IDBGWT 1

Chapter : 01

The End of Everything

Omniscient POV

A plane quietly flew over the skies of Tokyo. Inside, the cabin was filled with soft chatter and warm voices. Some passengers laughed, while others sipped tea. The flight attendants moved calmly up and down the aisles, wearing gentle smiles.

Soon, the captain’s voice came through the speakers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please be advised. We are about to pass through a thick cloud layer. There may be some turbulence, but there is no need to worry. Please remain seated and enjoy the rest of your flight.”

Some passengers tensed. A man whispered to his wife,

“Thick clouds? How bad is it?”

“I hate turbulence…” a woman murmured, gripping the armrest.

“This is my first time on a plane,” a teenage boy said nervously to his friend.

“Is this normal?”

“Probably… it’ll be fine,” the friend replied, though his voice lacked confidence.

Among the passengers was a nine-year-old boy. He had bright, smooth skin, white hair, and striking heterochromatic eyes—one blue, one purple. He clutched his seat and looked up at his parents.

“Mom… Dad… it’s going to be okay, right? I’m scared.”

His parents pulled him close.

“It’s alright,” whispered his mother. “We’re here.”

“We’ll be there soon,” his father said gently. “Don’t worry.”

They were flying from London to Tokyo to visit his seriously ill maternal grandmother. Though his mother’s face betrayed hidden worry, the boy didn’t notice. Yet, deep inside, something stirred, and he hugged his parents tightly, unwilling to let go.

Then, the plane shook.

At first, it was a small vibration. A few screams. Drinks spilled.

“That wasn’t just a little shake…” someone murmured.

But in the next moment—

The plane was violently torn apart.

“Ahhhhh!”

Passengers screamed. Overhead bins flew open, spilling bags into the aisle. Children cried. Men shouted.

The boy clung to his parents as the aircraft trembled like it would split in two.

BANG!

A sharp explosion echoed from outside.

The right engine erupted in flames, roaring like a beast. Metal twisted and broke apart.

Giiii!
Crack!

With bone-chilling screams, the right wing was ripped off. Panic engulfed the cabin instantly.

“Hold on!”
“God, please—!”
“No, no, no—!”

Alarms blared as the plane tilted violently. Oxygen masks fell, tossed by the raging wind. Then, the worst happened.

Whoooosh!

The door blew off.

Freezing air rushed inside, dragging people outward. Screams were swallowed by the roar. Seats tore from the floor. Passengers clutched desperately at anything, clawed at metal, cried and begged for help.

The mother wrapped her arms around her son, calling his name.

“Arsalan…”

The father held both of them, trembling, trying with all his might to keep them safe. Sadly, the boy couldn’t even hear his mother’s final cry.

The plane disintegrated in midair.

Metal shards. Flames. Smoke. Bodies torn by wind. Screams cut off abruptly. The world became chaos, falling, and fire.

It all ended in seconds.

The crash that followed was brutal. Too fast, too violent. No one had time to save themselves. All 276 passengers died.

—Yes, everyone thought so.

After the silence, amidst twisted steel and burning wreckage, a faint light pulsed.

Near the crash site, the boy lay on the ground.

Unconscious. Completely unharmed. Not even a scratch.

It was a miracle.

For a moment, his small chest glowed with light… then vanished as if nothing had happened.

Arsalan awoke to the faint sound of a television nearby. His vision was blurry at first, then slowly cleared.

He lay on a hospital bed, wrapped in clean white sheets. The faint smell of medicine lingered.

A newscaster spoke in a serious tone:

“…One of the worst crashes in recent years. All 276 passengers have been confirmed dead… except for one. Nine-year-old Arsalan Adeon Arvendis was found near the wreckage, unharmed. Doctors are calling this a miracle.”

His photo appeared on the screen. Arsalan stared at it in confusion.

Reporters interviewed people nearby.

“Why that child? My sister was on that plane… she had family. Why did only he survive?” a man shouted.

A woman, voice trembling with tears, said,

“It’s not fair. So many good people died… how did a child survive unhurt?”

Someone nearby shouted angrily,

“This is strange. Something’s not normal. A child survived, but everyone else…? There must be a reason. That child caused it. He’s cursed, a demon…”

The reporter backed away quickly.

Voices overlapped on the broadcast—some called it a miracle, others a bad omen. Some even showed hostility.

“Is this luck, or something else?” the reporter asked. “The families demand an explanation.”

Arsalan lay frozen, small hands trembling as he stared at the screen.

