I woke up like I always did—cold, stiff, and angry at the world. But what made it worse, what really tore into me every morning, was where I woke up. That damn bench. Same spot. Same broken slats digging into my back. Same rusted streetlamp flickering overhead like a dying heartbeat.
I'd been sleeping there for six months straight, tucked into the farthest corner of a forgotten park, where no one cared enough to look twice. And every day, the rage in me grew a little more.
I didn't live anywhere. Not really. My parents dumped me when I was three—just disappeared one day like shadows at sunrise—and ever since, the streets became my home. Or hell, depending on how you looked at it.
Every day followed the same miserable rhythm. I'd open my eyes, scrape myself off the bench, and go out begging for coins like a ghost clinging to life. Sometimes, I'd get cursed at. Other times, ignored. And if I got lucky? Maybe someone would throw me a few yens like I was some pathetic animal.
Fights came next. Always a few. Some punk would look at me the wrong way, or maybe I'd snap first. Either way, I never won. I wasn't strong. Just stubborn. Broken ribs, black eyes, busted lips — they were routine at this point.
Then came lunch: the part where I'd rummage through trash cans hoping someone tossed away half a sandwich or cold rice. I'd eat fast, hide the rest for dinner, and beg some more. The day always ended the same way it started — on that same bench, under that same flickering light, wondering why the hell I was still alive.
That was the life of Lucien. Fourteen years of it. Fourteen years of surviving.
I had no friends. No family. No future.
Just that endless cycle and a question I kept asking myself: Is this it? Is this what I was born for?
I wanted change. God, I needed it. I used to imagine it at night — lying on that bench with my eyes closed, dreaming of being pulled from this nightmare by some invisible hand. Dreaming of fire in my veins. Of power. Of purpose.
And one day, it came.
Change.
But not the kind I'd been begging for.
Not the kind I'd imagined in my dreams.
No…
This was something else entirely.
The sky in tokyo today was dull, choked in layers of smog. The streets hummed with footsteps that never slowed down. In a city built to touch stars, no one looked down.
Except for him.
Lucien.
Today lucien sat at the corner of an underground train exit near Shibuya, where the walls where full of cigarettes and last week's rain. His hoodie was white , eaten by time, and his sneakers had no soles left in them. A cardboard sign rested on his lap. Handwritten.
"I need money. Please."
His fingers were thin, trembling slightly in the cold spring wind. People walked by — businessmen, students and influencers. No one looked twice. Some turned their heads like and look at him weird like he disrupted them in their perfect world. Others didn't see him at all.
He had been abandoned at age three.
No name in the system. No last name no nothing. Just Lucien — something a nurse called him when she left him in the hallway of a hospital. He never went to school. Never had a birthday. His only education and instinct was survival.
Today had started like every other.
At sunrise, he woke up beneath a rusted stairwell two blocks from the station and he finally changed places for once. A dog had peed on his blanket again. His stomach groaned louder than the passing trains. He'd wandered for hours before returning to this spot — the only place where pity sometimes won against indifference.
He counted the coins in his pocket.
20 yen.
Not enough to buy something from.
Lucien sighed and leaned his head back against the wall, staring up at the blank concrete ceiling above the subway stairs. The city moved around him like a machine — mechanical, precise, and cruel.
"God," he muttered. "If you're real, you suck."
He said it every day. Not out of faith because he does believe in a higher being. He said it out of habit.
Around midnight, a man in a black suit slowed his pace. Lucien his eyes flicked upward. Hope ignited inside Lucien his body — only to die again. The man walked past, adjusting his AirPods and looked at him weird like all the other that walked past him today.
Lucien looked down at his hands. They didn't even look human anymore. Just bones with skin wrapped around them. He looked like a dead beast waiting to die.
And then it happened.
A silence.
Not the kind where people stop talking. Not the absence of noise. This silence felt like the air had forgotten to exist.
Lucien blinked.
The sky — once grey — shimmered faintly. No one else stopped. The trains kept running. The people kept walking. But above the city, something opened . A fracture. A other demension. Invisible, yet undeniable. His vision blurred for a moment.
Then he saw it.
A faint shape in the sky. Like an eye made of glass and starlight. A devine being — staring directly at him. Only him.
His heart stopped.
And then…
A voice. Not in his ears but he heard it in his soul. Ancient. Calm. Infinite. Devine.
"You have been heard by me."
Lucien stood, but the world around him didn't move. Time had frozen. Nothing was moving the train stopped, everything stopped.
He tried to scream, but there was no air to carry it.
Then came the light — not bright, but deep into a abyss of darkness. A pulse from the heavens that pierced through his chest like a second heartbeat. His body convulsed, knees hitting the pavement. He could feel it — something or someone entering him, reshaping him. His memories scattered. His senses multiplied. The city became… transparent.
He saw everything. The cracks in people's souls. The weight of their lies. He could feel and see everything.
He wasn't becoming stronger. He was becoming something else.
His arms trembled. His breath returned. He collapsed to the ground as time resumed with a rush of sound — traffic, wind, voices. All unaware.
Only he knew. Only he remembered what happend in that brieve moment of silence.
And then came the final whisper:
"You are the vessel of the God of Vengeance. The world broke you so you could break the world .." She said
Lucien looked at his dirty hands again. There was something different about them. They were glowing.
They were glowing but not in light. They were glowing in darkness.