The faint crackle of the fire seemed to swallow time itself. Kael's one good eye lost focus on the dim hut, drifting back into a time that existed no more.
His voice, rough and worn, faltered — yet the words painted the past clearly.
"Our oldest legends, told around fires from generation to generation, spoke of beings of light and power," Kael began, his gravelly tone softening into something almost reverent. "They said that thousands of years ago — long before our people built their very first home — Ruitan was ruled by gods from the ancient realm of Lavinsk. But time turns history into myth. Slowly, we forgot what a god even looked like. To us… they were nothing but stories."
Kael closed his eyes.
"Until that afternoon."
(Flashback — Kael's Perspective)
The air tasted of damp earth and fresh roots. I knelt in my own fields, pulling that month's harvest from soil dark and rich. It had been an extraordinary season — plenty everywhere you looked.
The afternoon sun warmed my scales, and my chest held a peace I could not name. I had just become a grandfather, and under Ruitan's clear blue sky, my family thrived.
"Father!"
A deep, familiar voice carried across the wide field. I lifted my head, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. It was Brian — my only son. I waved back, lifting a bundle of wheat in greeting.
"Come on, Father! Utah just finished cooking — I'll help you carry it all!" he called, running toward me.
Brian was the living image of our line's strength: a dragon‑blooded hybrid. His scales shone a warm, burnished copper in the sun, tracing the powerful, lean muscle of his arms. Two perfect, symmetrical horns curved back from his forehead; his long tail swayed behind him, balancing every easy stride. In his slitted eyes lived that same fierce yet gentle glow his mother once had.
Together we stacked crates heavy with vegetables and hauled everything to the big timber storehouse behind our farm.
When we pushed open our front door, warmth and the savory scent of herbs and roasted meat wrapped around us. Utah stepped into the hallway arch, wiping her hands on her apron — a beautiful human woman, with red hair falling loose and soft over her shoulders, fair skin dusted with freckles that gave her a lively, mischievous look.
"Why do you work so hard, old man?" she teased, arms crossed, feigning sternness. "Let Brian break a sweat for once!"
"Ah, don't you worry about me, my dear," I replied with a rough laugh, leaning my hoe against the wall. "We dragon‑folk are stubborn — fire runs too hot in our veins to sit still, ha!"
We sat at the rough‑hewn table for lunch. Before we could even reach for utensils, the thin, high cry of a baby drifted from the bedroom down the hall. Utah sighed, her smile softening instantly, and rose to tend to little Elian.
Brian and I were left alone.
"If the rains keep coming like this, Father, we can clear and plant the west slope before the cycle ends," Brian said, helping himself to a steaming cut of meat. "The soil up there is loose and deep."
If luck stays on our side, this winter will be easy, I thought.
Before I could answer, a heavy, desperate banging shook the front door in its iron hinges.
"Kael!! Brian!! Open up!"
I froze. Brian and I locked eyes.
"That voice… isn't that Tiko?" Brian asked, his brow already furrowed in alert.
"It is," I said, rising fast.
I pulled the latch. Tiko nearly fell straight inside. He was pale, soaked through with sweat, gasping as if the air itself had run out. Half‑elf, half‑dragon: pointed ears and fine features of the forest folk, yet cheeks and neck lined with green scales — now bristling with raw panic.
"What is it, Tiko? What's wrong?" I asked, gripping his trembling shoulders.
He cut me off, fingers clutching my tunic.
"You have to come — right now! To the center of the village!"
Utah appeared in the hallway, rocking Elian in her arms.
"Keep your voice down, Tiko — you'll frighten the boy," she said sharply, soothing the baby against her chest.
But the elf‑dragon paid her no mind. His gaze met mine, wide and terrified.
"Someone's here… someone flying above the village!"
My blood turned cold.
Brian and I moved almost on instinct — grabbing hoes and scythes from where they leaned against the wall. We didn't know if this meant raiders or another rampage from the mountain beasts. We locked Utah safely inside and ran out.
Down the dirt roads, the whole village flowed toward one place. Orcs with heavy tusks gripping hammers; humans; fairies with wings folded tight — all hurrying with that same wild urgency. Ruitan was a paradise where mixed bloods and pure‑bloods lived side‑by‑side. Our only weapons were farming tools… and now we held them high.
