Creation Details
Prompt: “THE LEGENDARY MYTH OF MITHRAN
The fish market was alive with the chaos of afternoon commerce. Vendors hollered their
wares, the salty tang of the sea mixed with spices and sweat, and crowds of people
weaved between stalls like schools of fish navigating a reef. Mithran moved through it all
with practiced ease, his brown skin catching the light as he counted the coins in his
palm.
Two silver coins. Three copper.
It was more than enough.
He'd earned them just hours ago—a noble's carriage had been ambushed on the road
by bandits. Mithran, on his way to the market, had seen the trouble and didn't think
twice. He waded in, fists flying, and scattered the thieves with a fury that surprised even
himself. The noble had dropped those coins into his hand like they were pocket change,
muttered something about a "commoner," and rode off without another word.
Mithran had dropped to his knees and picked them up gratefully, heart pounding. "Thank
you so much."
That was an hour ago. Now, as the afternoon sun beat down on the market stalls,
Mithran's mind was on one thing: his mother's face when he brought home two big tuna
fish instead of their usual meager portion.
"Oi, Mithran! Back again?"
The voice belonged to an older woman with kind eyes and calloused hands. She was
the fish vendor—the one who'd taught him how to gut and clean fish properly months
ago. In exchange for his work, she gave him discounts that stretched his copper coins
further than they had any right to go.
"Got something special today," Mithran said, grinning. He held up his silver coins. "Two
of your biggest tuna. My mom's been working hard lately. Thought I'd surprise her."
The vendor's weathered face softened. She reached under the counter and produced
two enormous tuna, each one glistening silver in the afternoon light. "These would
normally cost you three silver and five copper," she said, already beginning to wrap
them. "But you helped me clean and gut that shipment of twenty fish last week without
complaint. And you scared off those stray cats that were causing trouble." She handed
them over with a knowing smile. "Two silver. That's fair."
Mithran's eyes widened. "Really? That's—thank you!"
As he turned to leave, something caught his eye.
A calico cat sat at the edge of the market stall, staring at him with an intensity that made
his skin prickle. Its fur was matted and dull, ribs visible beneath its coat. The creature
looked like it hadn't eaten in days—maybe weeks. Around its neck, barely visible
beneath the tangled fur, was a small earring. Old. Ancient, almost. Gold, catching the
light.
The cat's eyes followed Mithran's every movement.
Without thinking, Mithran took one of the fish from his bundle and cut a small piece off
with the vendor's knife. He knelt down, holding it out. "Here, little one. Go on. Get home,
okay? Someone's looking for you."
The cat ate the fish in a single gulp, never breaking eye contact with him.
Mithran watched for a moment longer, something strange tugging at his chest, then
gathered his bundle and headed home.
The commoner house was small, modest, with worn wooden beams and a roof that
needed patching. But it was theirs. Their home. His father had worked himself to death —literally—to earn it, to give his family something solid in a world that had little use for
beings like him.
Mithran stepped through the door, the familiar scent of old wood and his mother's
cooking greeting him like an old friend. The walls held his life—every small comfort,
every memory, purchased with the blood and sweat of an Ouroboran sunderkin who'd
given up everything.
"What happened to your clothes?"
His mother's voice came from the main room. Astina looked up from her work—she was
sorting through something at the table, her hands moving with practiced efficiency. Her
eyes narrowed as they took in the dirt and blood stains on his shirt.
"I just got those cleaned for you."
"I know, I'm sorry," Mithran said quickly, setting the fish down on the counter. "But look
—"
"Did you fight again?" There was worry in her voice now, the kind that made Mithran's
chest tight. She crossed the room and examined him, her hands gentle but thorough,
checking for injuries. "You're getting too close to death out there. Be careful."
Mithran coughed, embarrassed. "I know, Mom. But I like being out there. I want to be
someone. I want to be a great hero."
His mother's expression softened. She smiled—genuinely smiled—but then her eyes
dimmed slightly, the way they always did when the subject turned to his father.
"I want you to chase your dreams, Mithran. I do. But I'm scared of you getting hurt. And
you know how things are for our kind." She paused, her hand touching his cheek gently.
"Your father... he understood the price of living in this world."
Mithran had heard the story countless times, but he never tired of it. How his father, the
Ouroboran sunderkin, had given up his power and his memories of the ancient world to
be with Astina. How that sacrifice had shortened his lifespan, weakening his human
body year after year as it consumed itself from the inside.
