The Summoner of Legends

A shrill sound broke the stillness of the room. It was an alarm, an unbearably sharp noise that repeated over and over, filling the space with its irritating monotony. But to the room's occupant, it was a familiar sound, almost part of his routine.

As usual, an arm slowly emerged from the warm blankets covering the rest of his body. Moving sluggishly, it reached down to the floor next to the bed, groping blindly. His fingers brushed against the dust accumulated on the worn wooden planks, bumped into an empty water bottle, and finally found what they were searching for: the source of that relentless noise.

The phone, lying on the floor, continued blaring the alarm without mercy. Once in his hand, the young man silenced it with a sharp tap and, without even bothering to look at the screen, tossed it back onto the floor. A low grunt escaped his lips before his arm retreated back under the covers. The room fell silent again, as though nothing had happened.

For a moment, everything sank into an eerie calm. A stillness that lasted barely five minutes. Then, the blankets were pulled back quickly and abruptly, revealing the bed's occupant.

The young man sat up with a sharp motion, pausing for a moment as his half-lidded blue eyes, still heavy with sleep, stared at the damp-stained ceiling. His breathing was slow and measured, as though he were fighting the urge to fall back asleep. He let out a long sigh, a sound loaded with resignation, before swinging his feet off the bed and onto the cold floor.

His body, well-defined, revealed someone who spent time exercising. His toned abs and arm muscles weren't overly pronounced but were clearly the result of effort. He rubbed his face with both hands, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep.

—Another damn Monday... —he muttered in a hoarse voice, breaking the silence of the room.

With heavy steps, he made his way to the bathroom door, opening it with a faint creak. Inside, the décor was as modest as the rest of the house: a small sink with a mirror above it, a toilet in the corner, and a shower whose white tiles were dulled by water stains. Wasting no time, he approached the shower knobs and turned them. The sound of running water filled the room, the hot stream mixing with the cold until dense steam began to fill the space, fogging up the mirror in seconds.

He let the water run for a moment as he removed the clothes he had slept in, tossing them into a corner of the floor. Only when the steam was thick enough to envelop him did he step under the steady stream of water. He closed his eyes as the hot water made contact with his skin, allowing the warmth to soothe the tension in his muscles.

He sighed deeply, letting the sound of the water and the comfort of the shower disconnect him from the outside world. This was his favorite moment of the day, his only refuge. Beneath the flow of water, he could forget everything: his miserable life, his empty routine, the choices that had led him to become who he was. For those few minutes, there were no problems, no memories, no responsibilities. In the solitude of that small shower, there was no "him," no "I." There was only silence and peace.

But even the best moments have to end. After fifteen minutes, he felt the warmth of the water begin to fade. With a resigned sigh, he turned the knobs, stopping the flow and letting the lingering steam gradually dissipate. He grabbed a towel he had left ready the night before and began drying himself with slow, mechanical movements.

Wrapping the towel around his waist, his gaze reflexively turned to the fogged mirror in front of him. The hazy surface reflected his silhouette, barely visible. He used one hand to wipe away part of the steam, revealing his face and part of his torso.

He stared at his reflection closely. What he saw made him frown. There he was: a young man with messy blonde hair, flattened and damp from the recent shower. His blue eyes, which in another context might have been considered striking, looked hollow, as if the spark that once inhabited them had long since been extinguished. His well-proportioned and undeniably attractive face bore an expression of disdain.

"What the hell is so great about me?" he thought, as his gaze traced every detail of his reflection. Those around him might have considered him lucky because of his looks, but he didn't see it that way. The image staring back at him in the mirror only reminded him of everything he wasn't, everything he had failed to become.

He let out a heavy sigh and looked away, as if he couldn't bear to observe himself any longer. With determined steps, he left the bathroom, leaving behind the fogged mirror and the steam that was beginning to dissipate.

Re-entering his bedroom, he opened the wardrobe to grab his clothes. It was an almost automatic ritual: he always picked the same combination of garments. Black t-shirts, dark pants, and a light jacket. It wasn't that he didn't have other options; he just didn't care to change. He had bought several copies of the same outfit to save himself the trouble, and deep down, he liked it. It was practical and saved time.

