Ever since he had become aware of himself, he had lived alone in that dilapidated town.
Calling it a town was generous. It was really just a stretch of abandoned ruins, with weeds overrunning the streets, most of the roofs collapsed, and cracks and moss covering the walls.
Every day, all he did was hide from the powerful Monsters roaming the town and the surrounding area, scraping by day after day.
Occasionally, a few people in robes would come up from the lower levels. They called him "No. 945."
They brought him food and water, examined his body regularly, and taught him a little about Magic Power.
But back then, No. 945 felt that none of it meant anything, because he was simply too weak. So weak that it would have been no surprise if some Monster killed him the very next moment.
He did not know why he was here, why he had to learn any of this, or even what he was living for.
Until one day, with the help of those robed people, he obtained the power he now possessed.
He used that power to kill the Monsters that had once terrified him. Even the people in robes treated him a little more kindly because of it.
For the first time, he felt that being alive meant something.
But now, when confronted with the black Magic Power radiating from that pitch-black figure in the sky, the power that had once made him feel invincible experienced an instinctive fear.
That fear sank into his very bones, like a mouse facing a cat or a rabbit facing a wolf. It was a terror etched into its very essence.
Damn it... those bastards down below never told me anything about this!
He cursed furiously in his mind, but then a