When we rounded the last bend toward the main square, my legs went weak.
There He was.
Floating roughly thirteen meters above the central well, as if space itself bowed to make room for Him.
He could not have been older than ten.
Skin deep, rich brown — breathtaking, profound. Hair incredibly long, falling in thick, flawless braids that drifted slowly… though no wind stirred below. He wore clothes of fine, pale, almost translucent fabric, stark and haunting against the empty blue sky behind Him.
None of us truly understood what we were seeing.
Breaths caught. Gravity seemed to press heavier, sharper, over the square. This was beyond our understanding — something utterly otherworldly. Every atom in my body whispered: This child does not belong to this mortal plane.
Gods, the thought flashed through my mind, freezing my fingers around the scythe's handle. The old tales… the ones my great‑grandparents told by firelight… the Golden Age of Ruitan… Are they real after all?
Beside me, a dark‑skinned elf‑woman let her tool slip from her grasp.
The clang of metal on stone woke the crowd. She began to weep — raw, crushing sobs — eyes fixed upward on the divine figure. She must have remembered the same legends I did: of a time when our world had a ruler truly worthy of the name.
Her knees buckled.
She fell hard onto the cobblestones. Her leg scraped roughly against a broken edge of rock, tearing deep into skin and flesh. Blood welled instantly.
From above, the boy watched her.
Then — before our stunned eyes — He drifted down.
The silence was so heavy I could hear the earth groan. Bare feet touched the ground just paces away. He walked slowly toward the kneeling elf‑woman, and with barely a brush of fingertips against her head…
Soft, green light bloomed. In a heartbeat, the bleeding stopped. The wound closed, knitting itself together until not even a faint scar remained.
Pain simply evaporated.
Impossible things had stepped into our world and breathed. In that moment, I knew: mortal minds were never built to fully hold the sight of a god.
One by one, shock gave way to awe. The sound of hoes and scythes dropping rang all over the square.
Humans, orcs, dragon‑kin… all sank low. My own body disobeyed me — spine bending involuntarily — until I knelt in the dirt beside Brian, head bowed before a power that made us feel small and fragile.
The young Lord's presence wrapped around the square. His gaze swept over the crowd — not with a tyrant's pride, but with an expression empty and unbearably sad.
"I am Tsukumo," He said.
His voice was not loud… yet it split the air and resonated deep inside our chests, making the very ground of Ruitan tremble beneath our knees.
"And from today onward… I am the new guardian of this place."
Days that followed were filled with true miracles.
The young Lord walked our fields barefoot, touching the living earth. Wherever He stepped, life burst forth in fullness. When He laid a small hand on Brian's newly plowed patch, seeds that should have taken months to sprout burst upward in less than five seconds — rising into golden wheat and heavy‑bough fruit trees bowing under perfect harvest.
Illness vanished from our homes. Springs and rivers turned pure and clear with one quiet gesture.
Three days later, our blue sky tore open. Dry thunder cracked — sonic booms sharp and violent enough to ring our ears and crack windowpanes everywhere.
Hurricane‑force winds swept dust from the square as three colossal warships cut through the atmosphere. Built of matte black steel that seemed to swallow sunlight whole.
Panic exploded. Villagers screamed, clutching children, running blindly toward houses and storehouses. I dragged Utah and Elian behind an overturned wagon, heart hammering hard enough to bruise ribs. Brian stepped in front of me, ready to shield us no matter what.
I looked back to the square, half‑expecting the boy in braids to flee.
But the divine one did not step back even a millimeter.
Instead, Tsukumo ran straight for the village entrance, placing His small body exactly between us and the descending fleet. Air pressure warped wildly around Him.
A blinding, terrifying violet aura burst outward, bending light like heat over hot asphalt. Fists clenched. Amber eyes burned with raw fury — ready to shatter anything that threatened His new garden.
He will fight for us, I thought, breath caught tight in my throat.
The ships slowed, hovering above trampled fields. Then sunlight caught the hull of the lead transport.
Etched huge into the metal — painted cold, silver‑grey — was an emblem: A Closed Fist.
