Fiction

Title: Ironwave the first Malaysian Superhero

Author: Tan Sri Son [ Page 1-10 ]

The History of the Unshriven of Tanah Melayu

The Beginning – The Oath at Bukit Timah (1511). Before the fall of the great Melakan Sultanate to Portuguese conquest, long before maps drew borders and flags were stitched from war, there stood seven legendary warriors, each hailing from distant corners of Tanah Melayu.

They were men and women of unmatched skill and conviction: a Bugis spear master, a Minangkabau silat prodigy, a Kedah archer, a Johorean shadow walker, a Temuan shaman, a Kelantan healer, and a Perak war priest. Their names are lost, not because they were forgotten, but because they were forbidden to be remembered.

Under the pale, blood-stained moon, the seven gathered atop the sacred hill of Bukit Timah, then untouched by city or stone. They had come at the call of a being known only in whispers and half remembered dreams: Tuan Besi.

No one truly knew what he was. He wore the robes of a mendicant, the eyes of a judge, and the presence of something far older than any sultan. Some claimed he was once human, a scholar who walked into the mouth of Gunung Ledang and came out knowing the language of time. Others believed he was a god chained to earth by grief.

Tuan Besi stood before the seven and spoke only once. “The land will bleed. The winds will carry foreign tongues. Your line will drown unless fire meets fire. Choose.”

And so, they chose. They offered everything: body, blood, and soul. In return, they were gifted powers beyond comprehension, might to crush armies, foresight to read the fate of empires, and bodies untouched by time. But power without humility becomes rot.

Despite their strength, Malacca still fell. The invaders came not as warriors of honor, but as merchants of destruction, bearing steel and gunpowder, driven by greed masked in flags of foreign empires. The skies burned red as cannon fire split the air, and the once proud walls of the Sultanate crumbled under a storm of smoke and screams.

The sacred warriors, chosen by the spirits of the old hill, stood in disbelief. They had been sworn to protect the land, to uphold the pact made under moonlight and ancient stars. But when the tide of death came crashing, their faith faltered. Their grief curdled into rage. And their rage into pride.

They turned from guardians into rulers. Where once they stood between the people and the darkness, now they became shadows themselves, wielding their otherworldly gifts to dominate what remained. They carved territories into the dying heart of the peninsula, ruling not with wisdom, but with fear.

Then, Tuan Besi returned.

He stood at the foot of the sacred hill, once their gathering place, his robes torn, his eyes lined with sorrow. He raised his voice to the wind and to the warriors who had betrayed their oath.

“You have defiled the covenant forged on this hill,” he declared, his voice trembling with the weight of ages. “You were chosen not to rule, but to serve. You were given power not for vengeance, but for justice. But you have lost your way.”

The warriors stood in silence, eyes hard, unmoved. Tuan Besi stepped forward, his presence like thunder beneath the sky. “Power without repentance… is corruption. You who refuse to see your wrongs, who seek dominion instead of healing, you are no longer guardians.”

And then he raised his hand to the heavens. The air turned still. The light dimmed. Even the birds fell silent. “I cannot strip what has been gifted by the spirits,” he said. “But I can name you what you have become.”

His voice cracked like lightning as he pronounced the curse:

“You shall live, but never truly live. You shall walk forever, but never arrive. You shall hunger for peace, but never taste it. From this day forth, you who reject repentance shall be known as…” He paused, his eyes filled with both sorrow and fury. “…the Unshriven.”

The word echoed across the land, carried by the wind, etched into the bones of the earth. And the warriors, now shadows of their former selves, turned away, cursed to wander for centuries, trapped by their own pride.

But Tuan Besi was not done.

He turned to the darkening horizon, his voice lowered into a whisper meant for time itself.

“Yet the story is not finished,” he said. “For one shall come.... born not far from this century..... carrying my bloodline, though they will not know it. They shall rise not with anger, but with clarity. They shall not seek vengeance… but truth.”

And then he uttered the final words, more a prophecy than a curse:

“One shall be born to erase the Unshriven.... to end what began here. Whoever they are… wherever they rise… they are mine. Forever.”

And so, they became cursed wanderers, neither spirit nor flesh, their names burned from time to time. The world forgot them. But they remembered everything.

The Broken Centuries, The Age of Silence (1600–1988). Over the centuries, the Unshriven splintered into myth. Some hid in the mountains, others slithered into royal courts and foreign empires, cloaked as advisors, healers, mystics.

They whispered into ears of warlords and governors, planting seeds of ambition and doom. Entire revolts rose and fell with the wave of their unseen hands.

They fought among themselves. Some longed for redemption. Others embraced the curse. Most, however, simply watched the world bleed from behind their eternal veil.

Their footprints vanished with time. Not even the world could sense them. Only one thing remained: a prophecy, written on the inner walls of a cave deep within Tasik Chini, inked in blood and sealed with fire.

