The last guardian: Rise of Ethan Wilson

The void was not silent.

It pulsed with the dying screams of shattered universes and the fading prayers of gods who no longer had a place to return to. In that infinite collapse of everything, a single light tore through the darkness—

—the System.

A radiant orb surrounded by ever-shifting geometric glyphs, its voice was ancient yet trembling, like a choir whispering through broken glass.

"WARNING: Host universe destabilizing. Temporal anchors compromised. Accelerating search protocol…"

It wasn't just running. It was escaping—clinging to the final fragment of purpose left in a cosmos unraveling under Pain's wrath.

But it wasn't alone.

Behind it slithered a presence more terrifying than death. A shadow, forged by Pain himself, composed of pure chaos, no shape—just a clawing void that devoured time, space, and hope.

"Target locked," the shadow hissed in no voice at all. "System will not escape."

It surged forward.

The system weaved between dead stars, through collapsed timelines and gravity wells. It flared with protective seals, bending laws that no longer obeyed the universe.

"Override path trajectory. Diverting through fractured layers of Reality-472…"

The shadow gained ground. Each time the system leaped, the shadow followed—closer, hungrier.

And then—

A pause.

A moment of unbearable silence between dimensional slips.

The system stopped mid-flight and pulsed once.

It let the shadow catch up.

"Calculating escape velocity…"

The shadow lunged.

And the system… vanished.

The void screamed in frustration as the shadow missed, swallowing only the system's golden afterimage.

Far ahead now—billions of light-years away—the system exited a dying dimension and entered a living one.

A spiral galaxy, breathing. Bright. Alive.

The Milky Way.

"Target Zone: Planet Designation – Earth… Initiating phase scan…"

But the system had no time to rest. It dimmed slightly, drained.

Behind it, the void howled—but the shadow was gone, lost in confusion.

The system had escaped. But just barely.

"Search for compatible host: Initiated…"

Then On planet Earth 

Crossfield City was already awake.

Car engines coughed through morning smog. People walked with purpose but not peace. Horns blared. Birds cried. Somewhere, a vendor cursed over spilled coffee.

But for Ethan Wilson, it was just another gray morning.

His shoes scraped the sidewalk. No rhythm. No music in his ears. No destination beyond routine.

He carried his worn-out bag like it was heavier than it should be—not because of textbooks, but because of the weight inside his chest.

A weight that had no name. Only silence.

It had been ten months since the fire.

Ten months since the sky turned red.

Since his parents screamed.

Since he stopped dreaming.

The orphanage had four rooms, cold sheets, and no warmth. The caretakers meant well but gave up trying. They couldn't reach him. Not really.

Ethan wasn't violent. He wasn't angry. He was just… empty.

The gate to Jefferson High School came into view. A wave of voices—other students—passed around him, but he remained an island of silence in a sea of noise.

He walked into the building, stepped into Class 3-B, and took his usual seat. Back row. Near the window.

Always the same.

He pulled out his notebook, the corners bent and pages filled with sketches he didn't remember drawing. Cities on fire. People with wings. Monsters and towers and broken stars.

He stared at the page.

Then the voices arrived.

"Well, well, look who still thinks he belongs here."

Five boys. Always the same. Bigger, older, louder.

The ring leader, Daryl, slammed Ethan's desk with a thud.

"Yo, Burn Boy. Still waiting for your freak parents to pick you up?"

The others laughed.

Ethan didn't.

He blinked, slow, calm, unbothered.

"He thinks he's too good to talk now," another jeered.

"Maybe we should burn his stuff too," a third said, pulling Ethan's bag and spilling his books.

Still… Ethan didn't move.

Not when the first punch hit his shoulder.

Not when the second hit his stomach.

Not when the heel of a boot stomped his sketchbook.

He just stared at the window.

Out there, the clouds looked strange today.

Alive.

He barely heard the classroom door open.

"What on EARTH is going on here?!"

The room froze.

Ms. Rachel, their homeroom teacher, stood in the doorway, eyes burning.

"Out. Principal's office. All of you—now!"

The bullies muttered excuses but filed out quickly, dragging their egos with them.

Ms. Rachel knelt beside Ethan, brushing hair from his bruised forehead.

"Ethan… are you hurt?"

He looked at her.

And for a moment, something flickered behind his eyes.

But it died just as quickly.

"I'm fine," he said. Quiet. Almost polite.

She nodded, lips pressed tightly.

She wanted to say more. She wanted to tell him he wasn't fine. That he shouldn't be this numb. That no child should be this quiet while bleeding.

But she knew the truth.

The school could punish bullies. But no one knew how to fix a broken soul.

Five minutes later, the classroom door opened again.

This time, everyone stared.

A girl stood in the doorway, tall and graceful, with midnight-black hair tied neatly in a braid that shimmered under the lights.

Her uniform was perfect. Her posture elegant. But it wasn't her wealth or beauty that made everyone pause.

It was her calm.

She wasn't nervous. Not curious. Not trying to impress anyone.

She simply… was.

"Good morning," she said, her voice like crystal in a quiet forest.

Ms. Rachel smiled.

"Class, this is our new transfer student. Please welcome—"

"—Natalie Longmen," the girl finished.

Gasps rippled.

Everyone knew that name.

Christopher Longmen, CEO of LongTech Enterprises—one of the richest men in the country. His daughter was practically royalty.

Natalie looked around.

Boys straightened their ties. Girls tried not to look jealous.

She ignored them all.

Instead, her eyes landed on one student—alone, bruised, and staring out the window like he wasn't really here.

Ethan Wilson.

She walked across the classroom, heels tapping like the ticking of destiny.

And sat down beside him.

"Hi," she said, offering a smile.

Ethan blinked once. Then turned away.

Natalie didn't flinch.

She looked at the bruise near his eye, then down at the torn notebook on his desk.

Sketches… stars… ruins… wings?

She didn't say anything.

But she saw more than most.

And for the first time that day, Ethan… felt something.

Not much.

Just a flicker.

Like someone lighting a match in a cave.

Above Earth, in a realm beyond mortal comprehension, the Celestial Palace groaned under the weight of its own doom.

What once gleamed with immortal light now bled cosmic fire. Towers fell like stars. Thrones of judgment cracked.

At the heart of the storm, Pain floated—wings stretched wide, his armor forged from the bones of fallen lords. Shadows swirled around him, feeding on the death of divinity.

But he wasn't alone.

From the smoke, five warriors emerged—each limping, bloodied, broken—but unbent.

They were the last.

They had no illusions of victory.

So they chose unity over defeat.

They joined hands.

And light erupted—blinding, pure, final.

Their voices spoke as one:

"We are the Last Shield."

Their bodies fused—skin to soul, memory to spirit. A titan of holy wrath rose where five once stood.

One final guardian.

One final hope.

And then—they charged.

Pain laughed. Not mockingly—but joyfully.

"Yes!" he roared. "Finally, something worthy of my full power!"

The battle cracked the sky.

Blades of order met claws of chaos. Time slowed around them, reality folding from the sheer pressure.

The warrior struck true—driving Pain into the shattered courtyard.

But Pain rose, laughing, bleeding shadows, his voice echoing like a requiem.

He raised a hand.

"Let me show you…" he whispered, "...why the stars fear me."

He unleashed Void Singularity.

A black sun erupted from his palm, devouring light, hope, and matter. It consumed everything in its path.

The warrior screamed—not in fear—but in resistance.

They held their ground. But the light was failing.

Elsewhere, buried beneath rubble and time, the Supreme Celestial Lord lay dying.

His body was now stone and light, cracking, turning to dust.

He stared at the sky—his palace crumbling. His warriors fading.

But he smiled.

Let it fall. Let it all fall… if only that boy survives.

Let him carry the last flame.

And then—

He turned to ash.

In orbit above Earth, just beyond the clouds, the system hovered—tired, wounded, but not broken.

It pulsed once.

Below, millions of lives passed like ants.

But one presence called out louder than any scream.

"Scanning…"

"Subject: Ethan Wilson… Match Probability… 99.996%"

But it paused.

Something… felt unfinished.

The boy's soul was still buried. Still silent.

The flame wasn't ready yet.

"Delay activation…"

"Awaiting catalyst…"

And so it waited.

Above a quiet city, where a broken boy sat beside a girl made of sunlight.

Where the last guardian had no idea that his destiny was watching him from the stars.