*Chapter 23: Just Breezing Through history*
Year: 2575 BC | Nile Valley, Upper Egypt*
The river sang low as the morning sun kissed the water, slow and honey-warm. Along its muddy banks, farmers stirred reeds into baskets, boys chased stray goats, and the scent of crushed herbs drifted through the woven canopies of clustered homes.
And among them walked a man they didn't know — tall, robed in a threadbare linen shawl, with eyes like liquid silver and a calm that made even the elders pause mid-conversation.
He called himself *Khenti*. A name meaning "the silent one."
He worked with clay.
Not magic. Not power. Not prophecy. Just *clay* — molding pots and urns that held grain, oil, and water. His hands were precise, fingers unhurried. His tools simple.
The people of *Per-Medjed*, a quiet settlement upriver from the great necropolises of the Pharaohs, accepted him without question. Perhaps because he never asked for gold. Perhaps because the children, somehow, never feared him.
He laughed once. A boy named Madu had dared him to race barefoot across sharp river stones.
Pluto—Khenti—lost. On purpose.
He laughed when he fell.
That laughter lingered in the village for weeks.
***
*2571 BC | Northern Nubia*
The sands shifted differently here — not swept, but *pushed* by heavy winds. Pluto wandered across this land alone, choosing to learn dialects from traders, watching weavers braid spiritual patterns into linen, and sitting in silence as griots sang of gods, lions, and love.
He never corrected them when they called him *a ghost who remembers the stars*.
One night, beneath an obsidian sky, a woman approached him — tall, skin like midnight stone, her eyes sharp with years.
She bowed. "The *Phantoms* seek your presence, Silent One."
Pluto raised a brow, still carving a figurine from darkwood.
"I have no role among them now."
"They said you would say that." She knelt before him. "They found something buried beneath the cliffs of the Red Desert. Symbols older than writing. They say it hums when your name is spoken."
He paused.
Carved a little more.
"Then let it hum."
***
*2560 BC | Saqqara – Near the Step Pyramid*
He took work building tomb ramps. The Pharaoh, Djoser, had ordered the construction of something vast — a step pyramid unlike anything before. The architect was said to be a genius, a man whispered to speak with the gods.
*Imhotep.*
Pluto met him once.
Their eyes locked across scaffolding, and for a second, the air stilled. Imhotep said nothing. Neither did he. But that night, a slab of smooth basalt was left at Pluto's hut, inscribed with only one word:
*"You're not from here, are you?"*
Pluto smiled. And added a second line beneath it.
*"No. But I belong here."*
***
*2552 BC | The Nile, Mid-Flood*
Children clung to floating logs. A river god, they claimed, had grown angry. Fields drowned. Homes lost.
Khenti waded waist-deep, pulling two babies out of the current, placing them into the arms of their mother, who wept without words.
Later, she brought him a single blue lotus. He placed it by his bed for seven years.
He didn't keep it alive.
He simply remembered it.
—
*Year: 2520 BC | Eastern Desert Foothills*
The sun was a blade in the sky, unrelenting, but the forge burned hotter.
Pluto stood shirtless, muscles rippling like carved stone, hammer in hand. Sparks leapt from the anvil as he shaped bronze into an axehead. Around him, a nomadic clan of smiths watched in respectful silence. They called him *Setem* now — "He Who Listens Before Speaking."
He never asked to be taught. He simply watched, remembered, then improved.
He learned how to blend copper and tin without wasting flame, how to temper blades by feel alone. His works grew sought after: tools that never dulled, weapons that never bent. He gave them away.
A boy asked once, "Master Setem, where did you learn this?"
"From time," he replied.
And the boy, confused, accepted it as the wisdom of a quiet man.
***
*Year: 2508 BC | Southern Sands, near Nubia border*
The traveler staggered through the dunes, lips cracked, death heavy in his lungs.
Pluto, sitting beneath a palm alone, watched him fall.
No words. He walked over, cut his own wrist with a flint knife, and let a drop fall into the man's mouth.
The result was quiet.
Then violent.
The man convulsed, then screamed, his body flooding with life, cells rebuilding faster than they'd ever decayed.
"You should've died," Pluto said.
"I was ready," the man whispered.
Pluto stood. "Now you're needed."
He left before the man could ask what that meant.
***
*Year: 2495 BC | Valley of Lyres, Nubian Highlands*
The night was full of firelight and drums. Youths danced in circles; elders chanted poems to the stars. Khenti, now Setem again, sat cross-legged, a carved mask in his lap, and let the rhythm move through him.
A young girl with painted cheeks approached him. "You are too still," she said. "Are you afraid of dancing?"
"No," he said softly. "I've just danced enough for ten lifetimes."
She didn't understand. But she grinned and ran back to the fire.
Pluto stayed watching. Not distant. Just… full.
***
*Year: 2487 BC | Rocky Plateau, Central Sahara*
He carved a symbol into stone: a circle, three intersecting lines. It hummed faintly.
