White Tower

The young man remembered.

Through flames and ocean, he fought, all to be the symbol of hope. He started with a fist, then a gun, now a psychic blade. Some say the merging of his planet with this beautiful hell was a curse — that the Earth was doomed.

As an optimist, he disagreed. They weren’t merged into a world with monsters and tyrants. The monsters were locked in the same world with a hero. What happened next was a tale as old as time.

A sound of fighting was heard in the distance. He felt the presence of an old foe and several old burdens. It appeared Chronicler’s victory didn’t drill the lesson into that psychopath’s brain. Fine. He stood. He didn’t mind hard-carrying those idiots on his shoulder again.

The hero vanished in the blur, speeding to save the day.

…

How did we get here? Well, let's go back a few hours before shit hits the fan. To a young porter who didn’t know that fate had a greater plan for him.

Plans which involved comic wars, slaying outer-gods, and grenades.

So. Many. Grenades.