Markus plummeted towards the distant blue-green sphere, a shooting star made of nascent life. He crashed into Earth near an ancient, secret monastery, nestled deep within an untouched, silent forest. The sheer friction of his atmospheric descent had ravaged his newly formed body, leaving him a raw, aching vessel, barely clinging to existence. He lay there, an unformed consciousness in a broken shell, as the vast wilderness absorbed his impact, leaving no visible trace of his violent arrival.
The next morning, sunlight filtered through the dense canopy, painting the forest floor in dappled gold. Markus awoke as if from a deep, dreamless sleep, his body entirely healed, not a scratch or scar remaining. It was as if the brutal entry into this new world had never happened. Confused but strangely calm, he explored his new surroundings, drawn by a peculiar energy humming around the ancient stone walls of the monastery. He sensed something profoundly old here, a quiet wisdom, though he couldn't name it.
That night, as he drifted into sleep, a strange, vivid dream enveloped him. He found himself not in the quiet monastery, but in an ethereal, shifting landscape of starlight and swirling cosmic dust. Before him stood two figures. One was a woman of impossible beauty, with eyes that held the wisdom of a million stars, gentle yet profound. The other was a man, regal and stoic, yet with a hint of an ancient sadness in his gaze. These were Zoma and Stark, though Markus didn't know their names then.
They regarded him with a mix of awe and trepidation, sensing their essence within him, yet wary of what he had become. Their presence was both comforting and unsettling.
"Who are you?" The woman's voice, soft and resonant, echoed not in his ears but directly in his mind. She stepped closer, a spectral hand reaching out as if to touch him, then withdrawing.
"How old are you?" The man's tone was more direct, a probe of his very being.
Markus, a blank slate, could not answer. He knew nothing of age, of identity, or even his name. He was a newly formed consciousness, a pure vessel of existence, devoid of history. He simply was.
As they spoke, a slow, profound realization dawned upon Zoma and Stark: he existed because of them. He was a part of them, a living continuation of their shared essence. Gradually, carefully, they began to fill in the blanks of his identity, imparting fragments of his origins, giving him an age, a name - Markus. As they shared these truths, a fragile trust began to form between them, a silent recognition that this innocent, powerful being was indeed half of who they were.
The dreams continued, night after night, becoming a sanctuary where Markus learned about his fragmented past. He learned of a dying planet, a desperate king, and a terrifying force called Plaguas. He absorbed the lineage of his birth and the inherent purity of his soul, far removed from the chaos that had birthed his twin, Sukram. Each dawn, he awoke with more understanding, more of a sense of self, slowly piecing together the extraordinary truth of his existence in this new, bewildering world.