EZORA

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Hey guys. I was a bit offline in this community these days, but I was writing something that maybe catch someone's attention. If that is the case, I ask for financial help to this project. I'm a newbie author, and I'm a lone writer, so any help would be amazing. Thanks for the comprehension, and here is what I wrote so far:


Beneath the dusty ruins, the parasite fed. The withered flesh rotted slowly under its delight. Remnants of plasma and drool--a substance that had turned toxic--mingled with its meal.
The creature continued sucking at the pulp and bones, digging deep into the marrow. It did so laboriously, unhurried. Under its watch, a haze of debris rose.
The dim light made the place resemble a sterile storage room. The stench of garbage, iodine, strontium, uranium, and death hung thick in the air. The beast, dubbed the "Terror of the Ruins," swallowed.
A mass of saliva, half-digested food, and a green substance began to clump together. Its stomach rapidly distended, emitting a putrid smell.
...300 meters away, standing below, was a stranger. His facial respirator was dull against his features. His entire face--and body--was covered, his frame gaunt.
The Terror of the Ruins paid no mind. But in a movement swift as a cutting wind, the stranger leaped, a blade white as the sun flashing from his arm.
The sword's motion was precise and graceful, slicing through flesh like paper. A muffled sound came from within the creature.
A wave of blood spilled across the ground, crimson and hot. At their feet, skittering creatures scurried--only to be crushed with a snap, pulverized in seconds.
The stranger's arm bore a black tattoo--a cross inside a circle. Behind him, something seemed to materialize from the air.
"Finished the job?" asked the metallic voice behind him.
"Yes," the stranger replied, "but don't give me orders. You're not my supervisor."
"I won't tolerate your insolence, Shepard," the creature growled. "File the report and hand it in by the end of the day."
Shepard knew arguing was pointless. He pulled a cloth from his assault pack, soaked it in oil, and slowly ran it along the blade.
The world below grew shadowed. The ruined buildings exhaled languid sighs. Above him, stony eyes watched, piercing Shepard like ice.
"That statue... What was its name again?" he wondered. "The Statue of the Wretched, wasn't it?" Shepard lowered his gaze, recalling the story.
Long ago, he remembered reading a book about it. Back when the world wasn't like this, there had been different political systems. Usually, a president acted as both head of state and government.
But soon, the world became entangled in escalating tensions. Conflicts spread like wildfire--through the Middle East, Europe, and across the Pacific.
"...Enough," Shepard thought, realizing he'd lost himself in memories. He stowed his military gear and quickly radioed his superior, who had vanished like a breeze.
"I'll send the report as soon as possible. Dismissed?"
The metallic voice materialized in front of him.
"Yes," it said flatly.
Shepard then displaced the air beneath his feet, leaping in short bursts. From his pocket, he pulled a zinphone--a gift from his wife. Before him, chrome wheels and a black chassis appeared.
The city was lifeless. Only forgotten remnants remained. Nearby, he recognized the old military center that once stood there. He looked up. The lights in the sky burned bright, vibrant, shimmering like fireflies in every color.
Loud noises echoed, sounds that seemed to reverberate across the globe. He glanced down again and adjusted his respirator. The gear was old. "Hope they pay me well after this mission." He shrugged slightly.
He thought about life up there. He'd only been once--as an escort for nobles. Flashes raced through his mind. Dark red hues, screams, whispered prayers.
Even the blinding lights, the colorful buildings, and the massive screens couldn't make him forget. That day had felt darker, grayer. Must've been cloudy.
Shepard remembered this was before everything became the way it was now. The thought made him glance around anxiously.
Despite being an efficient Guerra, he wasn't allowed to openly defy the regime.
Memories rushed back. His fingers clenched, then relaxed. He let out a weak sigh and returned to his usual state.
The day passed slowly. By nightfall, the officer in charge of the report thanked him. "We'll review it and suggest corrections as soon as possible."
Work done for today, he thought bitterly. But something in the air felt different.
For the first time, Shepard felt something indescribable. He sat in a rocking chair--then suddenly remembered a detail.
Activating the system, he swiftly returned to the chair. On the small screen, text appeared:
"Radiation Ionization System."
He couldn't recall how many years he'd had this routine. On the walls, another sword hung beside his own.
His gaze drifted. On the shelf, just within sight, lay an old pendant. How long has this been here? He exhaled sharply and stood.
With slow, deliberate steps, he crouched and picked it up. Whose was this...? He bit his lip, tilting his head.
...Night fell outside, dark and cold as ice. Shepard sat back down after a brief search. The pendant, now gray, was enveloped by his calloused palm.
Gradually, color returned. From ashen gray, the pendant took on a bluish hue--almost like a tiny diamond. The cord holding it remained intact. As its glow returned, Shepard noticed something behind it.
Turning it over, he found a small inscription. He could only make out numbers at the beginning and end:
"2...2."
Strange, he thought. What do these numbers mean?
He searched his memory. The only thing he recalled was his academy days.
He remembered the officer's gaze when he chose his weapon. In the courtyard, scars marked his body daily.
In his mind, it all replayed like distant echoes.
"Hey, quit acting like a weakling. Get up and fight."
Shepard tasted blood rising in his throat. His sword gleamed in his grip. He studied his opponent's body language. Fear? Or... is he haunted by something? Dick's eyes fixated on Shepard's blade.
Shepard understood. He feinted forward--then spun, whipping the sword through the air at a practiced angle. Dick screamed in pain.
"Please, I didn't even use the blade's edge, you weakling."
Dick gritted his teeth, yanking Shepard's arm violently. Dust billowed from the ground.
"ENOUGH!" someone thundered from behind.
The memory unraveled further. He recalled a strange machine--compact, with a display. Doctors had asked for samples. They analyzed specific data.
"Sir, he's in good condition. No significant or concerning DNA alterations. Combat-ready."
...To Shepard, these memories felt ancient. Since becoming a Guerra, his life and memories had changed drastically.
His arms grew thicker, his legs toned. Calluses covered his hands, bruises marked his skin. A scar on his neck was visible.
He stared out the window, contemplative. Then, reflexively, his gaze returned to the pendant.
His lips parted in realization. Wait... Is this Liz's? Memories flared like wildfire. He recalled her smile, her perfume, the scent of her hair as they lay together...
The floor felt soaked beneath him. Shepard buried his face in his hands. This is from when I was still human.

