Strange Lord

A young child sat on the green, moist grass, holding a rusty ring in his tiny hands. The sound of a flowing river could be heard. 

Sloshing! Sloshing! Sloshing! 

A fiery yellow sun hung above, while the shadows of birds flying at a low altitude passed over the river and grass. 

A cool breeze swayed his natural purple hair backwards. He cradled the ring, staring at the river with a lonely gaze and a mind full of thoughts at the tender age of four. 

Suddenly, a gentle hand touched his shoulder. 

He tilted his head towards the hand, noticing the same ring he held on the pinky finger of this stranger. 

He then raised his gaze and saw a beautiful young woman—clad in a brown gown, barefoot, with graceful features: short blonde hair, brown eyes, an oval face, a sharp nose, and a slender figure. 

Around her neck was a blue scarf with intricate patterns, its ends rising and falling gently. 

"Mother..." The little boy's eyes began to fill with tears. A drop fell from his eye, shimmering like a crystal. 

"Don't cry; you will meet me one day if you can stay strong until then. Goodbye, my little Griffin..." His mother said with a smile, vanishing slowly into thin air. 

"Mother!!"

... 

As the first ray of morning sunlight filtered through the rusty pine window, a young teenager stirred awake. His eyelids fluttered open, revealing dark-brownish pupils in both eyes with huge dark circles under his eyelids. 

He blinked, trying to shake off the rememants of sleep. The air was laden with the scents of oil and metal, punctuated by the faint tang of coal smoke seeping in from outside. 

Above him, a network of rusty gas pipes twisted across the ceiling, their surfaces peppered with seams and rivets. 

Another dream of mother... The oversized teenager, Griffin, sighed as he stared at the ceiling above. 

In the corner of his room stood a workbench, a chaotic jumble of discarded gears, cracked glass tubes, and copper contraptions. A brass clock, its face cracked and adorned with filigree, chimed softly as time passed. 

Sketches of bizarre adventures and half-formed ideas were pinned haphazardly to a corkboard. 

Griffin had fallen in love with machinery after the passing of his father and mother during the first war a decade ago. His father's rough inventions and ideas had clung to him. 

At that time, he was only six and had to survive on the streets, fraught with challenges that made him wiser over time. Being oversized and unpopular, and lacking any awakened abilities, had caused him turbulence in forming connections, thus limiting his experiences and turning him into a lone wolf. 

He swung his legs over the side of the bed—a makeshift affair of old springs and patched fabric—pushed against a wall cluttered with junk. His bare feet met the cold, gritty wooden floor. 

Dust motes floated briefly in the beam of light before settling on the myriad of untidy items strewn about. On the walls, gas lamps flickered, casting a crimson glow over the room; their glass covers were slightly tarnished but still functional. 

The wall clock ticked away each passing second as he ran his fingers through his tousled hair. He then tilted his head towards the window. Outside, he could hear the clank and chatters of people. 

The city of Ironhaven, located on the western side of the Mugen continent, stretched over approximately 1,223.59 square kilometres (472.43 square miles) in total area. This included 778.18 square kilometres (300.46 square miles) of land and 445.41 square kilometres (171.97 square miles) of water. 

The city was divided into two sections: the opulent Upper District, where the wealthy elite resided in grand, ornate buildings constructed of brick, filled with various completed machinery, lush gardens, and the Range Academy of Awakened individuals. 

Young teenagers were admitted three days after turning sixteen and were heavily trained to prepare for the impending war, which had ended thanks to the first group of awakened humans who managed to push back an unknown race of monsters striving to colonise humanity. 

Since then, their whereabouts had been shrouded in mystery, rumoured to be beyond the citadels of Ironhaven, which were built to fend off this race. 

The Lower District, where Griffin resided, was a labyrinth of narrow streets and crumbling tenements, filled with coal, steam, and junk machinery. Only a few from this side were awakened humans and could not access the training techniques meant to be known before joining the academy. 

However, it was not a compulsory requirement for admission. Most wealthy children had been taught various combat techniques by expensive tutors, some of whom were even teachers at the academy. 

Griffin stood up from his bed and walked over to the broken mirror placed on the floor. The mirror stood tall, about his height of 5'5". 

He stared at his features with a solemn expression: a round figure, short and unfit, clad in blue underwear, with round cheeks and natural purple hair that sparked curiosity about his origins. His pale skin tone, a result of a lack of vitamin B12, added to his appearance. 

Let the day begin.... I have about a month and two days before I get admitted into the academy, as I'll be turning sixteen then... 

Tap tap! Tap! 

A gentle knock came at the antique iron door. He quickly rushed to the door with enthusiasm, unlocking it and pushing it open with a creak. Looking down at the water-drenched floor, he saw a bolt cutter lying in a puddle. 

He picked it up, as if that was what he had been expecting, then quickly closed the door, not bothering to study his surroundings. 

Creak! Bam! 

"Hehehe. That dreadful mechanic has finally brought it. It's been two weeks since I started waiting," Griffin muttered. "Now, let's get to work." 

Workers/mechanics were primarily based in the Lower District, engaged in coal and metal-related jobs, handling machinery, repairing devices, and maintaining the industrial aspects of Ironhaven. 

