The demonic flame peels away, receding into the figure's form like a retreating tide. It reveals a man clad in seamless obsidian armor that seems forged from the flame itself. His hair is sleek pure black, his nails are sharp, and slightly elongated canine teeth gleam in his mouth. A thin, dark pinkish radiance films his skin.
He takes a deep, shuddering breath and spreads his arms wide, as if bathing in the nether sun's warmth. He slowly opens his eyes. They burn with a calm, molten gold. He gazes at the tranquil, fiery horizon.
On the ground, Hecate's breath catches. Judora's jaw goes slack. Rhea stands frozen, one hand rising slowly to her parted lips.
"…Cronus," Rhea breathes, the name a whisper of disbelief.
Cronus's golden eyes find hers. The fierce, predatory aura around him gentles. The slightest curve touches his lips. He descends, landing softly on the scorched earth.
Hecate studies him, her analytical mind already cataloging the changes. 'From mortal to high level diety. Impressive.'
Judora blinks rapidly, peeking at the now-empty pit and back at the rejuvenated Titan. She scratches her head. 'Was that a pond of flame or a fountain of youth?'
Cronus walks toward Rhea, each step steady and sure. "Rhea," he murmurs, his voice deeper, layered with a new resonance.
Rhea moves to meet him, a storm of relief, fear, and fury warring in her chest. Cronus spreads his arms to embrace her.
The fear and fury win. Rhea's hand balls into a fist, igniting with a soft silver divine light. She drives it into his stomach with all her strength.
Heuk—!
Air and spit explode from Cronus's mouth. His golden eyes bulge. He doubles over, hands clutching his abdomen.
"HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?!" Rhea's shout cracks across the peak. "DID YOU EVER STOP TO THINK WHAT YOUR DEATH WOULD DO? TO ME?!" The cold stone of dread that had lived in her chest for days has melted into white-hot, terrified anger.
Before she can continue, Cronus moves. In one fluid motion, he straightens and closes the distance, his arms encircling her waist, pulling her against his chest. He kisses her deeply, pouring all his triumph, his desperation, and his relief into the act.
Judora's eyes become saucers. "HOLY CRAP—!"
Hecate reacts instantly. She snaps her fingers. The air around her and Judora twists, and they vanish, teleported back to the castle.
Rhea struggles. She pushes against his chest, her fists pounding on the unfamiliar armor. It is like striking a mountain. She channels her divinity, a pulse of silver energy flaring from her core to force him back.
Cough! Cough!
The kiss breaks. Rhea stumbles back a step, her heart hammering against her ribs. A furious blush heats her cheeks and neck. She glares at him, her own divine aura beginning to shimmer to life around her. "YOU—!"
Cronus shrinks back, raising his hands in a placating gesture. The confident king is gone, replaced by a man who just realized he miscalculated. 'Crap. I acted on instinct.'
---
Meanwhile, in the upper world.
Under a warm, sunny sky, cows and goats graze on dry grass. A group of herders rests in the shadow of a broad mango tree.
A young man with an easy smile asks, "The offering to the river god is tomorrow night, yes?"
"Yes," an older herder nods. "Three cows, two goats, and the finest fruits we have."
Another man, broader and cheerier, elbows his friend. "And after the offering, the festival! Dancing, ale… and the beautiful girls who come with it. You'll be there, won't you, Sam?"
Sam, a sturdy young man with kind eyes, answers with a quiet smile and a nod.
"Ah, but our Sam might be busy," a third herder teases, his grin widening. "He has finally proposed to the most beautiful woman in our village! Is that not right, Sam?"
Sam's face reddens. "Oh, leave off, will you?"
The young man who first spoke smiles, a bland, friendly expression. He brings his hands behind his back, fingers hidden. He snaps them.
A tiny, intense flame, green at its core, sparks to life on a clump of tinder-dry grass twenty paces away. It does not spread naturally; it races. Tendrils of fire streak out in four directions as if fed by invisible oil. In moments, a wall of flame encircles the dozing herd.
