Chapter 3: The Guardian

Back at the noisy and familiar routine of school the next day, the electric hum and the cascade of golden sparks from the museum felt like a distant dream—a lingering fever delirium. No one else commented on the incident. For everyone else, the exhibit had been just another boring stop on the itinerary, and the sphere, nothing more than a rock. Only Moises felt something different. A strange energy thrummed beneath his skin, a warm, subtle current that seemed to have taken root in him from the moment his finger touched the glass. It was a secret only he carried, and the weight of that solitude was both exhilarating and terrifying.

When he arrived home, the familiar scent of sautéed onions and the low drone of the television greeted him—a balm of normalcy that almost made him doubt the evidence of his own memory.

"So, how was the museum?" his mother called from the kitchen, her voice the sound of comfort and routine.

"Normal," he replied, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Same as always."

He exchanged a quick, playful jab with his younger sister, who was hunched over her homework at the living room table, and headed upstairs to his true refuge: his bedroom.

As he closed the door, the outside world vanished. Here, he was home. The walls were covered with posters of superheroes in dynamic poses, and his shelves were lined with action figures—each one a totem of the stories he loved so dearly. It was then, in the silence of his sanctuary, that he felt a sudden, unnatural chill in the air, as if a window had been flung open in the dead of winter.

In front of his bookshelf, the air began to ripple and distort reality itself. And out of nowhere, the small sphere from the museum materialized. It floated silently three feet off the ground, its dull, stony surface absorbing the light of the room, as if it had carved through walls, space, and reality itself to find him there.

Moises didn't scream. He didn't recoil. His heart began to hammer wildly against his ribs like a frantic drum, but the sensation that washed over him wasn't fear. It was pure, overwhelming fascination. It was as if one of his stories, one of his drawings, had leapt off the page and gained life before his very eyes.

He took a step forward, his hand reaching out, wanting to touch the thing that shouldn't be real. But before his fingers could graze the rock, the sphere began to glow with blinding intensity. Golden light erupted from the fissures, and from that radiance, a tall, ethereal figure took shape. It was a perfect hologram—the silhouette of a man in imposing, ornate armor, whose eyes burned with the wisdom of millennia.

Greetings, young Moises.

The voice didn't sound in his ears. It resonated directly within his mind—calm, powerful, and undeniably real.

"This... this isn't real," Moises stammered, the words coming out in a shaky breath.

It is as real as the war that threatens to consume everything you know, the figure replied, its form flickering with a soft light. My name has been lost to the mists of time, but you may call me the Guardian. I am the protector of the Golden Legacy. And the Sphere has chosen you.

The Guardian raised a translucent hand. In the blink of an eye, Moises’ bedroom vanished. The walls, the posters, his bed... everything was replaced by the cold, starlit void of deep space. Suddenly, they were floating in the midst of a cosmic battle of terrifying scale. Beings encased in golden armor wielded swords of pure energy, their blades clashing against the armies of the League of Darkness in a silent cacophony of light and shadow.

We, the Magic Dorados, were the protectors of the universe's balance, the Guardian narrated, his voice guiding Moises through the visual chaos. But the Dark Mages, our fallen brothers, sought power above all else. And for it, they condemned entire worlds.

The vision shifted, focusing on a single figure: the First Magic dorado, in his final act of sacrifice, forging the Sphere of Light.

The Sphere is a key, Moises. It contains the seed of our power, the memory of our legacy. And after eons of silence, it responded to your heart. Your courage, your compassion, your refusal to surrender to the darkness... that is what it felt.

The stars and the battles vanished, and Moises’ room snapped back into existence as suddenly as it had disappeared. The figure of the Guardian remained, his golden gaze fixed on Moises.

The League of Darkness, wherever they may be, has felt your awakening. They will come. Sooner or later, they will come. The question, young hero, is not 'if' the war will find you. The question is 'if' you will be ready to fight when it does.