As he dressed, his mind continued to wander. His movements were mechanical, a routine he knew by heart. But beneath it all, there was something unsettling. Something in the atmosphere, maybe the silence, made him feel that this day would be different. Though he didn't know it yet, this Monday would mark the beginning of something that would change his life forever.

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Once ready, with his backpack slung over his shoulder, he left the apartment. The stairs groaned under his steps, as if protesting the weight, though he was already used to the sound. As soon as he stepped outside, the cold early-morning air hit his face. The sky was still a deep, dark blue, with only a faint glow on the horizon hinting at the approaching sunrise.

The streets of Gotham, usually bustling and chaotic, were almost empty at this hour. The few pedestrians walking along the sidewalks moved quickly, bundled in coats to shield themselves from the chill. He walked with his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground as he moved. In a way, he appreciated living so close to the school; the short walk didn't give his thoughts much time to drift toward the things he tried so hard to avoid.

When he reached the school's entrance, he noticed that, as always, it was open. The silhouette of the guard, sitting in his booth, was barely visible under the faint light of a nearby streetlamp. He greeted the man with a slight nod, which wasn't returned—a fact that didn't bother him. He preferred the anonymity.

The school was still mostly empty. The wide courtyard, usually crowded with students running around or chatting, now felt like an abandoned expanse, dotted only by a few scattered groups. Some were basketball players who arrived early to practice; others sat on benches, hurriedly scribbling in their notebooks. They had probably forgotten to do their homework the night before. And then there was him.

His reason for arriving early wasn't as obvious or practical as the others, but to him, it was just as important.

The reason for his early mornings was the library. That quiet, secluded space was his refuge. He had always loved it. There, he could find peace, far from the noise of the hallways and the loud, grating laughter of his classmates. At this time of day, before most students arrived, he could enjoy it all to himself.

He entered the building and climbed the stairs to the second floor, where the library was located. His footsteps echoed in the empty hallway, accompanied only by the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. When he pushed open the wooden door, a gust of cold air and the scent of aged paper greeted him. That smell was always comforting, as if it were a sign that he was about to enter a world where, at least for a little while, he could escape.

Wasting no time, he headed to the shelves and began selecting books. Physics, advanced algebra, anatomy, psychology. His hand paused briefly on a worn-covered book: Introduction to Quantum Mechanics. He picked it up as well, even though he wasn't sure he'd actually understand it. It didn't matter. Learning as much as he could was part of his goal.

His true goal, though, was to escape. To get out of this city and start fresh in a quiet place, far from the chaos, villains, and constant disasters of Gotham. His mind drifted briefly. Maybe a small town somewhere up north? Or perhaps even another country?

But those were dreams for another day.

He carried the books to one of the most secluded tables in the library and sat down. The silence of the place wrapped around him like a blanket, and he quickly immersed himself in reading, mentally underlining the important points and reviewing concepts he had already learned. His concentration was absolute; the words on the pages were all that existed in that moment.

A distant, metallic sound pulled him from his thoughts. The bell signaling the start of classes echoed throughout the building. With a sigh, he closed the book he had been reading and stood up, gathering the volumes to return them to their shelves. He always did this. It wasn't just a habit—it was a sign of the respect he felt for this place. He placed the books back exactly where he had found them, then left the library to head to his classroom.

By this time, the school was alive with activity. The hallways buzzed with the murmur of dozens of overlapping conversations. Some students rushed to their classes, trying not to be late, while others lingered in the corridors, laughing and chatting in small groups. The atmosphere was chaotic but familiar. He, however, felt nothing about it. All he wanted was to get to his seat and make it through the day as unnoticed as possible.

It was in one of those hallways, just before reaching his classroom, that he saw them. In the distance, a small group of students walked as if the world revolved around them. The popular kids. The ones who always seemed to have it all. Their presence was impossible to ignore: their laughter was too loud, their movements too confident. They were the ones with the best grades, the wealthiest families, or the most remarkable talents. Everything he would never be—or want to be.

