High above, two kilometers into the sky, Exile observed both his tribe and Jermal through the tether. It was safe to say he was pleased with their progress.
Barely a day had passed, yet the Kramlins had already discovered mana, Jermal was growing stronger by the hour, and his grand experiment, Operation Halfling, was underway.
Still, one issue loomed larger than the rest: land. The tribe knew they had to move, but hesitation clouded their resolve. Fear of abandoning "sacred" ground, perhaps. Or simple doubt.
Exile spun his staff idly, watching the clouds swirl beneath him. He needed a way to make them understand, to show them he did not wish for them to stay here.
The simplest answer would be to carve his will directly onto the cave wall. But that was impossible for now. Every intervention in the physical world consumed Divinity, and Exile had no intention of spending it carelessly.
So… he would have to drive them out.
And what better way to do so than with an old-fashioned fire?
At first, Exile considered making Jermal accidentally unleash a fireball: an innocent mistake that would ignite the forest and drive the tribe away.
But that idea was flawed. A forest fire was far too unpredictable, too destructive to control.
Besides, Jermal was more valuable than that.
He was Exile's First, his messenger, his proof that the Hollow Eye god was real. The Kramlins needed to see him as flawless, chosen, guided by divinity itself. Not as the cause of their suffering.
Exile needed logic, not chaos.
He went over his remaining abilities. There was only one left — the Miracle.
It was a gift unlike any other, one that could only be used once every half-century. With it, Exile could perform an act of undeniable divinity, a spectacle that would fill his followers with awe and grant him vast reserves of power in return.
Alternatively, he could choose to channel the Miracle through one of his followers, once every two centuries, turning them into a prophet and his living vessel.
It was an ability far too precious to waste now. Especially given the fact that he was still weakened by sharing his holy blood with Umbra.
He still had quite a few abilities he hadn't unlocked yet. But for now, this was all he had to work with.
However, Exile still had one crow left, one he hadn't sent on any mission. One he had kept for moments just like this, where he needed a pistol, not a cannon.
He gave the order.
The crow was to steal a still-burning piece of wood from the tribe's campfire and set the forest ablaze.
The bird obeyed without hesitation, carrying out its master's will to the letter.
It chose a particular cluster of trees, already dry from the absence of ambient water, as the catalyst. And they burned.
The fire spread quickly. Trees nearby were swallowed whole by the flames. The scene was almost ethereal: an amber forest, burning in a furious dance of light and shadow.
Jermal, still in the middle of his experiments, noticed it first.
"What— a fire?!"
No need to question it. He knew he wasn't the cause. But that didn't matter. His people's lives did.
He jumped to his feet and sprinted toward the settlement, about two minutes away.
Under normal circumstances, that is.
His legs began to glow a deep red, and in the next instant, a burst of speed launched him forward like an arrow loosed from a bow.
The secret? Mana. Only, not entirely magical.
To Jermal's underdeveloped understanding of science, what he had just accomplished was purely divine. A gift granted by his god. But that wasn't exactly true.
In reality, it was a combination of adrenaline, a surge of oxygen flooding his muscles, and yes, magic.
Jermal became a blur of red, reaching the camp in barely thirty seconds.
The elders, hunters, and children were already gathered outside. They didn't have much to bring, only a few handmade tools, some scraps of clothing. Luckily for them, most of their belongings were already packed, as they'd been expecting to leave any day now.
The fire hadn't reached them yet, but its glow painted the distant treetops in crimson.
"Jermal? Thank goodness you're back. We have to leave now!" his father shouted, relief cutting through the panic.
Jermal nodded once, sharp and silent, before reactivating his newfound speed. He burst forward, a streak of red and grey, racing south of the encampment, toward the river, to gauge the fire's advance.
No warning. No explanation. The tribe stood in awe.
It all made sense now. Jermal, their leader, had been chosen by a higher being. And by extension, so had they.
There was no more doubt, no more hesitation. The Hollow Eye was their god. The one they would worship, the one whose power they had witnessed firsthand.
He had turned Jermal from a skilled hunter into…
A force of nature.
They knew not how to pray, nor how to build statues or temples.
But the tribe's hunters and elders made a vow. One that would serve as their prayer.
Mental, of course. Each formed their own version, yet, by instinct, all spoke the same truth:
"Divine Hollow Eye god, we stake our lives upon your will.
You, our protector and benefactor, reign supreme over us, the Kramlins.
Our faith is eternally yours."
None of the thirty dared ask for anything in return. That, after all, was the very purpose of prayer: to beg one's god for blessings.
Yet they did not. From what they had seen, obedience alone brought fortune. And so, they obeyed.
Totat raised his voice, the firelight glinting in his eyes.
"The fire is His decree! We are to leave these lands at once! It all makes sense! Follow Jermal, for he is blessed, and carries God's will!"