The second Tsukumo's eyes recognized that mark, the storm of power wavered. That burning violet aura collapsed like fire doused in water, vanishing completely. Shoulders relaxed out of combat stance. This was no stranger's invasion. He knew the symbol well.
The ships landed with a heavy thud that shook foundations everywhere. Ramps lowered with the groan of heavy industry.
The rhythmic march of armored boots echoed in perfect unison. Hundreds of soldiers in dark armor, carrying electric‑tipped spears, marched out in two unbroken lines. Down the center path walked the two figures that made the air of Ruitan turn cold.
First — a woman. Tall, slender, skin pale as porcelain. Every step radiated silent lethality, sharp as a blade's edge. Short violet hair fell across the left side of her face, hiding a dark leather eyepatch. Strapped low at her back, above armored hips: two thin swords crossed neatly. Katarina.
Beside her walked a mountain given form. A man of impossible scale — broad, carved from pure muscle and brute force. A thick, wild black beard bounced with every heavy stride. Slung across his back, secured in leather: a war‑axe big enough to split a house in two. Vanki.
Villagers held their breath. Death had come down to our doorstep. Both demigods stopped a few paces before Tsukumo. The small figure never looked away, hands still tight at His sides.
No steel was drawn — to my surprise.
Vanki halted, slammed a fist against his chest — a military salute booming like war‑drums. Katarina did the same, head bowing stiffly, her one good eye locked level on the boy's face.
"Young Lord Tsukumo," Vanki rumbled, voice deep enough to shake leaves from nearby trees. "We have found you at last."
The boy's jaw tightened. "I never asked to be followed."
Katarina unfolded her arms, posture upright and frigid.
"Your sudden absence caused unrest in the capital, my Lord," she said — words sliding smooth yet sharp as poison. "We do not come as captors. We act on direct orders from Vangor himself."
At that name, I saw Tsukumo blink. For a heartbeat, hope and bitterness warred in amber eyes before He masked them away.
"What does my father want?" Tsukumo asked, voice cracking almost imperceptibly.
Vanki puffed his broad chest, glancing with open disdain toward our timber homes and farm tools, before fixing gaze back on the boy.
"The God of Strength commands that his generals remain at your side in this new domain," the giant answered, tapping his axe‑head. "We are ordered to protect you. The Army of the Fist is now Ruitan's shield, my Lord. No harm shall touch your lands while we draw breath."
Heavy silence fell while Tsukumo measured the silent thousands, then the two generals. No smile, no relief. Only a contained nod — as if an invisible, crushing weight had just settled onto His shoulders.
"So long as you follow my rules… no harm shall come to you two."
Slowly we crept from hiding — confused, yet awestruck. The Fist's army had not come to enslave; they had come to serve our small god.
From then on, that great black force worked alongside us. Better houses rose; they shared knowledge and technology; we grew beyond what we thought possible.
But peace did not make Ruitan gentle. Threats here came not just from hunger, but from the planet's own cruel wildness.
During the heavy rain season, the giant northern mountains never slept. That was the breeding time of the Peak‑Beasts.
We feared them more than death itself. Abominations born in ice‑lined caves — unstoppable hunters sweeping down to the valleys seeking flesh for their young. Years before, I watched just one such creature wipe out an entire neighboring settlement in under an hour… leaving nothing but splintered huts and picked‑clean bones.
Their shape was nightmare made flesh: vast, leathery wings like stretched, torn hide that blotted out the sun when they glided. Masses of twisted muscle and grey scales that turned arrows aside like twigs.
But true horror lived in their faces.
No proper snout or jaw. The whole head was dominated by one enormous, lidless yellow eye spinning wildly in search of prey. And when they dove to strike… that giant orb split vertically with a wet, sickening tear. The pupil opened wide into a throat ringed with hundreds of spiral‑shaped, serrated teeth, dripping slime that ate even stone.
When their first high‑pitched cries echoed from the peaks that year, panic seized Ruitan.
I ran to the crystal spring where our young Lord often sat, falling to my knees before Him.
"Milord, you must shelter," I begged, hands shaking as I pointed toward dark clouds choking the range. "The mountain beasts are coming down — their hunt begins now — and when they attack… nothing holds them back!"