Maaaa! Moooo!
Panic erupts. Animals bellow and stampede, crushing the young and weak underfoot in a chaotic scramble.
"FIRE!" a herder screams. "WATER! GET WATER!"
Men scramble. Some run for the river with buckets. Others throw sand, but the unnatural flames flare brighter where soil hits them. They watch, helpless, as their entire livelihood—their wealth, their food, their future offerings—blackens and collapses into smoking carcasses.
The herders sink to their knees in the ash, faces hollow with despair. Among them, the young man stands. His pleasant smile remains, but his eyes drink in the chaos. He whispers, too low for anyone to hear, "I love chaos. Chaos loves me."
He snaps his fingers once more. The wall of fire leaps from the pasture and claws its way into the dry forest edge, hungrily seeking new fuel.
---
Sam and the others return to their village bearing the weight of their loss. Their despair deepens into horror at the sight that greets them.
Thick smoke coils from the skeletons of huts. The earth is churned and stained with fresh, dark blood. The air rings with wails.
Sam's heart seizes. He sprints through the wreckage to where his beloved Lily's family hut once stood. Only splintered wood and trampled belongings remain. "LILY!"
He finds the survivors gathered in the village center. His eyes scan the soot-streaked faces until he finds her, huddled with other women. "Lily!"
"Sam!" She runs to him, collapsing into his arms. Her body shakes with violent sobs. "It's all gone… the fire from the forest… animals, monsters ran through… my parents… our home…"
Sam holds her, his own tears cutting tracks through the grime on his face. He has no words. His world has halved in a day. He spots the village chief, an old man named Gregor, staring blankly at the ruins. Sam gently extracts himself and approaches. "Chief… how?"
Gregor turns. His eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. A tremor runs through his weathered hands. "The forest fire… it drove everything out. Wolves, boars… things with eyes that glowed. They just… ran through. Smashed everything." His gaze drifts to a woman rocking the body of a child. "We couldn't stop them."
The village priest, a thin man named Elion, approaches cautiously. "Chief Gregor… tomorrow is the offering night. We must prepare something for the River God. To appease him after this tragedy."
Gregor's grief solidifies into rage. He grabs Elion by his robes. "OFFERING?" he roars, shaking the priest. He drags him toward the mourning woman. "LOOK! We have no livestock! We have no grain! We have dead! What would you have me offer? Our grief?!"
"B-but," Elion stammers, "the god will grow angry…"
Gregor shoves him away. He picks up a broken stave from the ground. "GO! Tell your god! This year, this village gives NOTHING!" He brings the stave down on the priest's back. Elion cries out, scrambling away as others rush to intervene. Gregor spits on the ground before him, his whole body trembling with impotent fury.
---
A day passes in a blur of grim labor. The dead are buried. The ruins are cleared enough for makeshift shelters. A crushing silence hangs over the village, broken only by coughs.
The night of the offering arrives. The villagers gather by the riverbank, not in celebration, but in grim defiance. They hold torches, their light reflecting on hard, fearful faces. Beaten and bruised, Priest Elion stands at the front with Chief Gregor. They wait.
The river's surface begins to ripple. The water churns, forming a wide whirlpool. A massive, crocodilian shadow moves in the depths.
Splash!
A giant bipedal crocodile,scales gleaming in the torchlight, heaves itself onto the bank. Water cascades from its body. The villagers bow as one. "Greetings, River God."
The god nods, its yellow eyes scanning the crowd. It lumbers closer to Elion. The priest's legs tremble. He steps forward, prostrating himself. "Mighty god… our village has suffered a terrible disaster. Our herds are gone. Our stores are ashes. This year… we humbly beg your mercy. We have nothing to offer."
A heavy silence follows. Then, the god's voice rumbles like stones grinding underwater. "Very well. I will show mercy."
The crocodilian god turns and slides back into the river, disappearing beneath the dark water.
A collective, shuddering sigh of relief passes through the crowd.