"He could have gone back," Astina whispered, more to herself than to Mithran. "In the
end, when the sickness came, when his body started failing... he could have
transformed back to his true form. He would have lived. He would have been whole
again."
Mithran watched his mother's eyes, seeing the old pain there—not fresh, but never quite
healed.
"But he would have forgotten," she continued softly. "The ancient magic, the
transformation—it would have taken everything. Every memory of this world. Every
moment with me. Every moment with you, even though you hadn't been born yet." She
looked at him then, and her eyes were wet. "He chose death instead. He chose to hold
onto us."
Astina's voice broke slightly as she recited the words she'd spoken to Mithran a hundred
times, the words his father had spoken in his final hours, hours before Mithran entered
the world:
"Look after him, Astina. He's going to be someone like you've never seen before. There
is a home for our family now. The future will be great. I assure you of it."
And with his last breath, barely a whisper: "I love you, Astina. I love you, Mithran.
Please... take care of one another."
His father had died that night. And hours later, as if he'd felt his father's presence
leaving the world, Mithran had been born.
"The Ouroboran sunderkin are rare," Astina said, pulling herself back to the present. "But you—you're something even rarer. Half of both worlds. Half of what your father
gave up everything for. People fear what they don't understand. Promise me you'll be
careful. Promise me you'll remember that this house, this life—it cost more than you
know."
"How about this," Mithran said, taking her hands. "I'll only go out to work in the city every
now and then. Not every day. Deal?"
His mother's face brightened, the sadness receding. "Deal. Now let me cut this up. After
that, we're going to the Sanctuary."
The Sanctuary was crowded.
Parents and children, nobles and commoners, serfs and merchants—all gathered
around the enormous stone sword at the center of the chamber. The God of Skills was
said to read a person's potential and bless them with an ability, or grant them nothing at
all.
Mithran stood with his mother, watching as others touched the blade. His palms were
already sweating.
A girl approached. She was nervous, her hands shaking as she placed her palms
against the stone. The sword glowed red. Three stars appeared above her head.
The crowd erupted in applause.
stars. Rare. Powerful.
An archer went next. Two stars, steady and golden. The crowd nodded approvingly.
Then came a blacksmith's son—one star, but solid. Strong.
Mithran's heart hammered harder with each person. What would he get? A sword
master ability? A five-star power? The thought made his head spin with possibilities, but
underneath it was something else: fear. What if he got nothing at all? What if his mixed
blood—his father's Ouroboran heritage, his mother's Mithralian line—somehow made
him incompatible with the God's blessing?
More people went before him. A girl with fire magic, a merchant with appraisal skills, a
healer. All of them solid, respectable abilities. Some two-star, one three-star. The
crowd's reactions varied, but they were all meaningful. All real.
Then it was Mithran's turn.
He stepped forward, his legs moving on his own. The crowd seemed to quiet, though he
wasn't sure why. Perhaps they could sense something—the mixed blood in him, the
faint shimmer of power that came with being half-Mithralian, half-Ouroboran sunderkin.
He placed his hands on the sword.
The world exploded into light.
White and gold blazed from the blade, so bright that Mithran had to squeeze his eyes
shut. He heard gasps from the crowd, heard his mother cry out his name. And then—
something else. A voice, layered and strange, like multiple frequencies speaking at
once. It sounded like static, like the crackling of electricity and broken code.
it said, and Mithran's entire being resonated with the word.
The light stopped.
The sword cracked—a massive line splitting down the middle of the blade, the stone
groaning under the weight of something it couldn't contain.
Mithran's vision swam. His mother's voice called to him from far away, growing more
distant with each second. Everything was spinning, fading, and then—
Darkness.
Three days later, Mithran woke in a medical room.
His body felt hollowed out, drained of everything. He lay on white sheets, and the ceiling above him was plain stone. Where was he?
Before he could move, a doctor rushed in, took one look at him, and hurried back out.
"He's awake! He's awake!"
Footsteps. His mother's voice, frantic and relieved. But before anyone could reach him,
something happened.
A whisper brushed against his ear—soft, almost like the voice from the sword, but
different. Personal. And it came from him.
The word burst out of his mouth unbidden, and his entire body went rigid. It was like
something ancient had seized control, something that knew exactly what it was doing
even though Mithran's mind was three steps behind.