Katarina already rested a hand on the hilt of her thin sword, a cruel smile curling her lips — eager for slaughter. Vanki cracked his knuckles, muscles coiling tight.
But one simple, lifted hand froze both generals instantly.
Tsukumo stood slowly. His gaze fixed on the snow‑drenched peaks — perfectly calm, untouched by fear.
"Stay inside your homes," He murmured, voice absolute and steady. "No one dies in my garden."
Then, to my utter disbelief, He began to climb. On foot. No armor. Just a fragile‑looking child in pale robes, walking up rocky paths straight into storm clouds, toward the heart of the beasts' nest.
We barred doors and held families close. We waited to hear our Lord scream, or see flames rolling down the slopes.
The ground shook violently. Sheets of violet light tore through dark clouds. Then came cries — but not hunting cries. High, sharp sounds of agony… monsters crushed like bugs beneath a boot‑sole. As sudden as it began, the mountain fell into grave silence.
Sunrise found the small silhouette returning down the dirt road.
I opened my door, eyes wide with shock. The Divine Lord walked slowly toward the square. His body was unmarked — not a scratch, no claw‑tear or burn. Breathing even, as if never strained.
Yet He looked changed — unrecognizable.
Fine pale robes soaked heavy. From head to toe, He was plastered in thick, dark, bubbling blood that dripped from braids and hissed when striking soil. Alone, He had walked into the mountains and rooted out the whole bloodline of Ruitan's deadliest predators… as simply as pulling weeds.
Standing in the square, that blood‑soaked god stared at his own hands. Then turned toward villagers creeping out, amazed and afraid.
This being could split the world in two, my mind whispered, awed. And still… He chooses to plant flowers for us.
Months passed, and life grew richer than ever. Children ran free without fear of tomorrow; markets overflowed with fresh food and clear springs. Under Tsukumo's strict orders, Lavinsk's soldiers paved roads and dug irrigation canals. Ruitan bloomed beyond imagination. Demigods and troops were even made to build the great Crystal Pavilion and tend the vast white gardens our young Lord loved so dearly. It truly was paradise.
Until the end of the seventh harvest cycle, when something felt wrong.
I was delivering grain sacks near the central Crystal Pavilion when I saw it. Tsukumo stood before a small, swift messenger craft — built to punch through atmosphere and cross stars.
The boy's hands trembled as He handed over a scroll sealed with emerald wax to the captain of the guard. The leader who crushed beasts and armies with a glance now looked only fragile, anxious — just a child.
"Fly straight to Lavinsk. Deliver this into my father's hands… and no other," Tsukumo instructed, voice thick with painful hope.
Katarina leaned against a crystal pillar, watching everything with eyes sharp as a viper's.
"Tell my father," the small voice continued, knuckles whitening, "tell him Ruitan knows no war. Tell him the air here is clean… and tell him… tell him the gardens I grew smell exactly like the perfume Mother wore."
Amber eyes glistened with held‑back tears.
"The realm I built hurts no one. Ask him to come see it — just… please ask him to come."
The ship rose skyward, tearing clouds apart toward the stars.
We did not know then, Suki. We never guessed that messenger carried not only an invitation… but the death warrant of our whole world.
Because the silence that drifted back from the stars would be the blade that killed the boy… and set the monster free.
Years rolled gently over Ruitan. For a long time our world remained a peaceful, unshaken paradise.
Sky stayed blue; winds carried sweet scent of blossoms; harvest never failed — as if the earth itself had learned to bloom in the peace Tsukumo gave us.
Little by little, I watched my grandson Elian grow from a helpless baby in my arms into a lively, restless five‑year‑old. Small horns sprouted — fine, gently curved — marking his dragon blood. He ran tirelessly between rows of apple trees Tsukumo had conjured from nothing; branches bowed under white flowers and red fruit shining like tiny suns among leaves.
Yet while our village grew and lived in peace, the divinity dwelling in the new Pavilion seemed to wither day‑by‑day.
Each cycle, the boy sent a messenger ship toward the stars — hoping for news that never truly arrived. Again and again, the craft returned… but never with the answer He waited for.