He strolled over to his workbench and dove his hands beneath it, drawing out a small iron box that seemed tightly jammed. His father had left this box with him, and despite many attempts over the years to open it—all of which had sadly failed—he had used steam-powered saws, mechanical shears, rotary cutting machines, hand-cranked iron cutters, and this last tool, the bolt cutter, was his final hope. 

The bolt cutter featured long handles forged from steel, each robust and stout, extending well over two feet in length. At the heart of the cutter was a polished brass mechanism where the handles met the jaws. The jaws, made of hardened steel, met at an acute angle, designed to create a strong pressure point capable of cutting through chains, locks, or any metal barriers. 

First, he tried the obvious. He jiggled the lid, pushing and pulling, but it wouldn't budge. He grunted, running a finger along the seam, feeling for any signs of weakness or a potential entry point from his earlier trials. However, the metal remained solid. 

"Right then," he muttered, carefully handling the bolt cutter. He donned a pair of thick gloves and positioned the box on a sturdy anvil. 

He tested its thickness once again near a rusted area, finding a slightly thinner section near the hinge. 

With a deep breath, he placed the bolt cutter on that spot; the jaws gripped the iron. He began to squeeze with determined grunts. The metal resisted, sparks showering around him. 

He continued, slowly and steadily, as the bolt cutter inched its way through the tough metal. A slight grin appeared on his lips. He paused several times, shifting his grip and repositioning the cutters to take advantage of the weakened area, working carefully to avoid breaking the cutters or sending sharp shrapnel flying. Beads of sweat collected on his brow. 

At last, after what seemed like an eternity, a small crack appeared. He widened it, and with a final, satisfying snap, the lid of the iron box sprang open with a clang. Inside, nestled in a layer of faded velvet, was a purplish-black gem—the purpose of which remained a mystery for now. 

Griffin smirked, wiping sweat and grease from his brow after dropping the bolt cutter. 

Bam! 

Intrigued, he picked up the gem and studied it. 

Suddenly, a faint glow resonated through it. 

Then, he felt a tingling sensation like an electricity spark going through him. 

A sharp pain struck through his head like an arrow. He dropped the gem hastedly, and staggered backwards. 

His eyes began to grow dull, then blur till finally, it went pitch - black like a television that switched off. 

His body fell onto the wooden floor in a soft manner since it was a short distance. 

Thump! 

... 

Thirty minutes later, a blurry crimson bloom spread across Griffin's vision, slowly resolving into his gas pipe celling, hissing and releasing steams. 

His eyes struggled to focus. 

The world swam in and out, a dizzying kaleidoscope of rusty pipes. He blinked, the sharp sting of light made him wince. His head throbbed, a dull, persistent ache that radiated outwards, clamping down around his temples. 

His body felt heavy, leaden. Each muscle found it hard to follow the slightest movement. His limbs were stiff, most intensely in his hands and feets where a tingling numbness persisted. 

He tried to swallow, his throat were raw and scratchy, like sandpaper. His breath hitched, shallow gasp that seemed more of a sigh. 

Each inhale was a deliberate painstaking effort; his chest ached with a dull pressure, reluctant to expand fully. 

Two... three... four... He counted his breath, which remained shallow. 

Slowly, agonizingly, he moved. A wave of nausea rolled over him, making him clutch at his stomach. 

He gently supported and dragged himself to the wall, pushing himself to a sitting position against it. He then took several more slow, shallow breaths, concentrating on steadying his whole body. 

Letting the dizzying rush subside. The pain in his head slowly fading, the nausea retreated. In a deep, shaky breath, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, his legs trembling. He stood upright to his mirror, and stared... 

His eyes widened in shock - his pale skin tone had changed back to normal: a fair, neutral undertone. 

Swaying for several seconds, then staggering backwards onto the wall in shock. 

However, his body had also changed to a fit one, making the boxer he wore a bit bigger than him and almost falling off his waist but he held it. 

He couldn't believe how is skin tone could just return to normal over few minutes of him passing out, and how his body size could change suddenly. 

Was there something in cause of this? 

His face had changed drastically; he was more appealing than before. 

What is happening to me..? Or, am I dreaming..? This can't be. I'm not taller, now I indeed resemble a nine year old with this new body. This can't be real... 

Griffin struggled to grasp onto this realisation. 

Out of the blue, series of fragmented memories began to surface in his mind, each one felt a bit clearer than the last. They felt familiar, from strange to relatable as if they had always been a part of him. 

First, a memory came to him, a fleeting image of himself vanishing from one place and reappearing in another. The activation method flew into his mind, and claimed a spot there; it was for him to focus on a particular spot, visualise it clearly and he would be there. 

Then, another came: he recalled himself snapping his fingers once and the hidden truths, items revealed itself. The memory was instinctive, like a forgotten one.. 

He was bewildered by where all this memories were coming from, each caused intense pain in his head like a victim recovering from amnesia - discovering all their lost self. 

The third one then came, a more confusing one that broke in his mind like a fallen glass, shattered pieces that can't be picked up. 

Unknowingly, while trying to understand this one - which caused more pain than the last - a relaxing sensation ran through his mind. It was as if his body was leaving him, or perhaps... something uncanny. 

In an instant, he found himself in a strange world that he had no idea of...