He glanced briefly at the ones leading the group: two boys with expensive-brand backpacks and smiles so perfect they looked fake. Behind them, a few girls laughed, probably at some joke that wasn't even funny. Their movements, their glances—everything about them felt unbearably rehearsed, as if they were actors in a play he had no interest in watching.

His thoughts darkened for a moment as he turned his gaze away.

"They have no idea what it's like to suffer," he thought bitterly. "They'll never know what it's like to go hungry, to lose everything, or to fear for your life every time some costumed lunatic decides to play god in your city. They live in a bubble. If they ever had to face reality, they'd shatter into a thousand pieces."

He forced himself to push those thoughts aside and quickened his pace, finally stepping into the classroom. He took his seat, ignoring the chatter of his classmates and wishing the hours would pass quickly.

The classes went by as they always did. Teachers spoke without much enthusiasm, assignments were handed in at the last minute, and new ones were given to be completed at home. Between classes, his classmates talked non-stop, filling the room with laughter and comments he found unbearable. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to block it all out.

When the final bell rang to signal the end of the school day, a faint sense of relief washed over him. He stood up quickly, gathered his things, and left the classroom. For most, that sound was just the end of another school day, but for him, it meant freedom. It was the moment to leave behind this place full of shallow laughter, spoiled kids, and problems he couldn't care less about. The noise of the hallways followed him as he made his way to the exit, his steps fast and determined.

He didn't care about anything he left behind. All he wanted was to get home, retreat into his routine, and keep working on his plan. Each day brought him a little closer to his goal: leaving Gotham and everything it stood for far behind.

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He packed all his belongings into his backpack with surprising speed. His body seemed to act almost automatically, every movement precise and efficient. He stood up from his seat, slung the backpack over his shoulder, and rushed out of the classroom, as if he had a clear objective he couldn't afford to delay even a second longer. This display of speed and coordination should have gone unnoticed, as it usually did with him—but this time, it didn't.

From one of the back rows of the classroom, someone had been watching him. Sasuke, with his elbow propped on the desk and his chin resting in his hand, narrowed his eyes as he tracked his classmate disappearing through the door. Something about the scene unsettled him, though he couldn't quite put his finger on what. The class weirdo, as everyone called him, never stood out—but that reaction… that quickness… something was different.

A sharp voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

—Sasuke, come on! We have to catch up with the others. Some new stores opened this week, and I don't want Ino to beat me to the latest trends.

As usual, Sakura was calling out to him impatiently, tugging on his arm to make him hurry.

Sasuke barely reacted. His gaze remained fixed on the door, his mind still trying to process that strange feeling.

—Yeah… I'm coming, Sakura —he finally replied, though his tone betrayed a lack of interest.

The girl sighed in frustration and pulled harder on his arm.

—Come on! If we're late, the best deals will be gone.

—I get it, Sakura. I get it… —he repeated, letting himself be dragged as she pulled him toward the exit.

Before stepping through the doorway, Sasuke cast one last glance at the empty seat of the class weirdo. Something was about to change, and though he didn't know why he felt it, he was certain that boy would be at the center of it all.

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The walk home was quick. Quicker than anyone else could imagine. His steps were precise, agile, almost clockwork. To him, every second counted. He had learned long ago that time was a valuable resource; losing even a moment could mean the difference between survival and failure.

"I'll never fail again," he thought as he maintained his steady pace, his eyes fixed on the path ahead.

When he finally reached his building, it was even faster than it had been that morning. He entered the lobby without stopping and started up the stairs. His apartment was on the third floor. It wasn't much of a climb, but he still took the steps methodically, two at a time, as if each movement were carefully calculated. Once he arrived, he pulled his keys from his pocket and quickly unlocked the door.

The first thing he did after stepping inside was close the door behind him and lock all the bolts. One by one, he turned the locks—a total of five—and then lowered the wooden beam he used to reinforce the door from the inside. After ensuring everything was secure, he let out a sigh. This routine, though it took longer than he'd like, gave him a sense of peace that was priceless.