At the rear, the young man smiles—an eerie, joyless stretch of lips. He slips away from the group, moving into the tree line where the torchlight doesn't reach.
Snap.
Dark, mist-like energy swirls around him. His form shifts, stretches, transforms. Where the young man stood, there is now a half-man, half-snake creature—the likeness of the river god from the neighboring region. He slithers silently into the river and swims downstream.
He finds the crocodile god in its underwater den, a cavern littered with old offerings. The creature is agitated, swiping its tail against the wall.
"Who intrudes?" the crocodile god snarls, opening its maw wide.
The snake-god holds up webbed hands in a peaceful gesture. "A neighbor. I am the god of the river to the south. I came only to share a drink and offer sympathy." From a fold in his scales, he produces a sealed clay bottle and pulls the stopper.
An aroma of honey, spices, and overwhelming divine vitality floods the den. The crocodile god's nostrils flare. Its suspicion wars with a deep, sudden craving. It grunts. "Come. Sit."
They drink. The snake-god sips sparingly. The crocodile god gulps the potent brew, its eyes growing hazy. "Stupid villagers," it slurs. "Lie about a fire. No offerings. I should have crushed them."
"A pity," the snake-god hisses softly, leaning in. "Especially since I heard revelry in my village last night. They laughed, saying you were a fool to believe such an obvious falsehood. That any god with half a wit would have taken his due by force."
The crocodile god stills. A low growl builds in its chest. "They… said that?"
"They feasted on what should have been yours."
Rage, fermented by the powerful drink, explodes. "THE VERMIN! DECEIVE ME?!" The god surges toward the cavern entrance, but the intoxicant and the anger are too much. Its limbs buckle. It crashes to the cavern floor, unconscious.
"Tch. Thrash, drunk just by few exchanges." The snake-god, Zaegarus, prods the massive body with his foot. A cruel idea forms. He smiles.
He swims out of the den. From another scale-fold, he produces a small vial of viscous purple liquid. He uncorks it and lets the contents diffuse into the river current, directly upstream from the village's water source.
---
By morning, the coughing starts. It begins with the children, then the elderly—a deep, wracking cough that brings up blood. Fever follows, swift and scorching.
In the largest remaining hut, Chief Gregor holds his head. Priest Elion, Sam, Lily, and a few others who are still healthy gather. "What new curse is this?" Gregor moans.
The young man—Zaegarus in his human guise—steps forward. "It is no curse," he announces, his voice clear and cutting through the panic. "It is punishment. From the god."
Everyone stares. Elion pales further. "You blaspheme!"
"Do I?" Zaegarus challenges, meeting the eyes of the villagers. "Think! Who among us is sick? Those who drank from the river at dawn. Who is well? Those who drank the old rain water from the cistern. The god poisoned the river because we gave no offering."
A stunned silence falls, broken only by the terrible coughing from outside. A clay cup falls from a woman's hand and shatters.
Sam speaks first, his voice hard. "He's right. The pattern fits."
One by one,others nod, their faces hardening into masks of bitter betrayal. The last vestiges of reverence for their god shrivel and die.
Gregor strokes his beard, his own eyes bleak with understanding. "The young one speaks truth."
"No! You cannot believe—" Elion's protest is cut off as the ground shakes.
THOOM. THOOM.
Heavy,plodding footsteps vibrate through the earth. The villagers rush outside.
The River God emerges from the water, its eyes burning with a frantic, possessive rage that is not entirely its own. It stomps toward the village, each step cracking the earth. The villagers kneel, but their postures are stiff, their faces etched with hatred, not reverence.
Elion scurries forward. "Great Lord! What brings you here? We are afflicted, as you see—"
"I WANT OFFERING! NOW!" the god roars, spittle flying.
Elion blanches. "But, my lord, we are sick, we have nothing—"
The god's head darts forward. Its massive jaws close around the priest's torso and tear upwards. Elion's lower half falls to the ground. The god swallows the rest in a single, bloody gulp. It roars again, the sound shaking the remaining huts. "I WANT MY OFFERINGS!"