(...)
On the cracked, slightly sunken bed lay a man in his twenties. Slowly, his eyes opened, his senses invaded by mold and the scent of rain.
Distant droplets fell, a soft "tuk, tuk" echoing. He stretched lazily, remembering today was a duty day. Reluctantly, he rose.
"Discipline is what keeps you from ending up with a cracked skull in battle--or an empty, weak stomach." His supervisor's advice resurfaced.
He hated this. He preferred the comfort of a warm bed over waking early for drills. But he recalled the incident where a general disciplined a Guerra for tardiness and decided not to push it.
Still drowsy, *01* warmed up with jumps, then dropped for push-ups.
By *21*, he nearly collapsed but pushed to *25*. He sighed, stretched, and yawned, heading to the kitchen.
The morning routine was the same as always. He reported to the Military Academy, saluting his General and Commander.
The drills were repetitive, monotonous. But physical punishment awaited anyone who slacked off. *01* had never been beaten, but he wasn't eager to test it.
During patrol, his focus wavered. Above him stretched a wasteland, its color like ash.
The sight was disheartening. Nothing comforted him--only stabbed at him with bleak despair.
The few metropolises with attractions were filled with screens and digital displays. He looked up, spotting Metrole Nidra in the distance. He knew little of its customs or people.
Rumors called it dangerous--a haven for criminals, even sorcerers.
He knew this despite being a Guerra because of stories told 12 years ago.
His mother used to tell them. She said it was a city of dreams--where buildings never slept, streets were wide and clean.
"The people there are tall, with well-kept hair and lively eyes."
"But it's dangerous. Gangs, heavy criminals, even warlocks roam there. Don't go thinking about leaving, son."
"Mom, if you don't want me going, why call it a city of dreams?" the boy asked, insolence masked by innocence.
*"It's not a city of dreams. It's lit up 24/7, full of bad people--just another city. Don't expect wonders."*