And then—
A menu materialized in the air before him. He it before he saw it—a presence pressing
against his consciousness like a second heartbeat. The letters glowed with an ethereal
blue light, visible only to him, and his ability was listed there in stark clarity:
GLITCH - 6 STAR
manipulation. One use per day.
Mithran's breath caught in his throat. Six stars. The highest rating anyone had ever
seen. The impossible made real.
His mother burst through the door, tears streaming down her face.
"Mithran! Oh, thank the gods!"
She didn't see the menu. She couldn't see it. But as she pulled him into her arms,
Mithran felt the weight of something monumental settling onto his shoulders—something
vast and ancient and utterly beyond his control.
A six-star ability. Reality itself, bending to his will.
And somewhere in the city, a calico cat with an ancient earring watched the Sanctuary
from a rooftop, its eyes glowing faintly gold.
Three days passed in the sterile quiet of the medical room.
Mithran spent most of that time staring at the ceiling, his mother's visits punctuating the
hours like clockwork. She brought him food, changed his bandages, and sat beside him
in silence—her presence a comfort he didn't know how to ask for. But when she left for
work each day, when the door clicked shut and the room fell into that hollow quiet again,
Mithran found himself alone with the menu.
It was always there now. Waiting.
He'd learned he could summon it with a thought—no need to speak the word aloud.
He'd think, and the ethereal blue letters would bloom into existence before him, invisible
to everyone but himself.
GLITCH - 6 STAR
manipulation. One use per day.
LOCKED ABILITY - ???
LOCKED ABILITY - ???
LOCKED ABILITY - ???
LOCKED ABILITY - ???
Four locked abilities. Four mysteries waiting to be uncovered.
Mithran stared at them for hours, his mind turning over possibilities. What could they
be? More reality manipulation? Combat skills? Healing? The menu offered no answers,
only the maddening promise of.
On the second day, he noticed something else.
He felt... stronger. It was subtle at first—a lightness in his limbs, a steadiness in his breathing. When he sat
up in bed, his muscles didn't ache the way they had before. When he stood, his legs
didn't tremble. It was as if the three days of unconsciousness had somehow him from
the inside out.
Curious, Mithran dropped to the floor and positioned his hands in a diamond shape—the
way his father had taught him, back when he was too young to understand why it
mattered. Diamond push-ups. Harder than the standard kind, requiring more control,
more strength.
He lowered himself down. Pushed back up.
One.
Again.
Two.
His arms didn't burn. His chest didn't strain. He kept going—ten, twenty, thirty—and still,
his body responded with an ease that felt almost unnatural.
Fifty push-ups later, he stopped, breathing only slightly harder than before.
Is this?
And then the menu flickered.
New text appeared, glowing brighter than the rest:
push-ups to unlock the next step.
Mithran blinked at it, his heart hammering in his chest. The menu was... to him? Giving
him quests? He sat back on his heels, staring at the words as if they might rearrange
themselves into something that made more sense.
Two hundred push-ups?
He almost laughed. It sounded absurd. Like something out of a training manual for
soldiers, not a half-Mithralian boy recovering in a medical room. But the menu didn't
waver. The text remained, patient and insistent.
Mithran looked down at his hands. At the scars that should have been there—the ones
from the bandit fight, the cuts and scrapes he'd earned protecting that noble's carriage.
They were still visible, faint lines across his knuckles and forearms.
If this is real, he thought, maybe...
He didn't finish the thought. Instead, he dropped back into position and started again. By
the end of the second day, Mithran had completed one hundred push-ups. His arms
burned now.
His arms trembled as he lowered himself for the hundred-and-first time. The burn in his
shoulders had become familiar now, almost comforting in its consistency. Sweat dripped
from his forehead onto the stone floor, and his breath came in controlled bursts.
hundred and one. One hundred and two.
The doctors had stopped checking on him as frequently. They'd grown used to finding
him on the floor, muscles straining, face set with determination. One had asked what he
was doing. Mithran had simply said, "Training."
The doctor had shrugged and left him to it.
By the afternoon of the third day, Mithran reached one hundred and fifty.