"When a child is born of the old blood and the cursed flame, the skies shall part. The Unshriven may kneel… or burn.” None knew when. None knew who. Until one night...

The Arrival, Kota Kinabalu, 19 October 1988, 10:00 PM. The sky was clear. No blood moon. No thunder. Just silence.

In a modest hospital room in Kota Kinabalu, Sabah, a woman cried out in labor. Her name was Maria, and beside her stood her husband Abdullah, a quiet man with kind eyes and a heart forged by faith. At exactly 10:00 PM, a boy was born, eyes dark as the ocean before a storm.

They named him Mikhail Abdullah. A nurse whispered that the boy didn’t cry. He simply opened his eyes… and the lights above them flickered. The glass in the windows trembled, though no wind stirred outside.

Maria never knew her bloodline, never knew that she descended directly from Tuan Besi himself. Her great grandmother, a reclusive woman from Perak, had sealed away their lineage in silence and shame. No one told Maria. But now, the blood has awakened.

That night, across the Peninsula, strange things stirred. In Johor, an ancient tomb cracked open. In Langkawi, a bomoh drowned mid prayer as a wave crashed upon his home from a sea that had been still for days.

And deep in the forests near Bukit Timah, a figure cloaked in dust whispered: “He is born.” The Stirring Shadows The Unshriven felt it.

Those still bound to the curse sensed the shift in the air. One of them, cloaked in a mirror-skin robe, walked the streets of Singapore that same night, smiling coldly. “So… the blood of Besi returns. Shall we kneel… or shall we burn?”

And far away, in a monastery nestled deep in Titiwangsa, an old man lit a candle and prayed. He looked into the flame and saw Mikhail’s future, War.

Loss. A throne of fire. A choice that would shake the heavens.

“May he choose better than we did,” the old man whispered, as the candle flickered.

2.Kota Kinabalu, Sabah, When the Flame First Stirred.

Mikhail was raised like any normal boy. He laughed easily, played without fear, and asked questions about everything, clouds, stars, ants, the colour of the wind. His parents, Abdullah and Maria, adored him.

“Our boy is so cute,” Maria whispered one night, brushing Mikhail’s soft hair as he slept between them. His breath was calm, rhythmic like ocean waves. Abdullah smiled, his rough hand resting gently on his wife’s. But his eyes were distant.

“There’s something in him, Maria. Something deep in his eyes. Like a storm waiting behind a smile.” Maria tilted her head, a little amused. “Deep what, my dear? Are you writing poetry now?” He chuckled softly, but the tone in his voice shifted.

“I can feel it. Our boy… he won’t grow up to be someone. He will grow up to be somebody. The kind the world talks about in hushed voices.”

Maria laughed quietly, shaking her head. “You’re teasing me again.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But mark my words, love, our Mikhail isn’t ordinary. I don’t know what that means yet. I just know...” He looked at their sleeping son. “The world might not be ready for him.”

From age two till five, Mikhail was a joyful child, chasing butterflies in the backyard, building forts from pillows, telling wild stories about invisible dragons. He had an uncanny sense for people’s emotions. He would hug his mother the moment sadness touched her.

He would look into strangers' eyes and say things like, "Why is your heart broken, uncle?" But then came the fever. It began on a rainy afternoon in July. He was five. The storm outside rattled the windows. Mikhail had been drawing quietly when his crayon snapped and he suddenly froze.

“Mama, I feel cold. But the cold feels like fire.” Maria rushed to him. He was burning. They raced to the hospital through flooded streets, Abdullah gripping the steering wheel, praying under his breath.

At Queen Elizabeth Hospital, Emergency Ward. Nurses rushed him into triage. Thermometers snapped. Ice packs melted in seconds. Doctors argued in urgent tones. A nurse approached Abdullah, trembling. “Sir… you need to see this.”

He followed her, heart pounding. They opened the curtain, and he froze. Mikhail lay on the bed, breathing heavily, skin flushed red, but not in pain. A shattered thermometer lay beside him. The reading had reached 150°C before exploding.

“What in the name of.........” Abdullah whispered. “We’ve never seen anything like this.” one of the doctors said. “His internal temperature is lethal, but there’s no organ failure, no seizures. He’s... stable.”

“Sir,” added a nurse, her voice careful, “we believe your son might be… abnormal.” Abdullah’s jaw clenched. “What does that mean? Abnormal? He’s just a boy.” “We mean it in a clinical sense, sir. He’s… surviving something that should have killed any human being.”

The attending physician stepped forward. “We want to run further tests. Deep scans. Bloodwork. Genetic mapping. This isn’t just fever. His cells are resisting the laws of biology.”

Then at The Waiting Room. Maria sobbed quietly into Abdullah’s shoulder. “Dear… I just want our baby to be okay. I don’t care if he’s ‘abnormal’ or not. Just… just let him live.” Abdullah held her tightly, trying to suppress the storm inside him.

“Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to our son. Not while I draw my breath.” But deep inside, he felt it. A weight. A presence. He remembered his grandfather’s strange bedtime stories. Of cursed warriors. Of bloodlines tied to flame. Of something ancient hidden in their ancestry.

And as Maria cried softly beside him, Abdullah closed his eyes and prayed. Not to be strong, but to understand what was coming. Inside the Isolation Ward Behind glass walls, Mikhail’s eyes slowly fluttered open.

And for a split second… the overhead lights flickered again. He turned his head, slowly. His breath was calm. Almost too calm.

Outside the room, none noticed the scorch mark forming in the shape of a 'U' sun on the blanket beneath him, hot to the touch, glowing faintly with heatless fire.

3.Queen Elizabeth Hospital – Kota Kinabalu. The next morning, the fever broke.

Mikhail sat up in his hospital bed, eyes wide with curiosity, nibbling a biscuit. His skin was flushed but no longer burning, his smile bright as if nothing had happened.

The machines beside him, now functioning again, showed readings within the human range, but something in the air was still crackled with tension. Nurses glanced at him with awe and fear. One whispered "Fire Boy....." behind a clipboard.

In the doctor’s office, Abdullah and Maria sat stiffly, their hands locked together. The fluorescent lights hummed above them. Doctor Goh removed his glasses and leaned forward, his voice low and steady.

“There’s no medical explanation for what happened last night. Your son’s core temperature reached 150°C. The thermometer burst into pieces. But his blood work, his vitals, completely normal. It's… impossible.”

Abdullah swallowed hard. “Doctor, please…” He paused, trembling slightly. “Please keep this between us. No media. No specialists from KL. No government men. Please.”

Maria added with urgency, “We’re not trying to hide something evil. He’s just a boy. Our boy. But if people find out... they might not treat him like one.”

Doctor Goh looked at them both. He could see the weight in their eyes, the fear of losing Mikhail not to death, but to a world that wouldn’t understand him. After a long silence, he leaned back, exhaled deeply, then nodded.

“I swear on my mother’s name. This stays between us. I will never breathe a word of it. Not to anyone.” Relief poured from Abdullah’s shoulders. He stood and reached out to shake Doctor Goh’s hand, but instead pulled him into a hug.

“Thank you, Doctor. Thank you for treating him like a child… not a monster.” Doctor Goh patted his back gently. “He’s not a monster, Mr. Abdullah. He might be a miracle.” That moment became the beginning of a quiet brotherhood.

Abdullah and Doctor Goh kept in touch beyond the hospital visits. Their families met on weekends. They would talk under the stars at Tanjung Aru, sharing stories over teh tarik and grilled ikan bakar. Goh never spoke of the supernatural, but he observed Mikhail closely, like a silent guardian.

Eventually, he became more than a friend, he became Mikhail’s godfather, a role he embraced with quiet honour.

Time passed. Mikhail grew, and the world around him seemed none the wiser. But behind closed doors, strange things continued to happen. Lights flickered when he got upset. Toys melted in his hands if he cried. He never feared heat. Never got burned. Never felt pain the way others did.

Then came his first day of school. A quiet Monday morning. He wore a pressed white shirt and navy blue shorts. Maria combed his hair back lovingly. “You look so handsome, sayang,” she said, forcing a smile.

Mikhail tilted his head, watching her. “Why do you smile like you’re about to cry, Mama?” Maria froze. She knelt to his eye level and kissed his forehead. “Because… I’m just proud of you. Now be strong. Don’t let anyone make you feel small, okay?”

He nodded and ran off to the car, a bag bouncing on his back. That year, he was often sick. The school called home almost weekly. “Puan Maria, he’s burning up again. Please come quickly.”

But each time, he would sit in the sickbay, calm as ever, reading or humming softly. Temperature: 140°C. Sometimes 150°C. Never below 100. Yet he never cried. Never screamed. Never asked for help. Nurses were baffled. One even fainted upon seeing the thermometer spike.

Doctor Goh reassured the school staff with crafted medical letters. Special condition. Controlled monitoring. Family history. Nothing dangerous. But at home, he looked at Abdullah with quiet fear. “Dad… am I sick forever? Or am I broken?”

Abdullah knelt before his son and placed his hands on his shoulders. “No, Mikhail. You’re not broken. You’re... chosen. That fire in you, it’s not a curse. It’s a part of who you are.” “But why doesn’t it hurt? The other kids scream when they fall or burn their hands. I don’t. Am I still like them?”

Abdullah’s heart cracked a little. “You are still a boy. My boy. Just... different. And sometimes, being different means the world isn’t ready for you. But one day... they will be.” “How do you know, Dad?”

“Because I believe in you. And because the fire inside you has a purpose.” Mikhail nodded, quietly absorbing his father’s words like a sacred oath. And deep within his veins, the ancient curse stirred for the first time since Bukit Timah.

4.Then a year passed. Mikhail was never the same.

He was always cold now, even when the sun blazed high and hot outside. His skin stayed pale, his breath shallow, and his hands trembled constantly. No blanket, no fire, no tropical breeze could warm him. And then, one day, the cold inside him became a storm.

His temperature plummeted, his body shivered uncontrollably, and his lips turned blue. He collapsed.

The ambulance had to clear a path through the frost-covered ground. In the ICU, the thermometer read -30°C, and it wasn’t the air, it was him. His body was like a dying winter locked inside a boy who once knew warmth.

Maria stood by his bedside, shaking, her eyes swollen with tears. The machines beeped steadily, each note stabbing her heart.

“What happened to our boy, my dear?” she whispered, her voice breaking as she gripped Abdullah’s coat with trembling hands. “Why… why would God test him like this?” Her voice cracked again. “What has he done to deserve this pain?”

Abdullah’s eyes were red, but dry. He’d cried so much already, he didn’t have tears left. He gently wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t cry, my love,” he said softly, but his voice trembled with emotion. “Our boy is strong. He always has been. This isn’t the end.”

The door opened quietly, and Doctor Goh entered the room with a solemn face. His long coat trailed behind him like a shadow. He had been with Mikhail through every trial. His steps were careful now, respectful. “Abdullah…” he spoke gently, giving a slight nod. “Maria…”

He approached them slowly. “Don’t lose hope. He will make it. He’s fighting, harder than most people ever have to.” Maria turned to him with hollow eyes. Her lips quivered.

“Doctor… it’s not fair,” she said, her voice small and fragile. “He was just a child when the suffering began. He never asked for this. Every time we think he’s healing… another storm comes.”

Doctor Goh’s expression tightened. “I know,” he said softly, placing a warm hand on her shoulder. “It isn’t fair. None of this is. But sometimes, when the world gives us no reason to believe… a miracle happens. Not out of fairness. Not out of logic. But out of sheer will to survive. And that boy, your boy, he has that will.”

Maria closed her eyes and leaned into Abdullah’s chest, sobbing silently. Her fingers gripped the hem of her son’s blanket as if she could transfer her warmth to him by touch alone. Doctor Goh walked over to the bedside and looked at Mikhail’s face, pale and still, his lashes fluttering with shallow dreams.

“He’s not gone,” the doctor whispered. “He’s just… wandering through the cold. We need to guide him back.”

Abdullah nodded slowly. “Then we wait,” he said. “As long as it takes. Until he finds his way back.”

And in that sterile room of machines and frost, they stood together, parents clinging to love, to faith, to a fragile thread of hope. Waiting for spring to come back to their boy.

5. A few hours later, Mikhail’s fever broke.

It wasn’t gradual, it was strange. His body temperature, which had soared to alarming heights that morning, began to stabilize as if some invisible force had intervened. By mid-afternoon, the flush on his skin had faded, the shivering stopped, and clarity returned to his eyes.

From the hallway, Maria let out a sharp cry. “Dear!” she called her husband. “Come quickly....our boy’s temperature is normalizing!” The family rushed in, stunned. No one expected such a sudden recovery. Just hours earlier, they had been preparing for the worst.

In the corner of the room, Dr. Goh and Abdullah exchanged a brief, knowing glance, subtle, silent, but unmistakable. They didn’t look surprised. In fact, they looked… prepared. They knew. But they said nothing.

That evening, Mikhail was brought home. The adults kept their voices low, their conversations hushed, as if guarding a truth too dangerous for a child’s ears. Maria gently placed a cold towel on his forehead and whispered, “Sleep, my boy. You're safe now.”

But Mikhail didn’t feel safe.

Time moved like a river in monsoon season, fast, relentless, and unbothered by the debris it carried. Years passed. By the time Mikhail reached Primary Six, he was older, stronger, and for a while, everything felt normal again, school, chores, friends, and football.

Then came the day that changed everything. It began like any other. The sun hung high and hot above the soccer field. Mikhail laughed with his friends as they kicked around a beat, up ball, their voices echoing off the school walls. The grass burned their soles, and sweat soaked their uniforms.

One of the boys suddenly shouted, “Eh, fast, rain is coming!” The sky darkened too quickly. The clouds above curled inward, like smoke being sucked into an unseen vortex. The wind turned sharp, erratic, whistling violently through the trees.

Laughter turned to chaos. Dozens of boys sprinted toward the shelter beneath the Angsana trees. All but one. Mikhail didn’t move. He couldn’t. Something unseen had locked him in place, his feet rooted to the earth, his limbs frozen.

Rain fell, no, it slammed, onto the ground like the beat of war drums. Thunder cracked the sky open. Then the earth beneath him trembled. It wasn’t a normal tremor, it felt as though the land itself was responding to him. And then… it appeared.