Paralyzing terror grips the crowd. Unseen at the back, Zaegarus snaps his fingers.
The River God's frenzied gaze sweeps over the villagers. It passes over Lily, then snaps back. To its poisoned, drunken mind, she seems to glow with an irresistible allure. It points a clawed finger. "I WANT HER."
Every head turns to Lily. She freezes, her blood turning to ice.
Sam leaps to his feet, stepping between Lily and the god. "NO! You cannot have her!"
The god backhands him casually. Sam flies through the air and smashes into the stone foundation of a ruined hut with a sickening crunch. He slides down, leaving a red smear. His body lies at an unnatural angle, limbs broken, blood pooling beneath him.
"SAM!" Lily's scream is piercing. She tries to run to him, but the god's giant hand closes around her, lifting her into the air.
Sam's vision darkens, narrowing to a tunnel. He sees Lily struggling in that monstrous fist. A cold, vast emptiness fills him. 'li…Lily…'
'Do you want power?' A whisper curls in his mind, cold and clear as mountain ice. 'Do you want to save her?'
"Yes." The answer is not a thought, but the last ember of his will.
Heat floods his broken body—a searing, golden heat that feels like liquid sunlight in his veins. Bones snap back into place. Torn flesh knits. The pain vanishes, replaced by a humming, terrifying strength. He opens his eyes. He is standing. Gleaming golden armor covers his body. In his hand is a sword of pure, solid light.
He looks at Lily, then at the god. A calm, deadly focus settles over him. He crouches and leaps, crossing the distance in a blur. He raises the brilliant sword high with both hands.
"I SAID," Sam bellows, his voice echoing with newfound power, "YOU CAN'T HAVE HER!"
The sword falls. It meets the crocodile god's scaled neck and does not stop. It shears through flesh, bone, and divine essence with a sound like tearing silk. The god's roar cuts off. Its massive body sways. The top half slides from the bottom, collapsing with two earth-shaking thuds. The hand holding Lily goes limp.
Sam lands beside it, catching Lily as she falls. She clings to him, her sobs muffled against the strange, warm metal of his armor.
The villagers stare, mute with incomprehension. Their savior stands clad in light, the corpse of their god bleeding out at his feet.
The cold whisper returns to Sam's ear. 'Eat his flesh.'
'What?' Sam recoils internally.
'God-flesh is dense with divine energy. It is power. It is the only cure for the plague born of his essence. If you want to save them, you must consume it. They must consume it.'
Sam looks at the coughing, feverish villagers watching him with desperate, awe-filled eyes. He looks at the weeping children. He steels himself.
He steps toward the gigantic corpse. "Everyone!" His voice carries, firm and commanding. "You must eat. Tear the flesh from its bones and eat it raw."
A wave of revulsion and disbelief passes through the crowd.
"Sam, we can't—" an elder begins.
"TRUST ME!" Sam implores, the light from his armor flickering. "It is the only way! The power that healed me, that saved Lily—it tells me this is the cure!" He kneels, and with a grimace of determination, he uses his glowing sword to slice a strip of dark meat from the god's thigh. He looks at it, then takes a deliberate, forceful bite. A surge of vitality, wild and potent, floods his mouth. He feels even stronger.
A young boy, burning with fever and clutching his mother's skirt, staggers forward. Driven by delirium and trust in the golden warrior, he grabs a small piece of flesh and stuffs it into his mouth. Within seconds, the wracking cough stops. The feverish glaze leaves his eyes. He looks up at his mother in wonder. "It… it tastes good. I feel better."
That is the catalyst. With a desperate, communal hunger, the villagers surge forward. They carve into the divine carcass with knives, stones, and bare hands. They eat, initially with gagging reluctance that quickly transforms into voracious need. The ecstasy of healing, of imbibing power, overtakes them.
From the shadows of the forest's edge, Zaegarus watches. He watches them become something new, something turbulent and unpredictable. His smile is a thing of pure, chilling delight.
"I love chaos, chaos loves me."