The burn was different now. Not just in his arms and chest, but deeper—like his muscles
were being forged in a furnace, reshaped from the inside out. His arms felt like molten
metal, every fiber screaming in protest as he pushed himself up and lowered himself
down.
hundred and fifty-one. His vision blurred at the edges. His body begged him to stop.
hundred and fifty-two.
But something in him—something that had always been there, perhaps inherited from
his father's ancient blood or his mother's stubborn resilience—refused to quit.
going. Just keep going.
The final fifty were agony.
At one hundred and seventy-five, his arms gave out completely. He collapsed onto the
stone floor, gasping, his entire body shaking. For a long moment, he simply lay there,
staring at the ceiling, wondering if he'd pushed too far.
But then he thought of his father. Of the Ouroboran sunderkin who had given up—his
power, his memories, his very life—just to hold onto the people he loved.
he could do that, Mithran thought, can do this.
He pushed himself up. Slowly. Painfully.
hundred and seventy-six.
The world narrowed to a single point of focus: the next push-up. And the next. And the
next.
hundred and ninety-eight.
His arms were lava. His chest was fire. Every breath felt like inhaling broken glass.
hundred and ninety-nine.
He could barely see. His vision had tunneled down to a pinpoint of light.
hundred.
He collapsed.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Mithran lay on the floor, his body a wreck of exhausted muscle and burning pain, and
thought, did all that for nothing.
And then—
The burn vanished.
Not gradually. Not slowly. All at once, like someone had reached into his body and
extinguished every flame, soothed every ache, cleansed every fiber of fatigue. It was so
sudden, so complete, that Mithran gasped and sat up, his hands flying to his chest.
His arms felt... perfect. Stronger than before. Like they'd been rebuilt from the ground
up, every muscle fiber denser, more efficient. He flexed his fingers, watching the
tendons move beneath his skin with a fluidity that hadn't been there before.
And then he saw his forearms.
The scars were gone.
Not faded. Not healed over with new skin. As if they'd never existed. The cuts from the
bandit fight, the scrapes from climbing and running—all of it erased, leaving only
smooth, unblemished skin.
Mithran's breath caught in his throat.
The menu flickered into view, unbidden:
have completed Stage 1. Nine more stages remain to reach Level 2.
will be worth it. Get to work.
And below that, new text appeared:
the next enemy. He is always watching.
Mithran stared at the words, his mind racing. The Sanctuary. The cracked sword. The
place where his life had changed forever. is always watching.
Who? What enemy? And why did the menu—this strange, alien presence inside him—
know about it before he did?
Before he could process any of it, the door burst open.
"Mithran! Wake up, wake up! Time to go home!"
His mother stood in the doorway, her face bright with relief and joy. She rushed forward
and pulled him into a fierce embrace, and for a moment, Mithran forgot about the menu,
the quest, the impossible power thrumming beneath his skin.
"Mom," he said, his voice muffled against her shoulder. "I'm okay. I'm fine."
"You're more than fine," she said, pulling back to look at him. Her eyes were wet. "You're
coming home."
The walk back to their house should have been joyful.
But Astina was quiet. Too quiet. And when they reached the door, she stopped and
turned to him, her expression serious.
"Mithran," she said softly. "I need you to promise me something."
He nodded, already sensing where this was going.
"No going to the capital. No going to the plains. No going to the market." Her voice
cracked slightly. "Not for a while. Not until I know you're truly recovered."
"Mom—"
"You were unconscious for days," she said, and now the tears were falling freely. "Three
days, Mithran. Do you know what that was like? Sitting there, watching you, not knowing
if you'd wake up? Not knowing if I'd lost you like I lost your father?"
The words hit him like a physical blow.
"If I lost you," she whispered, "it would kill me. Do you understand? It would me."
Mithran's throat tightened. He thought of his father's final words, the ones his mother
had recited to him so many times: care of each other.
He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her.
"I'm sorry, Mom," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to scare you. I promise—I'll be careful.
I'll listen. Just... please. Once I'm better, let me go out again. Let me live."
Astina held him tightly, her shoulders shaking. For a long moment, they stood there in
the doorway, mother and son, bound by love and loss and the weight of a promise made
by a dying man.
Finally, she pulled back and wiped her eyes.
"I'll think about it," she said, her voice steadier now. "But for now, you rest. You stay
home. You heal. Okay?"
"Okay," Mithran sa”
Art Style: Dark Fantasy
Color Mode: Full Color
Panels: 2
Created: