Morning returned like an exhausted traveler — slow, grey, and heavy with leftover moisture from last night's storm. The village wore its bruises visibly: muddied pathways, collapsed fences, buckets lined near doorways to scoop out lingering water. Tariq's house stood half-drowned but still standing, as if refusing defeat.
People were tired, yes — but alive.
And for a twelve-year-old boy, that strange miracle was easy to accept.Almost too easy.
I sat on the steps of our house, a steaming cup of sweet tea warming my palms. The air smelled of wet clay and burnt firewood, and the world felt hushed — like even the birds were still recovering from what happened.
Haidar found me first, hands shoved into pockets, hair still damp.
"You shouldn't have been able to do that," he said quietly.
Not angry. Not impressed. Just honest.
I let the steam brush my face. "I know."
"You moved through that river like it wasn't even water."He stared at me long, as if memorizing details that might vanish any second."What are you, Arman?"
A question with too many answers.
I looked down at my cup — tea swirling
"I'm still me," I said.
Haidar exhaled, shoulders loosening. That was enough for him — for now. He sat beside me, elbows on knees, staring into the broken morning as if daring it to break again.
He didn't need to say more. His presence was steady. Familiar. The one thing power couldn't take away.
For a while, we just listened — to the wet earth breathing, to distant hammering as neighbours began repairs, to life quietly deciding to continue.
Then Tarik arrived barefoot and grinning like the sun had personally forgiven him.
"My father said the river never moves like that," he announced proudly, as if he'd bent the water himself. "He says the storm changed direction. Like something guided it."
He looked at me meaningfully — too meaningfully.
I coughed into my tea. "Storms don't listen to people."
Tarik hummed, unconvinced. But he didn't push. Maybe he didn't know how.
Children could sense miracles—but they rarely recognized gods.
Not that I was one. Not yet. Maybe never.
The day crawled forward. Men rebuilt walls. Women washed mud-soaked cloth beneath the fading sun. Kids helped where they could — sweeping, fetching tools, laughing too loudly just to drown the memory of thunder.
Life had a way of mending cracks before anyone understood how deep they were.
Weeks passed.
Season shifted.Rivers calmed.The village healed.
Yet something in me continued to pulse — a quiet engine, waking gear by gear. I felt it when I lifted heavy grain sacks with surprising ease. When my footsteps grew soundless. When small metal objects occasionally buzzed near my palms like iron filings searching for a magnet.
I hid it well.
Because I understood something now:
Power expands. Eyes follow.
The world wasn't ready to notice me — not yet. And I wasn't ready to be noticed.
Marvel's world was still early in its storm. Tony Stark was not Iron Man. The Battle of New York was just a distant, unwritten future. Carol Danvers was a ghost in classified reports.SHIELD existed — but quiet, crawling in the dark.
And somewhere across the globe, gods like Odin, beings like Dormammu, and species like the Kree were watching.
So I learned to shrink.
To breathe small.To run normal.To hold lightning inside my ribs like a caged bird.
Until one evening, the cage rattled.
It happened during harvest festival.
Lanterns hung between mud-brick houses, glowing like captured stars. The square pulsed with music — flutes and hand drums weaving ancient rhythms. Spices filled the air; roasted lamb, saffron rice, pomegranate seeds bursting like rubies under lanternlight.
I wore new clothes — a deep blue vest my mother stitched, gold thread patterns like subtle constellations. Haidar and Tarik dragged me into dances I barely remembered but somehow my feet knew, muscle memory older than this life.
The world felt warm. Human. Real.
Then the stranger arrived.
He stepped into the square like ink spilled across gold — tall, pale coat despite the heat, eyes sharp behind thin glasses. Not local. Too still. Too observant.
He didn't smile at the music.
He studied.
And when his gaze slid across the crowd, it paused — directly on me.
My heartbeat stuttered.
He wasn't looking at a child enjoying lanterns. He was scanning. Evaluating. Measuring something invisible around me.
A hunter looking for signatures of power.
I turned away, pretending interest in figs on a tray. But the air near my skin tightened — a metallic awareness, like machines humming just out of sight. His attention followed like a spotlight no one else could see.
Tarik nudged me. "You okay?"
"Fine," I lied.
But Haidar noticed too. His brow furrowed.
"That man hasn't stopped staring at you," he muttered, low enough only I heard.
The stranger began walking toward us.
Step by controlled step.
Not rushed.Not aggressive.Trained.
Government?Scientist?SHIELD?
Or worse — someone cosmic wearing human shape?
My pulse hammered lightning against bone, begging to escape.
No.
Not here. Not now. Not in front of everyone.
I stepped back into the crowd, weaving through dancers before either friend could stop me. Lanternlight fractured through movement, shapes blurring — warm faces, swinging cloth, laughter like music striking water.
The stranger followed.
Hands remained at his sides, but his presence sliced through celebration like a cold blade. I ducked behind a spice stall, heart in my throat, letting fragrance of cinnamon and cumin mask my unseen electricity.
His shadow halted beside the stall.
He stood inches away, separated only by hanging strings of drying peppers.
"Arman," he said — perfectly calm.
He knew my name.
Thunder bloomed quietly inside my chest.
My fingers twitched, static sparking unnoticed against the wood crate beside me. I could outrun him. Outfight him. Outburn him until his cells turned to ash.
But a god using power is louder than shouting.Someone would see.Then more would come.
No. Not yet.
The stranger exhaled softly.
"You don't have to run. I'm not here to harm you."
My jaw tightened. "Then why are you here?"
He hesitated — the slightest pause, brief but real.
"To observe."
A terrifying word.
Before I could respond, Haidar shoved between us, protective like steel born from street dust.
"Leave him alone," he snapped.
Tarik stood beside him, smaller but equally firm.
Two boys, facing down a wolf without knowing he had teeth.
The stranger's eyes softened — almost pitying.
"You have loyal friends," he murmured to me.
Not accusation. Not threat.Acknowledgment.
Then he stepped back.Turned.Walked away.
No chase.No warning.No explanation.
The lanterns flickered overhead like nervous stars.
Haidar swore under his breath. "Who the hell was that?"
I watched the man disappear into the dark edge of town — where celebration lights could no longer reach.
Shadows swallowed him whole.
"I don't know," I whispered.
But that wasn't entirely true.
I felt what he was — or rather, what followed him.
Not mortal.Not mutant.Not cosmic.
Something in-between.
Something searching.
That night I didn't sleep.
The storm in me refused silence — gears turning, electricity threading through veins like threads of a machine god remembering its blueprint. I lay awake listening to cicadas buzz and distant owls call, a galaxy of thoughts spinning, colliding, reforming.
If someone noticed me now, at twelve — then the world would notice later.
I needed a shape to hide inside.A name to wear like armor.
Not Zeus — too loud, too known.Not Machine God — too dangerous.
A forgotten throne.A dust-covered crown.Ancient, buried, safe.
Marduk.
A mask forged from mythology.A cloak woven from history and silence.
Not who I am — but who the world will believe.
Power does not need truth.It only needs a story.
And mine had begun — quietly, like distant thunder preparing to break the sky.