Through the curtain of rain, a shape emerged. A figure, dark as charcoal, made entirely of shifting shadow. It had no eyes, yet its presence bore down on Mikhail like a weight. He could feel its gaze inside his bones. They stood face to face. Time stopped.

"You are born to serve," the figure said, its voice calm but layered with countless echoes, as if a thousand voices spoke in unison. Mikhail’s mouth opened, but no sound came. "You belong to an older world, Mikhail. One that still remembers your bloodline.”

He gasped. His voice barely formed the words: “What… what are you talking about?.....” The shadow didn’t move, yet it somehow leaned closer. “The day will come when this world forgets its roots. But you, you, will remind them. You were marked before your first breath. Hidden, but not lost.”

Mikhail’s heart pounded like a war drum. “Why me? Why now?” "Because the veil weakens,” the shadow answered. “And when the old ones stir, they will seek the ones who can bridge the light and the dark."

Then, without warning, the figure began to dissolve, vanishing into mist, pulled into the storm like smoke in reverse. Yet its voice lingered, deep, resonant, unforgettable. “RISE...”

6.The echo of that final word, “RISE”, thundered through the field. And then, silence.

The rain stopped as abruptly as it had begun. The clouds thinned, but the sky remained bruised with twilight. Mikhail collapsed to his knees, gasping for air, soaked to the bone. His heart pounded against his ribs like a drum of warning, but his mind was crystal clear.

From beneath the Angsana trees, his friends broke from shelter and ran toward him, voices rising in concern. “Mikhail! Mikhail… you okay?” one of them called, his tone trembling.

Mikhail didn’t speak at first. He looked up at the sky, still dark, but calm. The storm had passed, but something deeper had been stirred. He felt it. Whatever had just happened… it wasn’t a dream. It was a beginning.

Everyone stood frozen, unsure of what they’d just witnessed. No one knew what to say. But his friend Rizal stepped forward, trying to bring things back to something familiar.

“Naaah… it's just a cloud,” Rizal said, forcing a casual shrug. “A weird one maybe, blurry, like… like a shadow trick. I think.” His voice was unsteady, but he was trying, for Mikhail. He placed a hand on Mikhail’s shoulder, grounding him. “Come on, let’s go home. It’s getting dark.”

They walked in silence for a while, sneakers squelching in the wet grass, shirts clinging to their backs. The path was slick and quiet, the world eerily calm. Rizal glanced sideways. “Mikhail... you sure you're okay?”

Mikhail nodded slowly, then stopped walking. His voice was low, quiet, but certain. “I saw something, Zal. Something… that’s beyond our imagination.” Rizal turned to him. “What do you mean?”

“There was a shadow. It spoke to me. Not with a voice... not like ours. But I heard it in my head. It knew things… about me. About my bloodline.” Rizal’s eyes widened, but he didn’t interrupt. Mikhail locked eyes with him. “Promise me you’ll keep this secret?”

Rizal didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and placed a hand over his heart. “I swear, bro. You and me only. Forever.” From that day, their bond became unshakable, stronger than blood.

A few weeks later, trouble stirred again, this time in the form of school violence.

It was during recess, when most of the students were scattered across the canteen and field. Mikhail was on his way to return a library book when he heard muffled yelling echoing down the corridor near the back toilets.

Then, a cry of pain. It was Rizal. Mikhail dropped his book and sprinted toward the sound. Inside the dim, tiled washroom, three seniors had cornered Rizal. One had him by the collar, another was kicking his side, while the third laughed cruelly from the doorway.

“You think you're clever, huh?” one snarled. “You don’t get to talk back, you little dog.” Rizal was coughing, curled up, trying to protect his face. “STOP!!!!!!!!!!!” Mikhail’s voice rang out, sharp, commanding.

The seniors turned, irritated at first, until they saw him. “Mind your own business, Form Five business doesn’t concern little brats like you,” the tallest senior barked. But Mikhail didn’t stop.

He walked into the room with steady, deliberate steps, eyes locked on them. No fear. No hesitation. “I said, stop beating him.” The boy closest to Rizal scoffed. “And what if we don’t? You gonna cry to the teacher?”

Mikhail didn’t respond with words. Instead, he stepped forward, grabbed the collar of the one who had spoken, and lifted him effortlessly off his feet. The senior’s cocky grin vanished. His friends froze. “What the hell......?”

Then, in one motion, Mikhail hurled the boy backward. He crashed into the tiled wall and collapsed, gasping for breath. The second senior rushed him with a wild yell, but Mikhail sidestepped, his eyes cold. With a swift move, he grabbed the attacker’s arm and twisted, sending the boy to the floor with a grunt of pain.

The third boy, who had been laughing just moments before, stared in disbelief. He didn’t move. None of them did. The washroom was filled with silence. Even Rizal, still on the floor, looked up with wide eyes, stunned.

“You don’t touch him again,” Mikhail said, voice low and lethal. “Not now. Not ever.” The seniors scrambled away without a word, limping and groaning, too afraid to look back. Mikhail turned to Rizal and knelt beside him. “You okay?”

Rizal nodded slowly. “Yeah… yeah. I think so.” He winced as he sat up, then managed a shaky smile. “That was... insane. What just happened to you?” Mikhail looked down at his hands, the energy still humming beneath his skin.

“I don’t know,” he murmured. “But I think… it’s only the beginning.” Rizal clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Whatever it is, I’ve got your back. Always.” Mikhail looked at his friend, and for the first time, the weight of what was coming didn’t feel quite as heavy.

Not when he had someone beside him.

7.Everything happened so fast. In what felt like a blur of paperwork, goodbyes, and final packing, Mikhail and Rizal were headed for college life in London. It was a fresh start, a new chapter neither of them could predict, but one that would shape them forever.

Kota Kinabalu International Airport, just before sunrise. The departure lounge buzzed with voices, luggage wheels, and occasional boarding calls. But for Mikhail, the world had gone quiet. His heart beat slowly, heavily.

“Sayang…” Maria’s voice trembled slightly. She pulled her son into a hug and held him tighter than she had in years. “You take care of yourself there, okay? Don’t skip meals. And don’t forget to call home once in a while.”

Mikhail held her back, burying his face for a second into her shoulder. “I will, Ma. I promise.” Then his father stepped forward. Unlike Maria, his voice was firmer, but his eyes gave away everything.

“Khail,” he said, using the shortened name only family used. “Don’t be too naughty there, ya? Study smart. Make us proud.” Mikhail nodded, quiet and respectful. “Okay, Pa. I will.” He forced a small smile. “Promise.”

“Rizal’s already at the airport in Heathrow waiting for me,” he added, trying to ease the weight of the goodbye. Suddenly, another familiar figure approached, Dr. Goh, his godfather, wearing his signature linen jacket and calm, intelligent eyes behind his glasses.

“My boy,” Dr. Goh said gently. “You’ve grown fast. I still remember you running around my clinic in slippers, asking too many questions.” He chuckled, then looked serious. “Now look at you. London, huh?”

Mikhail grinned. “Yeah… it feels strange.” “It’ll feel strange once you're there. Just remember, any time you need something, or if anything feels off, you call us, understood?” Mikhail nodded. “Okay, Uncle. Thank you for everything.”

Dr. Goh placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “You’re going to face things I can’t explain, Khail. But trust yourself. And trust Rizal.” The final boarding call rang over the speakers.

Mikhail hugged his mother once more, shook his father’s hand with both of his, and exchanged one last look with Dr. Goh, one filled with quiet understanding. Then, with a deep breath, he turned and walked toward the departure gate.

Heathrow International Airport, London, a few hours later.

The air was thick, humid, and busy with travelers rushing in all directions. The city’s chaotic pulse could be felt even within the walls of the airport. Then, “BRO! BRO!” Rizal’s voice broke through the crowd.

Mikhail turned to see him waving both hands high in the air, a huge grin plastered on his face. He hadn’t changed, same worn, out sneakers, same messy hair, and that unmistakable spark in his eyes.

“Damn, finally!” Rizal exclaimed, grabbing Mikhail’s bag like it was nothing. “You took your sweet time!” Mikhail laughed, shaking his head. “The plane took off late. You look like you haven’t slept.”

“I haven’t,” Rizal said, half proud. “I was too excited. And also, our college registration is today. So we’ve got a full schedule.” He slung an arm over Mikhail’s shoulder. “But first, we gotta find a cheap room. The hostel’s full, and I don’t want to end up sleeping in some cockroach infested drain.”

“Fair,” Mikhail said with a smirk. “Let’s go, then.” They moved through the airport together, energy buzzing around them. Outside, the City of London greeted them with traffic, heat, and opportunity. It was nothing like home, but something told Mikhail that he and Rizal were right where they were meant to be.

He didn’t say it aloud, but he felt it. This is where everything begins.

8.London, early winter. The city buzzed with its usual chaos, red buses blurring past, people walking with purpose, and the sound of sirens far in the distance. It was just another busy afternoon, and Mikhail and Rizal had finally carved out time for a quiet lunch outside the King’s College London campus.

They sat at a small café along the edge of the Thames, jackets zipped up as the chill cut through the air. The steaming takeaway boxes in front of them were the only warmth in sight. “God, I miss home food,” Rizal muttered, blowing on his rice. “Mama’s sambal would’ve fixed this cold.”

Mikhail chuckled. “You’re always thinking of food when you’re homesick.” “Can you blame me?” Suddenly, the mood shifted.

A group of four local hooligans swaggered nearby, leather jackets, dirty boots, and arrogance in every step. The tallest, with greasy blond hair and a chipped tooth, locked eyes with them and sneered. “Oi… Hey, Pakky."