From the outside, some might have called it excessive. "Paranoid" was probably the word they'd use. But in Gotham, paranoia was just another word for survival. He didn't care what anyone thought. The safety of his small refuge was all that mattered.

He dropped his backpack onto the worn-out couch, a small, faded piece of furniture positioned in front of a compact TV, and took off the black hoodie he always wore when going out. As he undressed, piece by piece, he began to clear his mind. Once he was down to just his underwear, he moved to the center of the room and started rearranging the furniture. He pushed the couch and coffee table aside, clearing a wide, open space on the wooden floor. Then, he went to his bedroom and returned with a few weights, which he carefully placed in the center of the space.

It was time for his workout.

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For him, this moment was sacred. As he began his first movements, he felt the tension of the day slowly drain away with each repetition. The weight in his hands, the effort it took to lift it, the burn in his muscles—it all made him feel alive.

"This is all I need," he thought, throwing a punch into the air, one of the weights still gripped tightly in his hand. He had watched videos of boxers training with weights to improve the speed of their punches, and though he wasn't an expert, he imitated their movements as precisely as he could.

A mix of basic exercises and improvised movements had become his daily routine. It was a way to stay in shape, but also a way to release something deeper. Every punch thrown into the air was an attempt to expel an emotion: anger, frustration, hatred. Especially hatred. Hatred toward himself, toward the city, toward a world that seemed hellbent on crushing him.

After two hours of uninterrupted effort, his body was drenched in sweat. His arms trembled slightly, but he didn't care. He had achieved his goal, and that was all that mattered. With one last exhale, he set the weights aside and began putting everything back in its place. He dragged the furniture back to its original positions, though the scuff marks on the wooden floor—left by the constant weight and dragging—were impossible to hide.

For a moment, he looked at the marks with a hint of indifference. No one visited his apartment, so who could possibly care? No one would enter, let alone take the time to inspect his floor. "I'm a nobody. And no one cares about a nobody," he thought before heading to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water.

The rest of the night awaited him: his true escape, his cherished pastime, the one thing that made the routine worthwhile. As he drank, his thoughts wandered, and for a fleeting moment, he felt something strange. He couldn't tell if it was unease or just exhaustion. Whatever it was, he ignored it. In his mind, there was only one thing that mattered: moving forward. Always forward.

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He quickly finished dinner and, as he did every Monday, got to work preparing meals for the rest of the week. It was part of his routine—a system that allowed him to maximize his time for other activities. He pulled the ingredients from the fridge, laying them meticulously across the counter in his modest kitchen, and began the process with practiced, automatic movements.

The kitchen was small, with a slightly rusted sink, a stove that creaked every time he turned on the burners, and a refrigerator that emitted a constant hum. For him, it was enough. He needed nothing more. Nothing less.

He cooked in silence, the only sounds being the sizzle of food in the pan and the occasional clatter of utensils against pots. When he finished, he divided the food into several plastic containers, stacking them neatly in the fridge. Once that was done, he let out a sigh of relief.

"Done. One less thing to worry about this week."

Having everything prepared gave him a sense of control. It was almost like a ritual: every task planned, every minute maximized. Yet, not everything in his life revolved around efficiency. He knew he needed balance. He was fully aware that no matter how hard he worked to keep everything in order, a mind that never rests could easily break. And he couldn't afford that—not now.

That's when his thoughts turned to his personal refuge: his beloved computer. That machine, assembled piece by piece after years of saving, was more than just a device. It was his escape, his window into a different world. For others, computers were tools for work, study, or communication. For him, it was his greatest source of distraction, a way to silence the voice in his head that never seemed to stop.

That voice—while he didn't hate it—wasn't exactly his friend either. It wasn't the kind of voice that whispered crazy ideas or dark desires. Instead, it was an insistent companion, a constant reminder of his responsibilities and the steps he needed to take. Even when he got stuck on a problem, the voice seemed to offer solutions. But every time he played video games, that voice vanished. Games managed to do something nothing else could: quiet it. And while he knew that hearing a voice wasn't entirely normal, it didn't worry him much. As long as it didn't interfere with his life, it wasn't a problem.