I never learned what was written in later letters or replies. I could only watch from afar what happened after He spoke to the captain and walked down those long crystal stairs.
With every voyage, every passing year, something inside Him shifted.
His shoulders seemed to carry heavier weight — as if time itself piled upon them. The warm amber glow faded from His eyes, turning distant and flat. Bit by bit, even rare smiles vanished, replaced by a tired, closed mask — the face of someone who learned what it means to wait… and be forgotten.
That long‑held waiting ate away at His soul from within — like fire burning hollow inside timber, unseen until collapse. Nearby, Katarina and Vanki stood motionless, silent… just like vultures, calculating exactly when the prey's strength will break and fall.
Then came the day the final messenger ship touched ground.
It began as always — bright, calm early afternoon — until a sonic boom split the air, rattling windowpanes and warning everyone: something arrives… or perhaps something ends. Tsukumo did not wait for the craft to settle fully onto the platform. He ran toward the central square, long braids streaming behind, still clutching onto the last, fragile, desperate spark of hope He had left.
We villagers gathered along edges, silent and curious. The metal ramp lowered with a heavy boom ringing across open ground.
Only the captain stepped down.
His steps dragged, slow — as if he carried the weight of the whole journey through deep space. Black armor dulled, dusted with fine, pale star‑ash. No escort, no gifts, no second messenger. Only thick silence trailing behind him.
The faint smile still lingering on Tsukumo's lips wavered… shook violently… and vanished completely.
I stood too far to catch the low, dry words spoken while the boy bowed his head. I never learned exactly what refusal fell from the stars to us that day. But I saw, with aching clarity, the precise millisecond that young god's heart shattered to dust.
Tsukumo stumbled one unsteady step backward — struck as if by an invisible blow straight to the chest. Light and small, His body lost all firmness; shoulders slumped low, bending under a burden no one else could see. And the warm, living aura that kept Ruitan mild and green suddenly froze… then died in a single blink.
And when the leader broke… so did the planet's protection.
Winter arrived next morning — brutal, unforgiving. White blossoms withered under grey frost. Along with extreme cold, a deadly fever swept the village.
People began coughing blood. Sick filled the halls.
Even torn by grief, Tsukumo tried to heal them. He rushed frantically from bed to bed, sweating cold, hands glowing greener and fainter every time.
An old woman — who always saved Him sweet apples in summer — lay on the central pallet, lungs wheezing and failing. Tsukumo pressed palms to her chest, sobbing in desperation, forcing His own energy to flow.
"No, no, no!" He cried, voice cracking apart.
Hands shook so hard against her chest that fingers almost clawed at cloth and skin — as if sheer holding‑on could trap life inside.
"I won't let you go! I made the garden… I tended everything… so no one would ever have to leave!"
The old woman breathed out one last rough, dragging sound — tearing her throat on the way out. Eyes once soft and attentive lost all light; still, dull, reflecting nothing of the world.
She was gone.
In that instant, something deep inside the boy broke open — not just sadness for a villager He barely knew. That departure was the final trigger, the last blow dragging up an older pain buried deep for years. In His eyes shone again that sharp, cruel memory: another beloved person fading slowly in bed… while He, already awakening to great power, could do nothing to hold life back.
Tsukumo sank to knees on cold floor. Legs gave way, too weak to hold Him any longer. He gripped his tunic tight until knuckles blanched… and roared — a guttural, deep, distorted cry hardly human — rising from some raw, wild place where pain finds no words.
Sound vibrated outward, filling the hall, striking the Pavilion's tall crystal windows with crushing force. In one heartbeat, they shattered completely — bursting into millions of bright shards falling like sharp, transparent rain, tinkling and bouncing everywhere.
He stayed there, bowed over the body of someone almost stranger… yet weeping with the grief of an orphan who just learned: no one is coming for me.
That was when shadows moved.
From the hall's dark back corners — where light no longer reached — footsteps approached: the rhythmic metallic ring of Katarina's boots, mixed with heavy, muffled, crushing thuds of Vanki's tread, making floorboards tremble each time. They advanced without hurry, stopping exactly behind the boy hunched over death: two silent, armed presences, watchful and cold.
