Birth of the Ruler: The Emergence of the Primordial Race

At 4:00 pm in the evening, the sun was stubbornly hanging in the sky, casting golden rays across the cityscape in hues of warmth, as if unwilling to loosen its hold to the encroaching dusk.

The streets bustled with life; the voices of chattering people woven with the rhythmic hum of engines and the periodic blaring of horns from vehicles and motorcycles alike filled the air. With all this activity going on, one nineteen-year-old boy bicycled down the left side of the road in his uniform, slightly wrinkled, a bag over his shoulders, and a black helmet tight over his head.

Zion seemed to pedal with an ease that was almost graceful, with the wheels smoothly rolling over the asphalt as he crossed over a bridge, the soft whistle of his tune dancing with the breeze. He skillfully wove through pedestrians, quick reflexes that made him seemingly part of the chaotic rhythm of the road.

"Schooling is really boring. I wish I could have an everlasting rest." He muttered to himself, the words barely escaping his lips, a sigh lost in the winds of the moment. Continuing his ride, he reached a four-way intersection, where he made a smooth left turn, still caught up in his ecstasy of travel.

His moment of tranquility was shattered when his eyes caught a five-year-old girl frozen in the middle of the road, the tiny frame bathed by the approaching headlights of a van that approached like some kind of predator on live prey.

Time stood still as Zion's instincts kicked into action. With a surge of determination, he pressed harder on the pedals, the kinetic energy of his body fueling the bicycle as if his resolve alone could bend the laws of physics. His mind raced, calculating the perfect angle to reach her in time, a silent prayer lingering in the depths of his thoughts.

As he approached the girl, he leaned the bicycle enough to swoop her up but miscalculated. The van was traveling too fast and closing the gap, its tires screeching on the road as its brakes refused to respond.

The van sideswiped the rear of Zion's bicycle, sending him violently spinning across the pavement. His body crashed onto the road marker by the roadside, and with a sickening thud, the world around him just seemed to dissolve into chaos. He sprawled on the ground, blood seeping beneath his school uniform, like crimson ink that had stained parchment.

The world blurred in front of his eyes as the cacophony of panicked voices fell into an eerie silence, save for the distant haunting wail of an ambulance siren. He was gathered into the ambulance, and in a moment, he had succumbed to darkness, as fleeting as a shadow chased by light.

The driver of the van was then whisked away to the police station, flanked by unsmiling officers, with the weight of what happened bearing heavily upon his shoulders.

*****

Seven hours later, at the hospital, a man and a woman in their mid-forties literally burst through the door, heavy with desperation. The woman stumbled forward; her sobs tore through the sterile silence of the hallway. "Doctor, doc." she cried out, her voice raw and trembling while she hurriedly moved toward a man in a white coat, a stethoscope draped around his neck, like some sign of salvation. Her hands clutched the doctor's collar as the strength in her body gave way and her knees buckled. Her anguished cries were like daggers, slicing through the hearts of those who were witnesses.

"Please, madam, compose yourself and talk. For whom do you search among the patients?" The doctor spoke soothingly, his hands firm to steady her as he tried to pull her back from the precipice of hysteria.

But no matter how hard she tried to utter the words, her voice betrayed her, choked by the overwhelming tide of emotion. Her body quivered all over, with tears cascading down her face. "Please, it's a boy in a school uniform and has just been involved in a vehicle accident," echoed the man who accompanied her. His composure masked the turmoil brewing beneath his calm facade. His voice had a quiet urgency to it, like a plea wrapped in restraint.

The doctor furrowed his brow as he pulled a folder from under his arm and flipped through the pages with a practiced efficiency. "If I may ask, what is your relation to the patient?" he asked, his voice steady but tinged with the weight of the news he carried.

"We are his parents," he replied, stepping forward to gently support his distraught wife, his arm a lifeline holding her together.

"Yes, he's our son," the woman finally stammered in a voice choked with emotion, barely above a whisper, as though voicing it aloud would somehow make it truer.

The doctor sighed, his expression softening with a blend of sympathy and professionalism. "Alright, follow me, but I must ask you to brace yourselves as we proceed," he said, his tone gentle yet foreboding, like a harbinger delivering an unwelcome truth.

The parents nodded, their resolve fragile yet unwavering as they followed the doctor down the cold, sterile corridor, their steps heavy with the weight of their fears.

---

After a few minutes, one of the patient room doors creaked open, and the doctor went in, closely followed by Zion's parents. Antiseptic and a sense of despair hovered over the sterile walls and seemed to be suffocating them in clinical silence. He led them to a bed where Zion lay; fragile, his form was swathed almost entirely in bandages, with the nasal cannula attached to the nose supplying life in the form of mechanical breaths.

"Is this your son?" The doctor nodded towards Zion, whose unmoving body, wrapped in a cocoon of white gauze, was hardly recognizable. His parents came forward tentatively, their bodies shaking with a near imperceptible quake, as if the truth in front of them could shatter them completely.

His father labored to catch his breath; his chest rose and fell, heaving like the sea upon a cliff. He turned to the doctor, his voice barely steady. "What is his condition right now?" he asked, his eyes locking onto the doctor's with a desperation bordering on pleading.

"Please, you must keep calm and be strong and listen," the doctor begged, his hand rising across his chest in that futile gesture of reassurance. Till now silent, uncontrollably trembling, Zion's mother turned now, her wide eyes brimming with dread, to hear the doctor's reply.

"Right now, he is in critical condition," the doctor started, his each word as heavy as lead; "most of his organs have been pierced through by his broken bones and his spine has been severely damaged."

Before he could conclude, Zion's mother let out a wailing scream that cut through the sterile quiet like a knife through glass. She collapsed to the floor, her cries echoing in the room. "No, no. My son is alive, not dead!" she cried out, her voice raw and frayed, the sound reverberating like a lamentation in a canyon.

Her husband and the doctor rushed to her side, trying to comfort her as she clung to the doctor's coat, her hands quivering. "Please, save my son. Please, we are ready to pay any amount," she implored, her fingers clutching onto his coat as if the fabric was a rope binding her to hope.

"Madam, you have to calm down," the doctor said, his voice firm yet laced with the futility of his words. He tried to gently release himself from her grasp. Zion's father cut in, his tone steady but shaking at the edges. "Doctor, is there any solution? Please, we are willing to do anything, pay anything." His pleas showed a slipping composure, desperation bleeding through.