With those thoughts in mind, he quickly washed his plate and utensils, carefully dried them, and put them away. Then, he headed to his bedroom.

"Time to enjoy my well-deserved break."

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It was seven in the evening when he turned on his computer. The bluish light of the screen bathed the room in a soft, calming glow. He sat in his chair, adjusting it to the perfect height, and placed his hands on the keyboard like someone preparing for an important task. But tonight, there were no tasks, no obligations. Just time for himself.

Losing himself in his games was something that could stretch until ten o'clock—or, if he broke his routine, until eleven. As he navigated through the game menus, he couldn't help but wonder if tonight was worth staying up a little later. After all, he needed this moment.

"Maybe I'll treat myself to a small luxury tonight," he thought, a faint smile crossing his face.

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A couple of hours later, the creak of his chair echoed in the room, followed by a tired sigh.

—Time to call it… —he murmured, dragging out the words as he closed the game and shut down his computer.

He stood up and grabbed his phone to check the time: 10:30.

—Still on schedule —he said to himself as he headed to the bathroom for a quick shower.

The hot water hit his skin, relaxing his tense muscles. He stayed under the stream for a few minutes, enjoying the warmth as it helped clear his mind. Afterward, he dried off calmly and changed into his sleepwear: a simple white tank top and black shorts. Comfortable clothes, but practical enough in case of an emergency. In Gotham, you always had to be prepared for the unexpected.

Before heading to bed, he checked the time again, this time on the clock by his bedside table: 10:55.

—Made it… —he whispered, satisfied with having stuck to his schedule.

Sliding under the covers, he pulled the sheets up over himself. As soon as his body hit the mattress, the day's accumulated exhaustion struck him hard. He closed his eyes, letting sleep slowly take over. As he sank into the haze of slumber, a fleeting thought crossed his mind, like a spark in the dark: "Tomorrow will be the same. The same routine. All of it, until I can finally graduate and leave this damned city."

Gotham was still the prison he longed to escape. For now, though, he was trapped. Everything was normal. Everything was quiet.

Or so he thought.

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He didn't know it, but his life had stopped being normal the night before. And tonight wouldn't be any different.

The shadows in his room began to stir, twisting as if they had a life of their own. From every dark corner, the shadows converged on him, wrapping around his body from head to toe. Strange appendages emerged from his forearms, like blades formed entirely of darkness. His body reacted unconsciously, shifting slightly, and soft murmurs of discomfort escaped his lips.

Inside his mind, he was trapped in a nightmare. He was reliving the worst moment of his life, the one that had scarred him forever. A night he wished he could forget but that always came back to haunt him in his dreams. That night had been the last time he saw his parents. The last time he had a family.

The memory was vivid: the sound of gunfire, the screams, the paralyzing fear. The absolute helplessness. That crushing feeling of being utterly useless, unable to do anything as everything he loved fell apart before his eyes.

That event had been the driving force behind everything he had become: his paranoia, his obsession with control, his strict routine. But it had also planted something deeper within him: an anger he always kept hidden. A fierce rage buried beneath layers of rationality and discipline. He had always promised himself that he wouldn't become like the monsters that plagued Gotham. He wouldn't be like them.

"I will never commit their crimes. I will never sink that low."

But deep down, he also knew another truth. One he barely dared to admit: he didn't have the strength to take revenge. He couldn't face them. Not now. Maybe not ever.

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"But I can," said a deep voice, resonating with an almost overwhelming echo that seemed to come from everywhere at once. Its tone was dark, heavy, carrying the weight of something ancient. "I'll do it for you, summoner," it said again, and this time, a pure, unrelenting fear bloomed in his chest, spreading through his entire body like icy poison.

Something was wrong. Very wrong. That voice… it wasn't the one that had always spoken to him in his mind. This one was different. It felt like pure malice, as though the presence it belonged to didn't come from any place he could comprehend. His skin prickled, and a nearly tangible cold ran down his spine. He had never felt terror like this before—an instinctual fear that made him want to disappear, to hide, as if confronting it was impossible.

