Women’s world

Raven Vale was eighteen — but he didn’t look like the other men of his generation. While most males born after the Erebus Virus were frail, pale, and fragile — their bodies thin, their movements careful, their skin easily bruised — Raven stood out the moment anyone saw him. He was tall, with a naturally athletic build that seemed impossible in a world where male strength had become a myth. His shoulders were broad, his posture confident, his every motion carrying quiet control — not arrogance, but composure. His hair was silver-white, not from age or dye, but from the virus that had once nearly killed him. Under sunlight, it shimmered faintly, like glass dusted with frost. His eyes were deep blue, unnaturally bright — almost luminous when light hit them directly. People often said they looked artificial, as if carved from crystal rather than flesh. In a world where most men had lost their vitality, Raven’s gaze alone was unsettling — too sharp, too alive. His skin was pale but not sickly — smooth, with a faint undertone of warmth that gave him a strange, almost ethereal look. His face carried defined features: a straight jawline, sharp cheekbones, and an expression that rarely changed. He wasn’t expressionless — just quiet, calm, and unreadable, as if emotion itself was something he measured before allowing others to see it. Raven’s voice was low and even, steady in tone, never rushed. He spoke only when needed, and when he did, people listened. He didn’t command attention with volume — he did it with presence. There was something in him that reminded people of the men who lived before the fall — those who worked, fought, built, and didn’t fear breaking. The Genesis Band on his wrist — silver with faint blue light — contrasted perfectly with his skin. It glowed whenever he moved his fingers, recording his vitals, marking him as one of the few remaining fertile males. Yet, unlike the others, his readings never fluctuated. Whether he smoked, ran, or went sleepless for nights, his vitals stayed perfect. No fatigue, no illness, no weakness. His stamina was unmatched — though only he truly understood it. He could train for hours without exhaustion, recover from wounds overnight, and withstand what would cripple most men. But Raven never showed it. He didn’t seek attention. He preferred to blend in, though his very existence made that impossible and not even genesis knew about his adaptive regeneration powers which he got from the virus which instead of killing him somehow changed his DNA and that’s why his hair and eyes were changed. He wore simple clothes — dark shirts, fitted jackets, nothing bright or loud. He hated the way women stared when he walked into a room, so he dressed in quiet tones, hoping to disappear. It never worked. Wherever he went, whispers followed. To women, he was rare — a symbol of strength in a fragile world. To men, he was a contradiction — proof that not all males had been weakened. But to himself, Raven Vale was neither a miracle nor a symbol. He was just a survivor — one who lived through the virus, through isolation, through fear — and came out stronger than anyone expected. He didn’t see his strength as a gift. He saw it as a reminder that he was different and not to mention other female races which came to surface after the virus like orcs and elfes and many others but no males in their races and likely the virus likely affected them too that’s why they emerged as likely all their males died and raven was very unique and had the highest fertility rate — the only man who couldn’t break in a world built for the broken.