The words snapped through the air like ice. Mikhail didn’t flinch. He took another bite of his food and eyes on the river. Rizal, on the other hand, stiffened immediately. “You two lost or something?” the man continued. “What’re a pair of cowardly Asians doing sitting here like you own the bloody place?”

His friends laughed. A cruel, guttural sound. Rizal leaned toward Mikhail, voice low. “Bro, let’s just go. This is not worth it.” Mikhail shook his head slowly, his voice calm but cold. “No. Sit. Finish your meal.” “Khail.......” “Let them bark.” But barking wasn’t enough for them.

Suddenly, the leader kicked the metal table violently, sending the food containers flying and slamming into Rizal’s lap. The noise cut through the café’s chatter. Heads turned. A waitress dropped her tray. Everything went still.

Rizal stood up abruptly, heart racing. But Mikhail rose even slower, deliberate, silent. The blond thug leaned forward. “You deaf, mate? You better say somethi.........” CRACK.

Mikhail’s fist smashed into his jaw with brutal precision, sending him stumbling backward, crashing into a parked bike. One of the gang members shouted in shock, but before anyone else could move, Mikhail stepped forward and grabbed the groaning man by the collar, lifting him effortlessly.

“You want a reaction?” Mikhail growled, his voice deep and sharp like a blade. “Here it is.” The man whimpered, barely conscious. Mikhail glanced at the others. “You move,” he said, voice low but full of thunder, “I crush your bones.”

One of the gang took a half, step forward, then paused. He saw something in Mikhail’s eyes. Not fear. Not even anger. Something far more dangerous. control. Then Mikhail turned and, with sheer force, threw the thug back, crashing him into his own gang’s table. It collapsed with a metallic shriek.

Everyone at the café stood frozen. The crowd widened. A few people started recording. The gang stared, trembling, unsure whether to fight or flee. Mikhail stood still, his breath even. Then he turned to Rizal. “You okay?” Rizal blinked. “Y...Yeah…”

Mikhail nodded and turned back to the gang. “If I ever see you near us again.....” he paused, letting the silence finish the threat. The hooligans didn’t wait. They scrambled, dragging their injured friend away like dogs with their tails between their legs.

A long silence followed. Then someone from the café clapped. A few others joined in, awkward but genuine. Mikhail didn’t respond. He just picked up their scattered food box, handed Rizal what remained, and sat back down.

Rizal stared at him. “Bro…” Mikhail didn’t look up. “In every city, there’s always someone who thinks they can intimidate the quiet ones.” Rizal exhaled, still shaken. “You’ve changed, man.”

Mikhail finally looked up, his eyes dark. “No. I’ve just stopped letting people walk over us.” The wind picked up again, cold but clean. In a city that never stopped moving, two boys from Kota Kinabalu refused to be trampled.

9.A Year Later, Stormy Night in London. The room was dimly lit, the pale desk lamp flickering softly above a stack of notes. Mikhail sat at his desk, absorbed in a worn book on theoretical physics, one of many he had begun to collect, trying to understand the strange sensation he sometimes felt within his body, like a hum beneath his skin.

Outside, the rain tapped steadily against the windows of the student housing complex, wind howling low like a warning. It was past midnight, and the entire dormitory was quiet. Rizal had gone out earlier that evening on a date, joking as he left, “Don’t stay up all night reading your weird science stuff again, bro.”

Mikhail hadn’t replied. Something about tonight already felt… different. He turned the page, then paused. His hand reached for the ceramic coffee mug on the desk, lukewarm by now, but before he could grasp it, it slid on its own, teetering and falling off the table’s edge. CRASH.

Coffee splashed across the floor, spreading in a dark puddle toward the frayed power extension near the desk, something Mikhail had meant to replace weeks ago. And then it happened. ZZZZZTTTT.............!

A violent arc of electricity hissed and cracked, surging through the spilled liquid, and directly into Mikhail’s bare foot. But… He didn’t flinch. He didn’t scream. He didn’t feel anything. Just…...... warmth.

The lightbulb above him burst with a sharp pop. The entire building went dark. In the distance, alarms chirped, and students’ voices echoed from other dorm rooms. A total blackout. But in Mikhail’s room, there was only silence.

His breath was shallow as he stared at the spilled coffee, now mingled with melted plastic. The extension cord had short-circuited completely, but he was unscathed. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he slowly stood. He examined his foot. No burn. No injury. Not even a tingle.

“....…What the hell,” he whispered. He stumbled to the window, his hand shaking slightly as he pulled the curtains aside. The rain had stopped. The sky outside was eerily clear, moonlight pouring over the city. No sirens. No wind. Only silence.

He looked at his reflection in the glass, his eyes wide, his skin pale in the dim moonlight. “What am I?” he whispered, then corrected himself. “Who… am I?”

