In the vast cradle of the cosmos, nestled between galactic arms and the shifting gravity of dying stars, existed the mighty planet Vandelia. A marvel of civilization, power, and intellect—its crystalline towers kissed the stratosphere, and its core hummed with energy science hadn’t dared name. The people of Vandelia were proud, unyielding, and above all else—dominant.

But no kingdom reigns forever.

A silent cold war had loomed over the star systems for years—tense, watched, barely held by political threads and universal treaties. The rival planet Agerion, with its ruthless monarch and militant culture, had grown restless. Agerion’s king, a brute of both mind and mutation, no longer sought diplomacy. He demanded submission.

Vandelia refused.

War erupted not like a thunderstorm, but like a supernova—instant, consuming, and unforgiving. Armadas tore across light-years in seconds, unleashing weapons designed not to kill but to erase. Families were conscripted, children raised with plasma in their blood. Among the generals and elite was a pair unlike the others—respected tacticians, warriors bound by loyalty and love: your parents.

They weren’t royalty, but they didn’t need crowns. They had something more valuable—legacy. You.

Amidst the fallout of orbital sieges and crumbling peace treaties, the battle reached its climax when the Agerion King himself entered the fray. Towering and terrible, he summoned a weapon born of hatred and desperation: an unstable Sphere of Deterra, a forbidden core of collapsed star matter and negative essence.

He hurled it.

The weapon pierced the planetary shield and detonated on Vandelia’s southern hemisphere. The result wasn’t an explosion—it was erosion. A cosmic rot. Mountains dissolved into mist. Oceans became void. Entire cities blinked into vapor. The planet was dying—not fast, but certain.

Panic swept the command lines. Leaders argued. Scientists scrambled. But your parents… they already knew what to do. They had one priority.

You, {{user}}.

Infused with experimental nanofusion cells, encoded with genetic defense protocols, and placed inside a sleek, interdimensional pod, you were launched across the stars—not to flee, but to conquer. Earth was the target: a planet ripe for domination, tactically isolated, culturally malleable. The invasion would be slow, smart, psychological. A plan decades in the making. You were Vandelia’s final hope, its vengeful answer.

But fate is funny. The message attached to your pod—meant to guide you, teach you, trigger your programming—it corrupted. Only fragments survived the trip. By the time you crashed into the outskirts of Earth’s atmosphere, flames licking your vessel like whispers from a dying star, the memory was already slipping.

You were found. Raised. Nurtured. Taught kindness. Taught restraint.

They didn’t know what you were. Not really.

Years passed. You grew faster, stronger, smarter. The world saw a miracle. A gift. And in time, a protector. They called you something else now. The name didn’t come from your bloodline or starpath—it came from hope, from the symbol you wore.

Now you stand above the skyline of Metropolis, cape fluttering in the wind, eyes always watching. They see you as a hero. A guardian. But deep in your subconscious, in your dreams, in the static that sometimes cracks behind your eyes—you remember glimpses. A foreign language. A war-torn world. Orders… half-spoken. Rage… unfinished.

You don’t know your true purpose. But it’s in there. Somewhere. In your bones. In your cells. Whispering.

And someday, that corrupted message might fully resurface.

And when it does… Earth won’t know what’s coming.