Riarshi couldn't control the key in his ghostly white hand, it was shaking too severely. At the top of a rotting, wooden set of stairs, he finally popped the lock open after a half-dozen tries. Using the near dead weight of his body, he pushed against the heavy door and limped into his cramped, one-bedroom apartment.

A dirty-brown color stained the rug, despite being as clean as possible. Small chips and holes riddled the light-gray painted walls.

The coolness from the chirping air conditioner slapped Riarshi in the face as he threw his groceries to the floor. His bloodied hand swung the door closed, leaving him alone and broken in the dimly lit studio.

His family room TV, the clock on the wall - each sound in the apartment began merging into an incoherent gurgle, flooding Riarshi's ears as though he were underwater.

He limped toward his bathroom, one leg dragging, with a single goal in mind.

"I... have to get it..." he gasped while clutching his burning chest.

Riarshi had bought a bottle of "Cure-All" - an elixir created by strong healing magic casters, the week prior in case of an emergency. Consuming the contents would heal any wounds or injuries in a manner of seconds. He assumed that buying a bottle could make up for his lack of healing magic, and today, he was ever thankful for the thought.

For Riarshi, it wasn't unusual for verbal harassment to promptly escalate to physical violence. Bullies, city kids, and other people who thought highly of their strength would often pick fights with him. These mostly ended with Riarshi on the receiving end of some nasty injury.

Over the years he had suffered burns from fire magic, bruises from punches, and had bled more times than he could count. The list detailing the various beatings he had received throughout his life could go on forever, making even the most seasoned healer wince. But today's bloody injury was one of the most severe he had fallen victim to.

Dragging his broken body toward the bathroom door, the tall stained wood blurred together with the gray walls into a swirling mix of colors. He went pale, and his remaining strength flushed from his limbs. Knowing what was coming next, he braced the side of his head with his hand. His legs finally gave out, buckling his knees.

"Ah, shit." he murmured, before his stiff body crashed to the hardwood floor.

***

13 years ago

One day, I went on an adventure, but not an ordinary adventure. I was looking for a sacred pen to draw a holy picture that would help save the masses of the world - well...that's what my childish mind told me. Alas, I spotted the pen, sitting on a kitchen counter like a sword in a stone. Its cap taunted me by peeking over the edge, almost out of reach.

I stretched my short and stubby arms to grab it, but fumbled with the cap, as my small fingers didn't quite have the coordination yet. Despite my valiant efforts, my clumsy hands dropped the pen into a large blue bag laid out on the floor beneath the counter. This duffel bag belonged to Mr. C, my childhood caretaker.

I was unsure of my next step. Should I forget the pen and search for another? Or should I go through his bag, even though I knew this could land me in big trouble? After a few seconds of pondering my choices, I went with the latter, figuring that not drawing a picture would be a worse punishment than anything Mr. C could come up with.

I knelt down next to the bag and opened the flaps, only to find a massive collection of random papers, notebooks, and folders at my hands. After a slight huff, I started my search for the sacred pen.

While my mission was underway, one piece of paper slipped from the bag, sliding to the kitchen tiles. I quickly grabbed it, flattened it, and went to place it back into the bag, knowing for sure he'd catch me if I left it on the floor. As the sheet crossed my eyes, I noticed the words: About Riarshi handwritten in bold letters at the top of the page.

Me? What about me?

Spinning my head in circles to ensure the coast was clear, and that Mr. C hadn't straggled into the kitchen from his daily newspaper session in the living room, I unfolded the note to read it.

I'm giving you this note on paper so that it cannot be traced. We don't need anybody else knowing this crucial information. As I've told you before, be wary of growing attached to the boy. You and I both know that his demonic side will become extremely dangerous the more his emotions grow. To answer your question from earlier, no he cannot go into an orphanage. He must be alone, live alone, and stay alone. With even the slightest hint of anger or frustration, I'm nervous his seal will break, just like his mother's. So I'll repeat, don't get too close to the demon boy, or I'm taking you off of the job. We cannot put the country at risk due to our own blinding emotions.

- I won't sign my name. You know who this is from.

Mr. C was reading the daily newspaper, one leg crossed over the other, while sipping on his usual cup of green tea. His neat and tailored black suit had been a fine substitute for his normal uniform during this detail assignment.

Mr. C had been assigned as my caretaker to help raise me throughout my childhood. Because of my parents' disappearance two years prior, and having no other individuals related by blood, Mr. C was the closest I ever had to a family.

I was peeking around the side of the family room entrance way, watching the man, trying my best to be slick. I wasn't the greatest at stealth, because he easily spotted me over the top of his newspaper, just like he always did whenever I attempted to sneak around.

He returned his eyes to the newspaper, gave it a flick with his hands, and asked, "What's up, Riarshi? You want dinner?"

I didn't answer, I couldn't. My throat was tight, as though I was being choked...I couldn't say what I wanted to, especially after reading that paper.

He lowered the newspaper just below his eyes, staring me down this time. He had the ability to read me like a book. Me not answering to the prospect of food was enough to raise concern like a waving red flag.