Katarina crouched to meet His eye‑level — yet offered no warmth, no hug, no hand on the shoulder. Her face was a perfect, rigid mask — smooth, colorless, like ice carved with surgical precision. Slowly she pointed upward, toward the open sky through the broken roof… then down to the still form on the pallet.
"He will never look this way, my Lord," she whispered — words sliding into His ear pure, slow, bitter poison — "not while you keep playing god with things born to rot. His silence… is the only answer your weakness earns."
Beside her, Vanki lifted his heavy iron boot slowly.
On the floor, mixed with glass and dust, lay some of the white flowers Tsukumo loved — wilted, forgotten. The giant set foot fully upon them and pressed down with all his mass, grinding stems and petals without hesitation, crushing them to wet pulp beneath dark steel.
"Weeping over fragile flesh is an insult to the blood running in your veins," Vanki boomed, deep voice rolling like thunder through empty rooms. "Claim the strength you were born with… or you will rot away slowly… just like these leaves you love so much."
Tsukumo's sobs cut off instantly — as if an iron door slammed shut in the middle of crying. A sharp, cold, lifeless silence claimed the ruined hall.
He remained kneeling among sharp shards, hands clenched so tight around glass that it pierced skin. Dark, thick blood trickled between fingers, staining crystal once pure. When He finally lifted His face, the gentle boy who fell from heaven was dead — died right there, alongside hope.
His eyes were dry. Empty. Amber hue swallowed by total, dull, heatless black. He looked at the dead old woman, then swept gaze over villagers huddled in corners, shivering and afraid.
He did not see neighbors, friends, family anymore. To Him, we were only the fragility that caused pain. We were the reason He felt abandoned.
Slowly He turned toward Katarina and Vanki.
"Burn the flowers," He ordered — tone flat, mechanical, stripped of humanity. "Tear down the Crystal Pavilion, stone by stone. If He will not acknowledge me as Creator… I will be the Destroyer He demands. Forge the steel."
Next dawn, our paradise caught fire.
Black‑armored soldiers marched every street holding torches high. Gardens He Himself brought to life turned to ash. Where fruit‑heavy trees once stood rose the First Great Forge: a monstrous structure of cast iron and towering chimneys piercing cloud‑cover. Thick, oily black smoke climbed endlessly, draping sky like heavy cloth and blotting out the sun forever.
Air grew heavy, smelling always of sulfur and molten metal. Deep breath burned chest raw. Soon, rough cough, fever, and weakness spread like plague.
My daughter‑in‑law Utah was among the first to fade. Her fiery red hair lost all shine, turning dull and grey. Fair, freckled skin took on the pale, ash‑grey tone of sunless twilight. Every dawn she woke coughing black blood, clutching five‑year‑old Elian — who now never ran among trees, only wept, unable to understand why everything changed.
Brian — my strong son, copper scales shining like natural armor — could not bear watching her fade day‑by‑day before him.
One night, blind with despair no reason could reach, he took his old wheat‑cutting scythe — his only weapon since boyhood — and marched straight to the tall, closed gates of the Metal Storehouse, shouting for medicine, for help, for something no one there would give.
He never crossed the gate.
Vanki waited inside, calm and slow as if merely passing time. The giant smiled — wide, joyless. He never even drew the great axe from his back. Just one fast snap of heavy chains wrapped around wrists: a single crushing blow landing square on Brian's spine.
Bone cracked loud in damp air. Brian fell face‑first, cry unfinished.
I ran through mud screaming his name… but before I could reach, a swift, sharp blade sliced across my face. Heat of the burn seared my left side; light vanished from that eye instantly.
I dropped to knees in filth, blood blinding me — and saw only, through one good eye, as Vanki lifted my son's lifeless body high with one hand… and hurled him far down the deep, dark mine‑waste pit, like trash no longer useful.
Utah died two days later. Her lungs failed against poisoned air… but deep down I know: it was grief that stopped her heart.
In less than a week, I lost everything I built and loved. All that remained was a small boy — Elian, five years old — trembling in dark beside me… and the certainty that from then on, life would be lived beneath hammer‑strokes and the eternal shadow of black smoke.
(End of Flashback)