firm enough to pull me by the ear whenever I snuck a pastry.The townsfolk called our family "the humble heroes".
My parents were both celebrated fighters who laid down their weapons to raise me in peace. But they didn't let their skills fade. Every evening after work, Father trained me in stances, footwork, and blade defense. Mother taught me balance, mental fortitude, and meditation, skills necessary in a battlefield.By the time I was 13 years old, I could out-run, out-fight, and out-work most teenagers in the village. I have an impressive physique and an equally lean-muscular frame. People whispered that I'd inherited both their strength and spirit. i was secretly proud, proud that my parents raised me this way. I liked the fields. I liked the bakery. I liked this life.What I didn't know was that peace is fragile.

From above our simple, tranquil town, the sky darkened-not from clouds, but from thick black smoke. Scouts brought word before dawn: the front lines had collapsed. War was spilling into the heartland. Soldiers marched through the village, their boots kicking up dust as the townsfolk watched in silence. My parents donned their old armor again, their faces carved with grim determination. I knew they shall fight for our country, such nobility

"We'll return,"

Father said, placing a hand on my shoulder. Mother kissed my forehead.

"Be strong for us, little oak."

I sniffled, looking like a fool as I try to stop my cries.That is to be my last time seeing them. The night the war reached us, I awoke to the roar of cannons and the crackle of flames. Growls from every corner, blood curdling screams from a far. Shadows with glowing eyes moved between the burning houses-demons, drawn by the chaos of men.

I ran into the streets, the smell of smoke and blood filling my lungs, searching for their faces among the armored figures. But all I found were falling embers.

By sunrise, the village stood in ruins. The fields were scorched. The bakery was a skeleton of charred beams. I survived, punching and kicking my way to any small demons I encounter to flee. "Thanks to my parents teaching I surviv- my parents!?"

It suddenly struck me like lightning that my parents... were gone. They were pronounced dead by the soldiers since they could not find the bodies amidst the chaos. Heroes with glory. I don't really remember how long I have stood there, staring at the smoke rising over what was once my home.

I was alone now. An orphan at only 14 years old. A boy with no family, no farm, no future. Wandering aimlessly until I bumped into someone.

Azrael:"Ouch ah, what the fu-