His name, photo, and identity were exposed to the world. Even as a child, he could feel envy, hatred, and fear directed at him.

Some praised him. Some blamed him. Some even hated him. He didn’t know why he survived, or why people were angry. He understood nothing.

But that wasn’t important now.

The sight of his parents dying right in front of him was burned vividly into his mind.

He couldn’t forget. They tried to protect him until the very last moment.

He didn’t need anyone to explain what happened or what became of them—he already knew.

Cold tears ran down his cheeks. When he touched them, they flowed endlessly.

His chest tightened. At that moment, he felt only one thing—

Loneliness.

A police officer arrived at the hospital upon hearing the boy had finally woken. He didn’t know what to say or how to start.

Arsalan was calm, but his face bore traces of dried tears and mucus. His expression was empty.

Doctors had already told him about his parents. Their bodies had not yet been found; the search continued.

The plane exploded midair, throwing many passengers into the sky. The surrounding area and entire flight path were being searched.

Too much time had passed. The state of the recovered bodies told how horrific the deaths were.

That’s why a child surviving unscathed after falling from an exploding plane was even more shocking.

He had merely been unconscious and exhausted. Rescue teams had found him first, briefly sparking hope for other survivors.

But the situation, and aviation experts’ opinions, said survival in such a crash was nearly impossible.

That fleeting hope, followed by despair, made people angry at the boy.

A man in his early thirties stood next to the officer. The officer didn’t know him, but he had been ordered to follow this man’s instructions during the investigation.

Even at a time like this, the higher-ups were doing politics. It was a nuisance for someone like him, who handled practical work.

“Son, how do you feel? Any pain or confusion?” the officer asked as gently as possible.

Arsalan didn’t answer. He slowly lifted his face, staring blankly with dark, empty eyes. Long silence passed; the officer wondered if he was truly okay.

The man next to him appeared irritated and restless. The officer tried speaking again before the man could take over.

Doctors had said the boy was still in shock. As the officer was about to call them, Arsalan finally spoke:

“What do you want to know?”

The officer froze for a moment.

“What happened up there? Can you explain how you reached the ground?”

The black box might still be intact, but the plane was shattered, and recovery would take time.

After a long silence, Arsalan replied:

“I don’t know. I heard a loud explosion. Then everything broke. The door opened, and people fell.”

The other man watched him sharply. The officer offered small words of reassurance.

No one needed to ask about his parents. Everyone understood.

“How did you fall safely?”

Arsalan quietly inhaled, trying to remember. His parents had protected him from falling debris.

His father had been pierced by metal, his eyes losing light. During the rapid fall, Arsalan’s consciousness began to fade.

At one moment, he saw the lower half of his mother gone. Still, her hands held him until the end, shielding him from falling debris.

Then he lost consciousness, awakening next in the hospital. Speaking about it, dry tears flowed again. His mind was numb, unable to process the pain.

The officer couldn’t question him further. But the other man didn’t stop.

“Is that all? You remember nothing else?”

At first, he didn’t respond. Only after repetition did he answer:

“…I think I saw something else.”

The man narrowed his eyes.

“What did you see?”

“A bright light for a moment… I think someone was there,” he whispered, pain stabbing his head.

“Who? Can you remember?” the man pressed. The officer intervened, seeing Arsalan hold his head.

“Enough. That’s enough for now.”

But the man ignored him.

“Then tell me this—what is the mark on your chest and left hand?”

Arsalan looked down in surprise. On his chest, a golden tree pattern. On his left palm, three red lines formed an unfamiliar emblem. He had never noticed them before.

“…I don’t know. It wasn’t there before.”

The man placed a hand on his shoulder, staying for several minutes. Eventually, he pulled back, muttering,

“Waste of time,”
and left the room.

The officer turned to the boy, stunned.

“Do you have any family or friends to contact?”

“I lived in London. I don’t have friends here. Only my maternal grandmother. I came to see her.”

“Alright. Let’s contact her. Do you have her contact info? If not, we can trace her through your parents’ info.”

The officer wondered—if the news was such a big deal, why hadn’t the grandmother arrived yet?

“…She’s in the hospital. Terminal cancer. That’s why I came.”

“Do you know which hospital?”

He shook his head.

“Any other family?”

Again, no answer. The situation was complicated.

“Don’t worry. We’ll find your grandmother. Rest a little.”

Even after the officer left, Arsalan couldn’t rest. He stared at the ceiling expressionlessly until fatigue and medicine finally pushed him into sleep.