A pulse from the system blinked across his vision.
> *Adaptation: Enhanced Memory Density Unlocked.*
> *Current Cellular Activity: Dormant/Stable*
> *Power Signature Detected: Cosmic Trace – Nearby Artifact (Class: Celestial)*
He didn't investigate.
He turned and walked the other way.
Not yet.
*Later that Year | Whispering Cliffs, Upper Nile*
The wind howled like ghosts between jagged rock. Pluto sat cross-legged, cloaked against the chill, when a cloaked woman from the *Timeless Phantom* emerged behind him.
"The man from the desert—he's made contact with a mutant tribe," she said. "He calls you a god."
"I'm not."
"We didn't correct him."
Pluto sighed. "Guide him. But do not let him build monuments."
"And if he does?"
His silver eyes narrowed.
"Remind him what happens when the immortal forgets to be human."
She nodded and vanished into the dust.
****
*Year: ~2435 BC*
*Location: Central Africa – Region near the Lake Chad Basin*
---
The hammer struck metal with a rhythm more ancient than the stars. *Clang. Hiss. Clang.* Sparks leapt into the dusk like fireflies as the forge roared against the fading sun. In the heart of a bustling village, the blacksmith named *Obadele* stood bare-chested, his arms glistening, silver eyes hidden beneath sweat and soot.
No one knew where Obadele came from.
He arrived with nothing but a forged hammer of unknown make and a knowledge of metallurgy far beyond even the Nile's elite. He offered no gods, no clan markings, no bloodlines — just his work. And in Africa, where tools built survival and spears defended it, the village welcomed him.
He bought a forgotten shed, turned it into a forge, and soon people came from regions far to see the smith who crafted blades that never rusted, nails that never bent, and cooking pots that held heat for days.
---
*2425 BC*
Ten years passed. The smithy grew into a compound. Apprentices flocked in — boys and girls alike. Obadele taught them patience and silence, not just craft. He never shouted, never aged, never tired.
Some swore his hammer glowed red even when cold.
He crafted for chiefs and kings, never once asking for gold — only barter, favors, or stories. In return, his forge became a neutral ground: where disputes were settled, marriages arranged, and old enemies toasted fermented honey under his awning.
The people loved him.
But whispers started. *Why hasn't his hair grayed? Why does he heal faster than any man?*
---
*2410 BC*
The whispers turned sharper.
So Obadele began to stoop slightly. His beard grew longer, grey streaks blooming like ivy. His vibrant strength became a gentler endurance. It was all illusion, of course — subtle folds in light, shadow, heat. Just enough to mimic time.
And when he judged the illusion complete, he announced his "retirement."
He left everything — the forge, his apprentices, and even his name — and vanished northward with nothing but a walking stick.
---
*2375 BC – 35 years later*
A stranger walked into the same village.
Young, handsome, silent-eyed. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Obadele… only younger. He introduced himself as *Bakari*, son of the legendary blacksmith. He had come to *"reclaim his father's forge"* and continue his legacy.
The apprentices, now elders, were speechless. One wept. One laughed, remembering the exact way *Obadele* once folded a blade — identical to *Bakari*. And though some whispered beneath their breath, no one denied him. The forge belonged to the bloodline. Everyone agreed.
He brought with him strange iron — dark, flexible, and impossibly sharp. No one knew from where. But his return brought an energy the village hadn't felt in decades.
The forge lived again.
---
*2350 BC*
Bakari's blades found their way into the hands of a local warrior queen. She requested his presence. He refused. But sent her a sword of such balance, such edge, that she declared it her soul's twin.
He began training again — not many, just a few. He chose a quiet girl with burnt arms, a boy with one eye and no family, and a former thief trying to earn forgiveness. He taught them more than smithing.
He taught them *observation*, *restraint*, *pressure points*, *non-lethal combat*.
And one night, beneath a silver moon, he dropped a glimmer of blood into the apprentice girl's tea. She never knew. But she stopped limping after three days. Her scars faded. Her eyes gained clarity.
She left a year later, sent east… toward Egypt. With a name whispered in her dreams: *Timeless Phantom*.
---
*Interlude: A Touch Beyond*
Pluto stood alone near a river bend, watching hippos roll in mud. His eyes were empty — not sad, not happy. Still. He remembered the girl's laughter, the boy's stubborn fists, the old apprentice's wrinkled hands gripping a blade she made herself.
They aged.
He did not.
He reached into the earth and pulled a spark of metal from beneath the soil — alien, ancient. The earth gave freely. His work was not done.
---
*Closing*
The forge remained open. The village expanded. Roads connected it to trade routes. People passed, remembering *Obadele* the elder, and *Bakari* the son. One day, *Bakari* would disappear again.
And maybe, another name would return.
But the fire never died.
---
A/N: tell me which history or individual you want pluto to meet
Oh and mind you pluto his not my MC I got the name from Marvel: Breezing History as an Eternal or something like that
And this period expect my update in the afternoon