Whiteston

  In that squalid neighborhood where the sky was perpetually draped in a veil of filthy smog, and even the sun seemed too ashamed to show its face, life had already begun to bite at Michael like a bitter wind. He was growing up inside a one-room, damp-ridden shack, finding solace only in the scent of harsh detergent etched into the cracks of his mother’s worn hands. Poverty clung to them like a tattered coat they could never quite shake off. When that fateful night finally struck, it wasn’t the stars that lit up the sky—it was a colossal wall of fire. The only thing seared into Michael’s memory was the sight of the houses at the end of the block turning into massive torches, one by one, and his mother’s desperate shove as she tucked him away into the depths of the coal cellar to save him. For years, everyone whispered that it was just a freak accident—a tragic fire caused by some faulty old wiring—but Michael never forgot the pitch-black darkness that slithered through those flames, or the shadow that fell over the city that day, choking the life out of everyone in its path. That night, it wasn't just their home that went up in smoke; his childhood burned right along with his mother. While the official records chalked Blackston’s mass slaughter up to a "natural disaster," it left a void in Michael’s soul that would never close.

The passing years did nothing to dull the pain; they only forged him into a harder, more exhausted man. Now, Michael was a laborer toiling away in the lowest guts of Eporacity, levels below the surface where his hands had turned into masses of thick calluses. In the crumbling shanty he shared with his father, they had hit rock bottom, trapped in the darkest pit of destitution. Waking up in the dead of night, swallowing the lung-burning dust of the mines, he worked as if selling his very soul just for a scrap of bread and a sip of clean water. Every evening he returned home, his father’s hacking coughs and the empty plates on the table screamed the bitter truth: they were born to be crushed by the system, shadows too faint to even make it into the dusty pages of history. As Michael looked up at the shimmering towers of the city with a heavy burden on his back, he had no idea just how close he was to that glowing "white stone"—the one that would awaken the power and the thirst for vengeance coursing through his veins and change his life forever.

Michael’s father was struggling just to stay on his feet, his lungs nearly spent from those chronic coughing fits; yet that morning, a shift heavier than ever awaited them. Seeing his father’s trembling hands and pale face, Michael felt a knot tighten in his chest; he couldn’t let the old man descend into those dark tunnels alone. Out of necessity, ignoring his own exhaustion, he took his father by the arm, and together they made their way toward the insatiable underground maw of Eporacity. At the lowest level of the mine, the air was so thick and dusty that every breath felt like swallowing shards of glass. Michael sat his father down in a secluded corner to rest and pushed forward toward the deepest crevice, a place where no pickaxe had struck before and where dampness seeped from the walls like black blood.

Every strike of his pickaxe echoed like a muffled groan from the bowels of the earth. Right then, a faint but pure shimmer leaked through the cracks in the rock. As Michael clawed at the dirt with his bare hands, he felt an icy chill against his palms but an indescribable warmth in his soul; it was the white stone, something that froze the very blood in his veins while simultaneously setting it on fire. With his heart hammering against his ribs, he frantically checked his surroundings and shoved the stone into his inner jacket pocket. But in that exact moment, he felt a piercing, cold gaze on the back of his neck. Slowly turning his head, he saw David standing in one of the darkest corners of the mine. The sharp, predatory glint in David’s eyes proved he had already caught a glimpse of the secret in Michael’s pocket; from that moment on, nothing would ever be the same.

  Without even brushing the coal dust off his clothes, driven by a strange surge of greed, David headed straight for the most magnificent and sinister structure in the city: Andrew’s steel fortress. At the massive entrance, stone-faced guards with itchy trigger fingers blocked his path, sneering at the filth clinging to him. But when David barked with a manic glint in his eyes, "We found something huge! When Andrew hears this, he'll make you his palace sentries!" a brief crackle echoed over the radios, and the heavy doors slowly groaned open. He passed through security scans, laser barricades, and soulless metallic corridors until he reached the heart of the building. There, he pressed the lowest button on the elevator—one that ordinary people didn't even know existed.

The elevator descended 10 floors underground, silent and smooth, while David’s heart pounded against his ribs. When the doors slid open, he was met by Andrew’s massive office, a space shrouded in shadow but reeking of immense wealth in every corner. Andrew sat behind his desk like a puppeteer holding the veins of Eporacity. When David gasped out, "Sir, the kid... Michael... he found a stone in the mine. Something we’ve never seen before—shimmering white, it feels like it touches your very soul!" the air in the room instantly turned to ice. A dark, bone-chilling smirk spread across Andrew’s lips. Narrowing his eyes at David, he simply muttered, "Fine. Now get out." As David left the room, Andrew leaned back in his chair; in his mind, he could already see a world where nations knelt before him and kings bowed at his feet. If he could lay his hands on that white stone, he wouldn't just rule the city—he would become the absolute ruler of the entire world.