*Content Warning: This chapter contains mature themes, violence, blood, and morally dark actions. Reader discretion advised.*
***
Dawn broke soft and pale over the wildflower meadow. Leon opened his eyes to a sky the color of washed-out steel, the last stars fading like dying embers. For a moment he simply lay there — back against the ancient tree trunk, grass cool beneath him, the faint scent of night-blooming flowers still clinging to his clothes.
No pain screamed louder than yesterday. No god hunted him in his dreams. Just quiet. Rare, fragile quiet.
He exhaled slowly, breath misting in the morning chill.
"Still alive," he muttered, voice rough from disuse. "Guess that's something."
Leon pushed himself upright. Every muscle protested, but the ache felt honest — the kind that meant healing, not breaking. He gathered his meager belongings: the clay water bottle (half-full now), the rough cloth sack, the jagged chitin shard he'd used as a knife. He tied them together with a strip of torn robe, slung the bundle over one shoulder, and stood.
The tree creaked behind him like an old friend saying goodbye.
He started walking.
The green hills rolled gently under his boots. Wildflowers brushed his calves. Birds darted overhead, singing songs he didn't recognize. The world felt almost gentle — too gentle, like it was hiding teeth behind the smile.
Leon kept moving deeper.
***
Far away, deep in the reddish sands where the wind howled like a dying beast, a colossal stone monolith rose — bigger than any house, bigger than most hills, its surface pitted and scarred by centuries of sandstorms. Inside its hollowed heart, something ancient stirred.
A massive figure, cloaked in shadow so thick it seemed to drink the light, leaned against the rough inner wall. Its form was immense — broad as three men, limbs thick as tree trunks, yet it moved with lazy, predatory grace.
The figure rumbled, voice heavy and low, shaking dust from the stone.
"Hmm… what the hell was that? Or was it a mistake? But it can't be. I just felt the presence of a god. No way a god would descend into this world. I refuse to believe it."
It straightened slowly, shadows peeling away from its form like smoke. Crimson eyes — two burning slits — swept the empty desert beyond the monolith's jagged mouth.
"But even if a god did come down… I'll have no choice but to kill him. And how surprising — if it really was a god, I wonder why he bothered with this small planet."
The figure yawned, massive jaw cracking open wide enough to swallow a man whole, then slumped back into its sleeping position against the stone.
"Well… as long as those god bastards or human scum don't irritate me, I won't do anything to them. Guess it's sleeping time again."
The desert wind howled on. The monolith stood silent.
And the thing inside waited.
***
Deep in a beautiful forest where sunlight filtered through emerald canopy in golden shafts, an old wooden house stood alone — moss-cloaked roof sagging under the weight of years, porch overgrown with climbing vines heavy with pale blue blossoms. Smoke curled lazily from a stone chimney. The air smelled of damp earth, pine resin, and something faintly herbal.
An old man moved through the small yard with deliberate slowness. Long silver hair tied back in a loose knot, face lined like ancient parchment, eyes sharp beneath heavy brows. He wore simple gray robes patched at the elbows, sleeves rolled to the forearms. In his hands: a clay watering can, spout dripping as he tended rows of strange plants — some with leaves like black velvet, others blooming with tiny silver flowers that glowed faintly even in daylight.
He hummed under his breath — an old, wordless tune that seemed to make the vines lean closer.
Finished with the plants, he set the can down and picked up a worn broom. He began sweeping the porch — slow, rhythmic strokes, dust rising in soft clouds that caught the light like tiny stars.
The old man paused mid-sweep, head tilting slightly as if listening to something far away.
"Hm…" he murmured, voice low and weathered. "It seems things are about to get interesting."
A faint smile touched his lips — not kind, not cruel, just knowing.
He resumed sweeping, the broom whispering against wood.
And the forest held its breath.
***
Leon kept moving.
The green hills had given way to true forest — ancient trees rising like cathedral pillars, trunks wider than three men could encircle, bark dark and grooved with age. Sunlight pierced the canopy in thin, golden spears, dappling the mossy ground. Ferns brushed his legs. Somewhere a stream chuckled over stones.
He walked faster now — not running, but purposeful. The ache in his muscles had dulled to background noise. His body was remembering how to move again.
"How strange…" he muttered, eyes sweeping the towering trunks. "This forest is quite beautiful. And at the same time… it's giving me some kind of ominous feeling. I don't even know how to explain it."
The trees seemed too still. The birds too quiet. The air too thick, like it was watching him back.
Then — a scent.
Faint at first. Woodsmoke. Herbs. Bread. Something savory — meat, maybe stew.
Leon froze.
His stomach clenched hard enough to hurt.
"Food…" he rasped, voice cracking with sudden hunger.
He followed the smell — faster now, boots silent on moss, body low like a predator remembering how to hunt. The scent grew stronger: smoke, spices, the unmistakable warmth of cooked meat.
Through a screen of leaves he saw it — the old wooden house, moss-roofed, porch swept clean. Smoke curling from the chimney. And on that porch…
An old man.
Silver hair tied back, gray robes patched at the elbows, broom in hand — sweeping dust with slow, deliberate strokes.
Leon stepped out from the trees.
The old man didn't look up. He just kept sweeping.
But the broom paused — just for a heartbeat.
And the forest went utterly silent.