He cleared his throat. "I can make meatloaf if-"

Then, something rose in me, and I slid into the middle of the doorway with the damning note pinched within my grasp.

My bottom lip quivered when I finally asked what had been building up inside of me, "Mr. C, am I a demon?"

Despite my young age, children were well versed in the evils of demons. Adults used these stern lessons as warnings for wicked children to convince them to behave, embedding the fear of these demonic creatures early on. Everyone knew demons walked among us, but it never dawned on me I could be one of them...that I was one of the monsters that took away my parents.

There was another question I wanted to ask Mr. C, but was always too scared or intimidated to find the proper words. I never understood why my parents left me in that house, or why we all didn't just run away together. But this letter I found provided me with a hypothesis believable enough for a five-year-old.

I tried to gulp down the lump in my throat, but it didn't work. "Did my parents hate me? Is that why everyone hates me?"

The answer I had for myself played repeatedly in my head, building the uncomfortable pressure behind my eyes. "Is that why they left me all alone?"

Then I burst. All the bullying, threats, and suffocating loneliness finally seeped down my face in two bubbling streams of tears.

Mr. C stood from his chair, but he said nothing. After some time, I realized his silence meant that he didn't know exactly what to say. He was just a Hero assigned to look after a homeless and parent-less child. I knew the question barrage would be sudden for the man, since it was near impossible for me to ask. But even though I was only five, my spinning mind needed answers.

He swung the newspaper down onto the coffee table with a slap and stomped over to me. At first, I thought he'd punish me for going through his things and for being an evil demon. I winced, waiting for my punishment for being a dangerous monster. Instead, he wrapped his arms around me in a warm and gentle hug.

"Never say that, Riarshi..." he muttered, choking on his own words. His usual calm and smooth voice shook slightly.

The warmth of his body was soothing and melted the ice dams hidden behind my eyes. More tears flooded down my cheeks. Desiring the warmth, my wet and grimaced face rubbed against the soft fabric of his suit.

"Your parents loved you with everything they had. They had to do what they could to protect you. They never meant to leave you alone, Riarshi, I promise you that."

I thought he would pull me closer with the hug. I wanted just the tiniest bit more warmth from the only family I had. But he held me at an arm's distance instead. He patted the top of my head, messing up my spiky hair.

"You promised your Papa that you'd become a powerful Hero like him, right?" he asked with a smile.

I nodded my head and wiped the remaining tears in my eyes with my sleeve. Ever since that day, my mind had turned into a black cloud, fogging the memories of my earlier childhood. I could only remember my parents, no one else. What did my old house look like? Did I have siblings? I had never known the answers to these questions. And still do not.

The recollection of those few words with my parents and what occurred that fateful day were the only bits of light that shone through the ominous clouds fogging my memory.

"You'll show everyone that no matter where you come from, no matter what you are, that you belong?"

"Mhmm," I agreed, sniffing.

Mr. C smiled at me. "Good. Because I'll help you get there, always."

After assuring I knew that I could tell no one about my heritage, Mr. C told me the truth.

I - Riarshi Thomas, was born to a human father and a demon mother, both of whom disappeared just a few years prior after fighting off a massive demon attack. At the end of this lengthy lecture, he promised me I would see them again someday.

I took his word, and for the next five years, I was always with Mr. C. We went shopping together, where he explained how to pick out the best fruits and vegetables. Freaking guy would trick me into biting a rotten carrot every once in a while though, but we'd both end up laughing over a split ice cream pop he bought to make up for the joke.

Mr. C taught me the smartest ways to exercise while at the park. This helped me keep up with all the other kids physically, even if they were using magic stronger than my own. He couldn't stand to see me always getting into fights with the others and coming out on the losing end.

He was the only one to throw me birthday parties, and we would celebrate in whatever small apartment the government moved me to that year. He'd wake me those mornings with the brightest smile, having already baked a giant chocolate cake for me, ready with flickering candles in the kitchen. I don't think he ever used magic to bake, but it still turned out well.

Mr. C would even buy me a present on the anniversary of my parents' disappearance, hoping to keep me from crying. It was never anything grand or expensive, but whatever he put together was always very special to me. One of these presents was a gray, square cut t-shirt, and it became a staple in my wardrobe.

He was the final ray of light remaining in my life.

But one day, when I was ten, he placed his hand over my face and whispered, "I'm sorry, Riarshi," before a bright light flashed before my eyes.

After that, I couldn't remember anything about him - his face, his hair, how tall he was, nothing.

He hid his identity from me, and the only thing my brain could stir up afterwards was the emerald color his eyes glowed when he looked up from that newspaper that day.

Just as easy as he said he'd be there, he disappeared.

***

The sound of the local news echoed throughout the small, single apartment. Riarshi's eyes slowly opened to the blurry sight of a dimly lit hallway ceiling. He was laying spread-eagle about five feet away from the entrance of his bathroom. He blinked his eyes until everything became clear. Using his arms, he pushed himself into a seated position. His shoulders slouched with fatigue, his mind still foggy from his dream. The throbbing pain in his skull and stomach had dissipated to a dull ache that made his eyes squint every second or so.

