The last warlord

The rain hammered down on the city, pooling in the cracks of the worn asphalt and cascading off the edges of a dimly lit overpass. Adrian Kane shivered as he tightened his threadbare coat around himself, sitting on a cold concrete slab beneath the bridge. The hum of passing cars overhead was his only company.

Once, he had glimpses of grandeur—fleeting images of mighty armies kneeling at his feet, cities ablaze at his command, and treasures piled high in his honor. Now, those images were no more than fragments of dreams, slipping through his fingers every time he tried to recall them.

Adrian wasn’t just poor. He was utterly forgotten.

His stomach growled, the ache familiar and unrelenting. The ten bucks he’d earned earlier hauling crates in the market had gone to a sandwich that barely lasted him an hour. He glanced at the tin can beside him, containing a few coins tossed by passing strangers. He hated relying on their pity, but he had no choice.

“What happened to me?” Adrian whispered to the night, his voice hoarse.

The question hung unanswered, like it always did. For as long as he could remember, Adrian had felt out of place in this world. Despite the hardships, the hunger, and the loneliness, a part of him always whispered that this wasn’t his life—couldn’t be his life.

The sound of approaching footsteps snapped him out of his thoughts. Two figures emerged from the shadows, their faces obscured by hoods. Adrian tensed. He had seen enough of the city’s underbelly to recognize trouble when it came his way.

“Well, well,” one of them sneered, a wiry man with a switchblade glinting in his hand. “Looks like we found ourselves a god of the trash heap.”

The second man chuckled darkly. “Bet he’s got some change stashed away. Hand it over, pal.”

Adrian rose slowly, his muscles aching from the cold. He clenched his fists, anger bubbling just beneath the surface. There was something about their mocking tone—something that scraped against his soul like nails on glass.

“I don’t want any trouble,” Adrian said, his voice low.

The first man smirked, stepping closer. “Too late for that.”

Before Adrian could respond, the man lunged, the blade slicing through the air toward him. But then, something inside Adrian shifted. Time seemed to slow, and a surge of energy erupted from deep within him, raw and primal.

Adrian’s hand shot out, catching the man’s wrist mid-swing. The force of his grip sent the switchblade clattering to the ground.

“What the—” the second man stammered, backing away.

Adrian’s eyes burned, a faint glow emanating from them as his strength surged. He didn’t know where it came from, but it felt like fire coursing through his veins—a power long buried now clawing its way to the surface.

“You picked the wrong fight,” Adrian growled. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the wiry man sprawling to the ground. The second man didn’t wait—he turned and bolted into the night, leaving his companion groaning in the mud.

Adrian stood there, chest heaving, as the energy faded as quickly as it had come. He looked down at his hands, trembling not from fear but from awe.

“What… was that?” he muttered.

A voice answered, deep and resonant, though no one was around.

“It is the first taste of who you truly are.”

Adrian spun around, searching for the source, but the bridge remained empty.

“Who’s there?” he demanded.

“The one who remembers what you have forgotten,” the voice replied. “You are not meant to languish here, War God. You are more than this.”

Adrian’s breath hitched. War God? The words felt foreign yet familiar, like a name he had once known but lost.

“Prove it,” Adrian said, his voice trembling with a mix of desperation and defiance.

“Very well,” the voice said.

The air around him shimmered, and a faint golden symbol glowed on the back of his hand—an intricate design of crossed swords encircled by flames. Adrian stared at it, his heart pounding.

“This is only the beginning,” the voice said. “Rise, Adrian Kane. Rise, and reclaim your place.”

The glow faded, leaving Adrian alone once more. But something had changed. The hunger, the cold, the despair—they were still there, but now they were overshadowed by something else: a spark of purpose.

Adrian glanced at the city skyline in the distance, its lights shimmering like distant stars. He didn’t know where this path would lead, but for the first time in years, he felt like he had one.

“I’m coming back,” he whispered to himself, his resolve hardening. “No more begging. No more running. This time, I’ll rise.”