He pressed his hand against the glass, as if searching for answers in the reflection. The faint glow of streetlights returned down below, emergency power kicking in. But in his room, the electricity remained dead. Except for him.

He looked at his hand again, raising it slowly. A faint pulse, like a charge, glimmered briefly between his fingertips. It danced and then faded. “Impossible,” he muttered. Then louder, to no one, to the silence. “This isn’t normal. This can’t be normal.”

Footsteps ran down the hall, students in panic from the sudden blackout. But Mikhail didn’t move. He remained by the window, his heart pounding like a war drum. He wasn’t afraid. Not anymore.

He was awakening.

10.That night, Mikhail sat quietly on the edge of his bed, the faint hum of the air conditioner above barely audible over the thudding of his heart. His fingers trembled slightly as he dialed the number. After a few rings, a familiar voice picked up.

"Mikhail? Sayang, is everything okay?" It was Maria, his mother, her voice filled with gentle concern. “I’m alright, Ma,” he said softly. “Can I speak to Dad too?” A brief shuffle, then a deeper voice came through. “Mikhail, what’s wrong?”

“I just... I need to tell you something. I got electrocuted today,” Mikhail said, trying to keep his voice steady. There was a stunned silence. “But... I didn’t feel anything. No pain. Nothing. It’s like… like it didn’t affect me at all.” “Ya Allah,” Abdullah whispered. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“I am dad. But that’s not what’s bothering me.” Mikhail paused. “I’m calling Dr. Goh.” Before his parents could ask more, he ended the call and dialed his godfather. The phone rang only once before the line picked up. “Hello, my boy,” came Dr. Goh’s familiar, calm voice.

“Uncle,” Mikhail began, his voice shaky, “I just got shocked by a live electrical wire. But it didn’t hurt. Not even a little. I should’ve been dead. But I’m not.” Dr. Goh was silent for a moment, then he exhaled deeply. “My boy… I think you are special.”

The words hit Mikhail like a thunderclap. He froze, staring blankly at the floor. Dr. Goh continued, more carefully now. “Don’t think about it too much, okay?” “But Uncle,” Mikhail said again, this time more composed, “what is it, really? What’s happening to me?”

There was a long pause on the other end. Then Dr. Goh said, his voice was lower, more serious, “My boy… since the day you were born, strange things have happened around you. Things that cannot be explained by science or logic. Your mother told me stories when you were a baby.

Lights would flicker when you cried. Your fever once rose beyond safe levels, and yet… you were perfectly fine. Do you remember the time you fell from the second floor?” Mikhail nodded, even though Dr. Goh couldn’t see it. “I do. I didn’t break a bone.”

“That fall should have killed a child. But you walked away with a scratch.” Dr. Goh sighed. “There’s something in you, Mikhail. Something I’ve never been able to fully understand. And maybe... it’s not meant to be understood.” “But what does it mean?” Mikhail asked. “What am I?”

“I don’t have that answer,” Dr. Goh replied quietly. “And maybe neither will you. Not yet. But promise me one thing, don’t let fear guide you. Whatever this is, it doesn’t make you a monster. It makes you… rare.”

Mikhail was silent. “You don’t need to understand everything now,” Dr. Goh said gently. “Get some rest. We’ll talk more tomorrow.” Then the line went dead. Just as Mikhail was putting down the phone, the door swung open. Rizal, his roommate and best friend, stepped in, his eyes wide with urgency.

“Bro, you need to see this,” Rizal said, almost out of breath. Without a word, Mikhail walked to the corner of the room where an exposed live wire sparked erratically from the wall socket. He reached out and placed his bare hand directly onto it.

“Mikhail, what the hell......!” Rizal shouted, rushing forward, but froze in place. Mikhail stood there, calm, as the current flickered visibly against his skin, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t scream. Nothing. “This electricity… it can’t hurt me,” he said quietly.

Rizal stared, horrified. “Bro… this isn’t normal. That could kill someone.” Mikhail turned slowly to face him, his expression unreadable. “Do you think I’m human, Riz?”

Rizal hesitated, then shook his head slightly. “You’re my best friend, Mikh. That’s what matters. Human or not, you’re still you.” “I don’t feel the same anymore,” Mikhail whispered. “Something’s changing inside me. I can feel it.”

“Bro, don’t think too much,” Rizal said, stepping closer. He placed a hand on Mikhail’s shoulder. “I know you’re special. I’ve always known it. But you don’t have to figure it all out tonight.” Mikhail looked down at his hands, then back at Rizal. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” Rizal said softly. “But you’re not alone, okay? You’ve got me.” A silence passed between them, heavy and comforting. “Come on,” Rizal added with a weak smile. “Let’s try to get some sleep. We’ve got class tomorrow.”

Mikhail nodded. And as they both turned off the lights and lay down in their beds, a quiet sense of uncertainty lingered in the air, as if the world had shifted, just a little, and nothing would ever be the same again.

TO BE CONTINUE..........