Allen West and his brother James West—gods now feared across worlds—weren't always the strongest. In fact, once upon a time, they were weak. Powerless. Abandoned.
Let's rewind to their childhood.
Back then, their home was never permanent. They wandered constantly, always moving, always adapting. The brothers didn't have a family—not in the traditional sense. All they had was each other. And for them, that was enough.
They survived by traveling from village to village—but here's the catch: they only visited destroyed villages. Ruins. Ghost towns. Places where no one lived, or at least not anymore. Trust wasn't a luxury they could afford, not when they'd grown up relying only on themselves.
Their isolation wasn't just physical—it became a mental weight, a scar buried deep in their minds. But enough of the sad backstory... Let's check in on them now.
Ah—there they are.
They're just kids right now. Allen is 9. James is 7. Two little brothers with big eyes, hollow stomachs, and sharp instincts. They're currently looking for a place to camp out for the night.
Narrator: Don't forget their ages—that's kinda important.Other Voice: Oh, right. I am telling your story after all, aren't I? Yours and your brother's.Narrator (annoyed): Don't mind this idiot. He's technically the author, but let's just say he's a little... forgetful.Author (defensive): Hey! Leave me alone, you crazy A-hole! Let me finish the story, jeez.
Anyway.
The boys stumble upon a house. Unlike the others they've seen, this one isn't completely wrecked. The roof's still intact, the walls aren't crumbling, and the door is actually hanging on its hinges. It's a rare sight in a world of broken places.
They step inside.
The floor creaks beneath their feet, but it holds. Dust floats in the light that seeps through cracked shutters. Allen moves first—he's always the one to go first—and James follows, his eyes scanning every shadow.
They don't talk much. Words are for safety, and right now, silence is safety.
They search the house quickly. A back room still has an old mattress—dirty, stained, but soft enough to sleep on. Allen tosses his bag down, motioning for James to sit.
James hesitates. "You think anyone else came here?"
Allen shrugs. "If they did, they're not here now."
He pulls out a small cloth bundle—dried bread, a few berries, and something that might've once been cheese. They eat without a word, chewing quietly, listening for anything outside.
In this broken world, this is what peace looks like.
And they don't mind that.
The boys just want to find a home for themselves. But that dream? It's a little tough to chase when the world keeps trying to kill you.
See, they don't just have to worry about staying warm or finding food. No—there's wildlife, sure, but not the kind that runs from loud noises. We're talking demonic wildlife. Creatures with too many eyes, mouths where they shouldn't be, and claws that could split trees. And monsters—twisted things made of shadow and teeth. Oh, and don't forget the bandits. Or the bounty hunters. Or the witches with bad tempers and worse curses.
So yeah... a "home" is a bit of a luxury. Survival comes first.
That's why they work hard. Every day. They train their bodies, sharpen their instincts, and learn from every single mistake—because one slip-up can mean death out here.
Allen, even at 9, has taken the role of the fighter. He's always first to act, first to defend, first to bleed.
He's quick—quicker than a deer, they say. Once, he actually outran one. (James still swears he saw the deer look back in disbelief.) His strength is something else, too. He once dented an iron gate with a single punch.
Narrator: But it comes at a cost, doesn't it, Mr. Allen?Allen (grumbling): Do we really have to bring that up?Narrator: Oh, absolutely.Author: Allen broke his hand. Like, immediately. Swelled up like a balloon.Allen: I was nine.Narrator: And you still punched a gate.James (chiming in): He screamed like a dying squirrel.Allen: I hate all of you.
But that's Allen—strong, fast, reckless. He doesn't think about the cost until it's already paid.
James, on the other hand, is the tactician. He watches. Calculates. While Allen charges forward like a wild beast, James is the one making sure they're not charging into a trap. He's got sharp eyes, sharper wit, and a memory like a steel trap.
If Allen is the sword, James is the shield.
They balance each other. Always have. Always will.
That night, after finishing their pitiful meal, the boys lie side by side on the old mattress. The stars peek through a crack in the roof. Neither speaks at first. But eventually, James whispers,
"Do you think we'll ever stop running?"
Allen doesn't answer right away. He stares at the ceiling, eyes unblinking. His voice is low when he finally speaks.
"I don't know. But if we keep moving... maybe we'll run into something worth staying for."
James is silent. Then: "What if we don't?"
Allen turns his head toward his brother. "Then we keep running. Together."
And that's the thing—no matter what they face... demons, monsters, or their own buried pasts—Allen and James West always move forward.
Because someday, they won't just survive the world.
They'll change it.
And it starts here.
The next day, when the brothers woke up, they followed their usual routine.
It was instinct by now—wake, stretch, scan the area for danger, and then spar. No matter where they were—burned-out ruins, abandoned temples, or shattered fields—they trained every morning without fail. It wasn't just discipline. It was survival.
They didn't have much in the way of weapons, but they made the most of what they did have.
Allen wielded a scythe. Not a pristine, polished weapon—this one was salvaged from an old barn months ago. Rusted when they found it, bent near the edge, but Allen had reforged it in his own way. He'd sharpened the blade until it gleamed, wrapped the handle in worn leather, and taught himself how to use it like it was made for war instead of harvesting.
James kept to a more traditional approach. A short sword on his side and a weathered bow slung across his back. His arrows were all hand-made, fletched with feathers he'd scavenged himself. He lacked Allen's brute force, but what he lacked in strength, he made up for with speed, control, and precision.