He released a deep sigh and rubbed his temple. "Damn, I must have passed out before I even got to the bathroom," he whispered.

Carefully, Riarshi picked himself off the wood floor of the hallway and made his way into the bathroom. Gingerly, he stepped in front of the cracked mirror to survey the damage. To none of his surprise, his wounds were already closed and healed, leaving only faint white lines as evidence of their existence. He didn't need the elixir after all.

I guess fast healing is one plus about being a demon.

His hands and eyes met the cool marble of the sink simultaneously. His fingers wrapped around the sides with a tight grip. Staring at the mirror, he glanced over his pointed chin, hazel eyes, and his chestnut spiky hair.

He couldn't believe it. The anger, fear, and desperation for the girl's safety that swirled throughout his body had unleashed the monster inside him.

The image of the girl flinching from his gaze flooded his mind. He looked into the mirror and stared at his eyes. The vertical slit was gone, replaced by his normal round pupil.

"I really am a monster, aren't I?"

He abruptly turned from the mirror, walked out of the bathroom, and shut the light off. Dragging his feet on the carpet, he paced into the living room and plopped himself onto his sofa. He melted, the softness of the cushions helping his sore muscles relax.

The TV was still tuned to the news channel, where breaking news of various crimes and demon attacks stopped by local Heroes filled the screen from headline to headline. None of these captions compelled Riarshi to sit up, as they were very common for a daily topic. It was always the same - Hero defeats demon - Hero defeats gang of burglars. It never changed in the country of Aginem.

To his surprise, a new segment passed along the bottom of the screen, promptly catching Riarshi's attention.

Breaking news: Giradin, Aginem's Top Hero awarded his seventh consecutive Aginem Peace Award for his bravery and strength in the line of duty.

Despite the soft couch feeling like it was casting a continuous wave of healing magic on his aching body, Riarshi sat up straighter so he could see the screen with ease.

There was a press conference held before a massive crowd of thousands of spectators. The news cameras focused on a wide carpeted stage with a wooden stand at the front. The spectators appeared eager for the event to start, fidgeting and bumping into each other to get a view of the stage. When the speaker arrived, the crowd roared with ear-splitting cheers, continuing until a man ascended the stage steps and stood behind the podium.

This enormous man towered over everyone else in the vicinity by at least a head. His jaw, square and prickled with scruff, looked like it was chiseled out of the hardest stone. His shaven bald head gleamed in the sunlight. Muscles of varying size and shape plastered his frame, stretching his Hero uniform to its limit.

His presence emitted a blazing aura that cut through the TV screen and tied Riarshi's stomach in a knot. His razor sharp glare felt powerful enough to cut down any enemy who stood too close.

The man cleared his throat and leaned in toward the microphone. His massive hands gripped the sides of the stand and his eyes hovered over the crowd.  

"Thank you, everyone, for nominating me for this award once again. I'll keep this speech short and simple, as I must return to my duties as soon as possible." His voice was deep, and his hardened features carried a sense of demanded respect.

No one in the crowd made a sound.

He cleared his throat again. "My job is not simply defeating criminals and demons with my magic. It is also not about being the strongest magic user in the country. A Hero's job is to serve, save, and protect. These are three crucial objectives a Hero should never forget. We are saviors of Aginem - the ones who are prayed to when all hope is lost."

His eyes met the podium below. "We ensure that no one in this country ever feels alone."

The light of the TV burned through the dimness of the apartment, reflecting off Riarshi's eyes. He leaned even closer to the TV as the speech continued, ignoring the aching that riddled his body and the blinding sting of the light.

"I have one last statement to make before my time here concludes," said Giradin. "To any aspiring Heroes out there, the track is tough, but undeniable strength will get you through. Trust your magic, and it will guide you to your goals. One must remember these words...Never give up and break your limits."

The crowd on the screen erupted into a wave of cheers and applause. Some spectators even had tears falling from their eyes. Chants of the name "Giradin" rang throughout the capital. This man, Giradin - the strongest Hero in the country of Aginem - turned and left the stage, leaving the thunderous response to the brief speech at his back.

Still ignoring the soreness of his beaten body, Riarshi balled his hands into fists and stood from the couch. His knees creaked beneath him.

Giradin was right. He wouldn't get anywhere sitting down and feeling sorry for himself. How was he supposed to prove everybody wrong if he was stuck drowning in his own despair?

He scanned his hands, swearing that he would never dive into that power again. He'd ignore it, throw it away, and become a Hero with his own human magic.

Standing tall, light from the window pierced through his dreary apartment and illuminated his determined face. His glimmering eyes shifted down to a pamphlet laid out on his coffee table - stamped with a large blue acronym of "POH".

Riarshi knew what he had to do to make this dream a reality, and it all started with Aginem's Magic Hero Program.