The story began with a boy named Tami. He was walking down the street, keeping a small, comfortable distance from his brother. Tami was an introvert, quiet and self-contained, while his brother was surrounded by friends, their laughter loud and easy. The brother was very popular; Tami, meanwhile, was used to walking alone.
He had a flash of memory from earlier that day in school. His older brother had been invited to a party, but Tami wasn't. He didn't demand an invitation, nor was he sad; he just kept on walking, his school bag slung low, ready to retreat into his own world.
Then, Tami saw the vehicle.
A massive, rusted truck, moving with a terrifying, unrestrained speed its enormous metal bulk driving directly toward his brother. The sound was a terrifying mix of screeching tires and a roaring engine. There was no time for a warning shout, only time for instinct.
Tami's quiet nature vanished. His heart hammered as he dropped his bag, which hit the pavement with a soft thud, and dashed forward with desperate, blinding speed. It was a purely selfless, mechanical response.
He threw himself at his brother, shoving him with every ounce of his strength. The unstoppable force of the steel truck connected with Tami first, then connected brutally with his brother. Tami felt a sharp, sickening crack rip through his chest—a rib shattering—before the world turned into a deafening, roaring blackness.
They were rushed to the hospital.
Tami died on the spot.
His older brother survived, but he lay motionless for a year in a coma.
The coma was not peaceful. It was a year-long purgatory of regret. Trapped in the twilight between life and death, the brother's consciousness was consumed by the final moments. He replayed Tami's lonely, distant walk over and over.
"I was the popular one," the brother's mind screamed in the silent hospital room. "I should have been watching out for him. Tami was right there, alone, and I was too busy laughing with my friends to notice the danger. I always wanted him to be with us, to talk more, but he just wasn't interested in the noise. And now… he's gone because he saved me. I failed him."
The weight of Tami's selfless act—the ultimate sacrifice for a brother who was too absorbed in himself to notice the quiet boy's danger—crushed his soul. The regret became the only thing he felt.
A year later, the brother died.
He opened his eyes again.
He was being held by a woman on a battlefield.
His mother, a top warrior of a country in the north, fought fiercely, clutching him tightly even as the battle raged.
It was a chaotic, impossible delivery, and for a moment, in the confusion and noise of the fight, the baby almost died.
At that exact, critical moment, every single particle of abandoned Anym (the source of all magic) on the vast, blood-soaked battlefield—the magical residue of shattered spells, the raw energy of fallen heroes, and the despair of defeated foes—rushed violently toward the baby's body. It was an unstoppable, cosmic current that merged with his soul, which was already saturated with a year of pure regret.
He was confused, seeing only blurs and hearing a relentless, terrifying noise. He tried to speak but couldn't, only able to make small baby noises. He reached out for the person holding him, and slowly, he realized the impossible: he was a tiny baby again.
Around him, the air was torn apart by the sound of loud clashes of weapons. The continuous roar of magic and steel was the first, violent sound he ever heard.
His parents were mesmerized to see such a strong and beautiful-looking son. In this world, people born with great and very rare magic often have distinct hair colors. The strongest hair color is gray, followed by red and white.
This baby had something truly unique: red hair with noticeable touches of gray. This unnatural mix made him not only beautiful and handsome, but his aura—the visible field of Anym surrounding him—was terrifyingly dense and immediately noticeable.
His presence on the field was so overwhelming that the people—both enemies and even allies—instantly paused, losing their will to fight. They were paralyzed, thinking a top-tier warrior had just entered the battlefield. The baby's aura was cold, dense, and unnaturally old, a composite of a thousand forgotten energies.
His mother, looking incredibly proud, decided to name him "One from All". She believed the collection of all abandoned Anym on the battlefield had gone into him, making him this powerful. The name was a statement: he was the composite strength of everything that had been lost, a vessel forged in regret and power.
Flashes of time quickly passed until he was five years old.
He went out with his father, a King's Knight, to run errands in town. His father stepped away to stop a commotion, and One from All got momentarily lost.
A rough, angry hoodlum tried to hit the small child for mistakenly stepping on him.
One from All, not understanding the threat or the world, simply looked straight into the hoodlum's eyes.
The hoodlum's mind was instantly overwhelmed by the cold, dense pressure of the child's King's Magic. In that moment, the hoodlum saw a terrifying, vivid vision: he saw himself crucified and stabbed multiple times by unseen blades, his life draining away in slow agony.
Traumatized, the hoodlum stumbled backward, screaming in pure horror, calling the child a "monster!" and ran away as if his life depended on it.
One from All just stood there, confused. Why did he call me a monster? I didn't even use magic. This was the first time he understood his strength was not a blessing, but a burden. He had always wanted to make his parents proud, but how could he when he terrified everyone just by looking at them?
One from All knew he couldn't go to a normal magic school due to his overwhelming ability. He wanted to get into the international magic school, where monstrous beings like him are trained.
He possessed King's Magic, one of the three Legendary Magic types, and had the potential for awakening Saint's Magic, another of the Legendary Magic types.
The power structure of this world was absolute:
Legendary Magics (3): Demon King Magic, King's Magic, & Saint's Magic.
Rare Magics (5): Hero's Magic, Summon Babylon Magic, Spatial Magic (rare but considered not that strong), Architecture Magic, and Embodiment Magic (Leg Magic, Hand Magic, and Total Body Control).
And other normal magic's but some people who are born with normal magic could grow to a dangerous level if the had a strong Anym.
And then there are ancient magic considered to be older than most universe and no one has held such magic for a long time so it's considered a myth.
By the time he was seven years old, One from All had surpassed his parents.
The clash of steel rang out across the training yard — sharp, relentless, almost musical. His father came at him with two blades, each strike carrying the full weight of a top general's Hero Magic. His mother flanked from behind, her Embodiment Magic flowing through every limb like water finding cracks in stone. Two of the kingdom's finest warriors. One small boy with a single sword and no King's Magic — just pure technique, raw Anym control, and something cold behind his eyes that neither parent could quite name.
By the end, they were both breathing hard. He was not.
They stared at their son the way people stare at something they don't fully understand — with pride wrapped tightly around something that felt a lot like fear.
He left shortly after.
Eight years of roads, kingdoms, and masters. Eight years of waking before dawn and sleeping with bruised knuckles. Every teacher he outgrew, he thanked quietly and moved on. He was never cruel about it. He simply could not afford to stop.
He wanted to make his parent's proud and he finally got a way.
The last road led to a city that smelled of cold iron and raw Anym. His boots hit the cobblestones with a soft, steady rhythm. He wasn't rushing. He had already decided this long ago.
He found the registration desk. The man behind it didn't even look up.
"Name."
One from All looked at the pen, the card, the bored face of the registrar — and smiled. It was a simple smile, just teeth, warm on the surface and utterly unreadable beneath.
"One from All."
He was fifteen. He was here. And somewhere in the marrow of his bones, beneath the years of training and the quiet grief he had never once spoken aloud, his brother's last moment still burned — steady and cold as a pilot light that would never go out.
The path of the monster had begun
End of Chapter 1