CALAMITY : Legends Of The Chosen

MAX CONRAD: The Weatherman Who Died Screaming

Primordial: Voltraeus – The Primordial of Storms

Class: Atmospheric Manipulator / Thunder Herald

Max Conrad wasn't born into greatness. He didn't inherit some divine bloodline, nor did he grow up with a sword in his hand or a prophecy over his head. He was just a man a weatherman, to be exact. The kind you saw on TV, grinning in front of a green screen, pointing to storm systems and pretending to care about humidity for a living.

But behind the cheesy smiles and overdramatic warnings of "heavy rainfall incoming," Max had always been obsessed with storms.

Even as a child, thunder fascinated him. The deep rumble of the sky. The way lightning carved raw veins through the clouds like nature was tearing its own skin apart. While other kids ran from the rain, Max stood in it, staring at the sky until his parents had to drag him back inside.

By age seventeen, he was tracking typhoons on pirate-coded weather satellites. By twenty, he was a viral YouTuber known for chasing cyclones on motorcycles and standing inside tornados with a GoPro strapped to his chest. He called it "symphonies of chaos" — the perfect fusion of science, danger, and artistry.

Eventually, he became the world's most famous storm chaser. Not a soldier. Not a scholar. Just a guy who dared to scream into the sky and challenge it to scream back.

The Fall:

The end came on what should've been a normal broadcast.

Max had been assigned to cover a freak lightning storm in Southeast Asia — one so intense it made global headlines before it even hit land. "The Storm of the Century," the anchors called it. Max just grinned, donned his raincoat, and told his camera crew to start rolling.

The first bolt struck six minutes into the segment.

By minute ten, the clouds above were boiling with black lightning. Not blue. Not white. Black.

The sky wasn't rumbling anymore — it was screeching. Like something had awakened inside it.

Then came the strike.

A forked bolt, thick as a skyscraper, shot down and slammed into Max's body. There was no sound — just white light. The screen went black. And Max Conrad, the world's loudest weatherman, was disintegrated live on air.

The last image burned into the public's mind was his outline arms spread wide welcoming the sky's fury.

Millions watched him die.

But that wasn't the end.

The Rebirth:

Max opened his eyes in a world without clouds.

No wind. No rain. No sky.

Just a vast, endless storm held in complete silence.

He floated weightlessly in a swirling prison of static and fractured thunder, his body disintegrated, his soul unraveling like static on an old TV. That's when the voice came.

"You dared to understand the storm...

But now, you will become it."

A figure emerged from the lightning — colossal, faceless, with antlers of thunder and wings made from shattered clouds. Voltraeus, Primordial of Storms.

Max didn't scream. He laughed.

Even in death, he welcomed the chaos.

The god of storms looked upon this broken soul, so foolishly human, and saw something no other Chosen had: a soul shaped by awe, not ambition. Max didn't want power. He wanted to understand it.

So Voltraeus offered him the role of Thunder Herald — not a warrior, but a storm given human form. And Max accepted.

His soul was sewn back together using bolts of black lightning. Every memory rewound and retuned like an orchestra warming up. The next time he woke up, his hair crackled with residual voltage. His eyes glowed faintly with ozone. And above him — for the first time in 200 years — clouds began to form again.

The Aftermath:

Max didn't awaken in paradise or some grand capital. He returned to Earth — or what was left of it. Ruined cities. Twisted land. Demons howling through the skies he once studied.

He had no home. No followers. No real powers at first — just a lightning-struck heart and fragments of knowledge whispered by a god who had long since vanished from the world.

For months, he wandered alone. Training. Surviving. Failing.

He couldn't control his new powers. The lightning burned him more often than his enemies. His body would overheat and collapse. His emotions would trigger storms that vaporized small towns.

He once tried to help a group of survivors build a shelter… only to summon a freak thunderclap that reduced the structure to ash.

That night, he stood on a hilltop, whispering to the clouds.

"I didn't ask for this. I was just trying to help…"

But the sky offered no apology.

So Max trained in silence.

Until one day, he stood atop a ruined radio tower, looked out toward the Akashi Kaikyo Bridge, and saw two men fighting off hundreds of demons.

He recognized one of them — a cyborg firing nanite missiles.

But the other…

That guy?

He was shirtless, bleeding, and swinging fists like he was trying to kill the apocalypse with nothing but pure brawn.

Max grinned.

"Looks like I'm not the only idiot left standing."

Lightning roared.

And he leapt into the fray.

Why Max Matters:

Max doesn't carry a sword. He doesn't talk about destiny or vengeance or divine justice.

He's the comic relief that turns stoic warriors into friends.

He's the dumbass who makes weather puns in the middle of death battles.

He's the guy who walked through hell just to make sure nobody had to fight alone.

And deep down, the scars of being laughed at as "just a weatherman" still sting. He idolizes Morgz. Simps for Enme like the rest. Cracks jokes to hide his pain.

But when the sky grows dark and the thunder starts to build?

He's the first to stand tall.

Because he was born in lightning.

And now, he is the storm.