"What is this? What's happening?" he thought, trying to summon the strength to calm himself. But the fear, that overwhelming fear, wouldn't let him think clearly. He couldn't even begin to imagine who—or what—was behind that voice. But one thing he knew for certain: he didn't want to face it.

Not now.

Maybe not ever.

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He had no idea how long he'd been stuck in that state of paralysis. Time seemed to have frozen. But at some point, something deep inside him—maybe a flicker of pride or sheer desperation—forced him to act. "No. Not again. I won't just stand here doing nothing."

Summoning all his courage, he let out a cry of effort and struck the ground in his dream. Again and again, his fists pounded against the surface beneath him, which felt both unreal and solid at the same time. Then he kicked at the walls of the strange space that held him captive. "I have to get out of here. I won't stay trapped. I won't be useless again," he told himself, as his strikes grew more ferocious, more desperate.

Finally, everything began to crumble. The floor beneath his feet cracked first, splintering into a thousand pieces. Then, the walls collapsed as if they were mere illusions, leaving him completely surrounded by darkness. When the ground gave way entirely, he fell.

He fell into an endless void, dark and oppressive, swallowing him whole with a terrifying voracity.

As he plummeted, his instincts forced him to look up—and what he saw froze him in place.

Floating in the air, surrounded by a strange blue glow, was it. A creature. A being with an inhuman form, something that looked like it had been pulled straight from a nightmare. Its torso was encased in black armor, faintly glowing in the dim light, with sharp, blade-like extensions protruding from its forearms, as if they were a natural part of its body. The armor extended up to its head, angular and disturbing, seemingly designed to inspire terror. But the most unsettling part was what it lacked: it had no legs. Instead, a dense, dark smoke poured from the lower half of its body, flowing like a living extension of itself.

The creature was staring at him. Its eyes—if they could even be called eyes—were two cold glimmers that seemed to pierce directly into his soul. For a moment, he thought it would kill him. That its gaze alone would be enough to obliterate him completely.

And then, the deep voice spoke again, its chilling echo enveloping him.

"We will meet again, summoner."

And with that, the creature vanished.

He continued falling, swallowed by the darkness.

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He knew it had all been a dream when he felt a sharp pain in his head. The sudden jolt woke him instantly, forcing his eyes open. He was gasping, his breath uneven, as if he had just run a marathon. He could still feel the echo of the voice in his mind, the presence of that thing, the suffocating darkness of the void. It all felt so real that, for a moment, he couldn't tell if he was still dreaming.

His hand instinctively reached up to rub the spot where he'd felt the impact. As he did, he realized something was wrong. Something else.

The sunlight was hitting his face directly, momentarily blinding him. "What…? How is that possible?" he thought, confused. He always woke up before sunrise. Always. And he never left the curtains open. Yet here it was: a bright, almost unnatural light flooding the room, illuminating everything.

Slowly, he raised an arm to shield his eyes, letting them adjust to the brightness. When he was finally able to open them fully, he wished he hadn't.

His heart stopped for a moment, then began pounding so hard he thought it might burst from his chest.

—No… no… no… no… —he muttered, over and over, his words a desperate attempt to deny the reality before him.

The room was completely destroyed.

The curtains, which he always kept carefully closed, now hung in tatters on one side of the window. The nightstand by his bed was overturned, its lamp shattered on the floor. Deep gouges marred the walls, as if something sharp had clawed at them with violent fury.

And the most horrifying part of all: the shadows.

Shadows that shouldn't have been there, moving erratically, as if they were alive. They writhed and twisted, like they were trying to return to a place they couldn't reach.

—What… what did I do? —he asked the empty room, his voice trembling with raw terror.

No answer came. Only the echo of his own panic filled the space.

His entire body was shaking. He felt as if the floor beneath him might give way at any moment, pulling him back into that dark, suffocating void.

He knew, without a doubt, that his life would never be the same again. Everything he had built—his routine, his sense of control, his plan to escape Gotham—had changed in an instant. He had crossed a threshold he could never uncross.

And the worst part was that he had no idea how, or why, or what it all meant.

Deep down, he could feel it. Something was watching him. Something had awakened.

And now, he was awake too.

Too awake.