Descendant of the Morning Star

The distant rumble of engines echoed across an empty plain, a desolate stretch of barren land where the earth was cracked like broken glass. The sky, a dull gray that seemed to hang oppressively low, offered no hope of rain or reprieve. Amidst this wasteland, a lone black vehicle trudged forward, its metallic frame worn and scarred by the countless battles it had weathered.

Inside the truck—less luxurious than a bus but sturdy enough to traverse hostile terrain—a group of passengers sat in silence, their faces illuminated by the pale glow of flickering neon lights overhead.

Near the front, a burly man with a shaved head adjusted his weapon, the metallic click breaking the heavy quiet. A younger woman beside him sharpened a blade with steady, methodical strokes, her eyes distant but vigilant. They were warriors—"heroes," as they were called by the media. But their haggard faces told a different story, one of exhaustion and too many battles fought with no end in sight.

At the very back of the truck, sitting apart from the others, was Noah. His wiry frame and plain features made him blend in with the shadows, a far cry from the imposing figures around him. He leaned against the cold metal wall, staring at his hands. They looked so ordinary—no glowing marks, no sparks of energy, no indication of the supposed "gift" he had been given.

As the vehicle hit a bump, jolting its passengers, Noah muttered to himself, "What good is strength that's no stronger than this?" His voice was barely audible, lost in the hum of the engine.

The truth was, Noah had tried everything to understand his powers, to make sense of why he had been chosen. But no matter how hard he trained, no matter how much he pushed himself, his abilities were nothing compared to the others'.

A sharp laugh cut through the cabin. "Still sulking, weakling?" said a young man sitting a few rows ahead. His crimson hair and glowing eyes marked him as one of the powered—a flame manipulator, from what Noah had seen during previous missions. "Why don't you just stay out of the fight next time? Save us all the trouble of babysitting you."

Noah clenched his fists but said nothing.

"Enough, Max," the burly man at the front barked, his voice gruff and commanding. "You'll need every pair of hands when we hit the next site, even his."

Max scoffed but leaned back in his seat, his smirk fading.

Noah returned his gaze to the cracked landscape outside the small window beside him. Monsters roamed out there, some hidden beneath the sand, others prowling the shadows of abandoned cities. And when they attacked, it was chaos.

But this time, something felt different. Noah couldn't shake the uneasy sensation crawling up his spine, as though something was waiting for him just beyond the horizon.

For now, though, all he could do was wait.

The truck lurched forward, the silence inside growing heavier as the warriors prepared themselves mentally for the battle ahead. Noah closed his eyes, retreating into his thoughts, unaware of the monumental shift that would soon alter his destiny forever.