They sparred in the clearing outside the house. Mist hung low over the grass, catching the early light as their blades clashed. Footsteps scraped against dirt, metal rang out in sharp bursts, and occasionally, the brothers exchanged taunts through labored breaths.
James moved first, striking fast and low with his short sword. Allen blocked with the scythe's shaft and countered with a wide sweep, aiming to knock James off his feet. James leapt back, already reaching for an arrow.
Allen rushed forward before the bowstring could tighten, but James rolled to the side and kicked dirt into his face.
"Cheap shot," Allen coughed, spitting out grit.
"War doesn't play fair," James said, notching an arrow and letting it fly.
Allen caught it midair and snapped it in half.
"Then neither do I."
They pushed each other hard—Allen with raw strength and reckless force, James with strategy and agility. They weren't playing. Every move had a purpose. Every dodge, every strike, was one more step toward staying alive when things got real.
After nearly an hour, they were drenched in sweat, panting and bruised, but standing tall.
"Not bad," Allen said, wiping his brow.
"You're getting slow," James replied with a half-smile. "I almost had you—twice."
"Almost doesn't count," Allen muttered, grinning.
They packed up their gear, their breath still heavy, and looked toward the road ahead. The house had served its purpose. It was time to move on—another ruin, another trial, another unknown waiting just beyond the trees.
But they were ready.
Because they weren't just training to survive.
They were training to conquer.
As the sun climbed higher over the treetops, Allen and James made their way down the broken dirt road, backpacks light, weapons strapped tightly. The forest around them was quiet, but the kind of quiet that felt off. Too still. Too silent. Even the birds seemed to be holding their breath.
James noticed it first.
"Allen," he said, eyes narrowing as he scanned the treeline. "No birds. No bugs. Not even the wind's moving."
Allen stopped walking. His grip instinctively tightened around the scythe.
"I know. I've felt it since we left the house."
They didn't speak again. Not until the path curved sharply and opened into what used to be a small village—one that, unlike the others, wasn't completely in ruins. The buildings were weathered, yes. Windows shattered. Doors hanging loose. But the structures stood, mostly untouched by fire or collapse.
That wasn't what caught their attention, though.
It was the blood.
It streaked across the dirt like red brushstrokes. Some fresh. Some dry and flaked. The village was a graveyard, but no bodies remained—only the aftermath of something violent. Something fast.
Allen crouched down beside a set of prints in the blood-soaked earth. "Three-toed. Heavy. Whatever it was, it dragged its prey away from here."
James frowned, reaching for an arrow but not drawing it yet. "Could've been a demon."
"Could've," Allen muttered, standing again. "Or worse."
They moved cautiously through the village, eyes alert, weapons ready. Allen kicked a door open. The house inside was eerily clean—untouched, save for a single deep gouge down the wall, like something with claws had raked through it. Furniture overturned. A broken lantern spilled oil across the floor.
"Someone fought back," James observed, crouching to study the drag marks. "Didn't win."
They spent another hour searching the village. Still no bodies. No survivors. Just more blood and destruction, like something had come and gone in a storm of violence.
Then, they heard it.
A low, wet growl. Like meat sliding against stone.
It came from the woods.
Allen didn't hesitate. "James, on me."
They sprinted toward the sound. Whatever it was, it wasn't trying to hide anymore.
They burst through the tree line and came face to face with it.
The creature stood nearly eight feet tall, hunched over, with skin like rotted bark and a mouth that split across its chest. Its eyes—six of them—glowed yellow in the shade. Blood dripped from its claws. It looked at the boys like they were the next course.
James didn't wait. He loosed an arrow that struck the creature in the shoulder—but it barely flinched.
Allen charged, scythe spinning.
The battle was chaos. Allen dodged a swing that shattered a tree behind him, his scythe carving deep into the creature's side. James kept moving, firing arrows with brutal accuracy, each one hitting its mark but doing little to slow it down.
Then the creature roared, and the world seemed to shake.
Allen was knocked back, crashing into a rock. The air left his lungs. His scythe skittered across the ground.
James called his name—then screamed as the creature lunged.
Allen's vision blurred, but he saw it—James, weaponless, trying to dodge claws that moved like lightning.
He didn't think. He didn't plan.
He ran.
And as he grabbed the scythe, something changed.
Power pulsed through his limbs like fire. His feet barely touched the ground as he launched himself forward, scythe raised high. A black glow licked along the edge of the blade.
He struck.
The creature shrieked—a sound that split the air—and reeled back, its chest torn open. It staggered, then collapsed with a crash that shook the trees.
Silence.
James looked up from where he'd hit the ground, eyes wide. "What the hell was that?"
Allen panted, staring at his scythe. The glow faded.
"I... I don't know."
They didn't speak again until they were far from the village, setting up camp near a riverbed. The adrenaline was gone, replaced with exhaustion and confusion.
James sat by the fire, quietly tending to a cut on his arm. "You've changed," he said, not looking up.
Allen sat across from him. "We both have."
James finally looked at him. "But something happened back there. That wasn't just a lucky hit. You felt it, didn't you?"
Allen hesitated. Then he nodded. "Yeah. It was like something... unlocked. Just for a second."
Neither of them said it aloud, but both were thinking it:
That power? It didn't feel natural.
It felt ancient. Otherworldly. Dangerous.
The stars came out one by one, and the river sang its quiet song as the fire crackled between them.
Tomorrow, they'd move on again. But tonight? They rested. Healed. Watched the shadows dance.
And somewhere deep in the forest... something else was watching them back.
Too be continued