Prologue
Prologue — Of Timbs and Destiny
In the beginning… there was chaos.
And corner stores.
And one very loud dude named Tyshawn Hypemin.
Long ago, in a realm far from dragons, magic, or functioning public transit, there existed a land within the County of Kings, known only to the bravest of city folk: East New York.
Here, ancient rituals were performed daily—summonings of bacon, egg & cheese sandwiches from behind fortified deli counters; bartering in strange tongues over chopped-cheese pricing; and seasonal offerings of Timberland boots hung high upon the telephone lines.
This was a kingdom not ruled by monarchs, but by Codes—unspoken, sacred laws passed block to block.
Laws such as:
Never rat.
Never fold.
And never—ever—disrespect someone’s mother in a group chat.
From this concrete kingdom rose a young warrior, hood-born and hoodie-bred: Tyshawn Hypemin, first of his name, talker of trash, dodger of warrants, bearer of the Sacred Glock (registered only to destiny).
His legend? Complicated.
He wore no armor—unless one counts a North Face in July.
He wielded no sword—unless you count the time he cracked a pipe across someone’s head during a sneaker raffle.
But he was loyal.
And bold.
And entirely too loud in public spaces.
He hailed from a noble fellowship, whispered about in alleyways and police reports alike: The Hoods of 8 Block.
Warriors of an uncommon order:
Marlo the Short, architect of shaky plans.
Keisha the Unbothered, destroyer of men and weak game.
DJ No-Chill, speaker of beats and bringer of unnecessary drama.
Together they roamed the avenues like knights on foot, blessing the people with dice games, mixtapes, and unsolicited opinions on LeBron James.
But peace never lasts in lands such as these.
For beyond the projects, past the skyline, past all things recognizably normal, there existed a realm called Theragon—where kingdoms rose, monsters roamed, and elves judged you silently from across the room.
A prophecy had been whispered there for centuries.
Misfiled.
Mistranslated.
Probably made up.
It spoke of a hero who would fall from the sky, carrying:
a weapon forged in iron and attitude,
a tongue that could outtalk kings,
and a soul hardened by chaos.
That hero… was definitely not Tyshawn Hypemin.
And yet, fate is petty like that.
So when bullets rang out and Tyshawn hit the pavement—sandwich still warm in his hand—the universe did not offer him peace, redemption, or even a fair explanation.
It granted him something far worse: responsibility.
A new world.
A thrill-seeking dragonborn.
A vengeful fairy.
And one very angry dwarf.
This, dear listener, is not the story of a noble warrior on a sacred quest.
This is the story of a dude from East New York who got jumped into a fantasy novel and said: “Nah. Y’all niggaz all got me fucked up.”
Thus began the most unwilling prophecy in magical history.-----Interlude:
The Gospel According to 8 Block
The grand voice faded into silence, replaced by the soft rattle of dice and the low buzz of a passing bus. The kingdom of East New York turned back into cracked pavement and sun-baked stoops.
Keisha the Unbothered squinted up at the sky like it had personally offended her.
“Now see, that’s that bullshit right there. All that ‘sacred prophecy of the County of Kings’ nonsense? They need to stop lyin’ on my boy. Ain’t nobody ‘hood-born and hoodie-bred.’ He just loud and unemployed.” She shook her head, lips curling. “And ‘Holder of the Sacred Glock’? Please. Tyshawn found that gun under a bridge wrapped in a bodega bag. Ain’t nothin’ sacred about that.”
DJ No-Chill threw his arms wide, nearly knocking over a can of soda. “Nah, hold up though—that intro was fire! ‘Forged in iron and attitude?’ Tell me that don’t sound like a fire-ass mixtape.”
Marlo the Short shook his head, his voice flat as asphalt. “Mixtape!? Bro, the man can’t even rap on beat. Only thing he ever forged was his mother’s signature on a report card.”
Keisha laughed—a short, dry sound. “You gotta admit though—whoever wrote that made East New York sound like Narnia with Black Air Forces.”
“Facts,” DJ No-Chill said. “‘Ancient rituals of bacon, egg & cheese.’ I felt that spiritually.”
“Spiritually?” Keisha cut in. “Nigga, you felt that stomach-ly, with your hungry ass.”
“Man, y’all laughin’, but that gun of his—nah, that was real,” Marlo said, serious now. “I told him it hummed. Guns don’t hum, Kesh.”
“Please,” Keisha said. “That gun was hummin’ ’cause it was rusted. You the only one out here thinkin’ rust equals magic.”
DJ No-Chill leaned forward, eyes wide. “Aight but real talk—y’all remember the day he vanished? Whole block smelled like burnt wires and cocoa butter. I thought Con Ed exploded.”
“It wasn’t Con Ed,” Marlo muttered. “The air flipped. Like somebody unplugged the neighborhood.”
Keisha nodded slowly. “All I saw was Tyshawn mid-bite into that sandwich, then—fwoop—man evaporated like rent money on payday.”
“I told you!” DJ No-Chill shouted. “That sandwich was cursed. Too much ketchup—opens portals. Everybody know that.”
Marlo rolled his eyes. “Nah, he triggered somethin’. That gun pulsed first. Violet light, then blue. Whole sidewalk cracked like it was drawin’ graffiti by itself.”
Keisha pointed a nail at him. “And next thing you know, his Timbs was floatin’ like balloons at a memorial.”
DJ No-Chill laughed so hard he choked. “Still the wildest thing I ever seen. And y’all know I once saw a raccoon ride a bike down Pitkin Ave.”
“Anyway,” Keisha said, waving a hand. “Legend or not, that’s how it went down. Boy got jumped by destiny while eatin’ breakfast.”
Marlo smirked. “Tyshawn Hypemin. First of his name. Patron saint of poor decisions.”
“And unfinished sandwiches,” DJ No-Chill added. “Don’t forget the sandwich.”
Keisha turned toward whoever was listening—maybe the reader, maybe the block itself. “So yeah—believe whatever you want about prophecies and realms. But around here? We just call it Tuesday. Now sit tight, ’cause this next part? This where the foolishness really start.”
