Ikenga emerged from the planet's core with the slow, deliberate grace of something ancient and wounded. His body had returned to its human form, though it bore the deep, glistening scars inflicted not just on him—but on the world itself. They criss crossed his skin like molten veins, seeping golden blood that shimmered faintly in the dim planetary light.
Yet, ever cautious, ever disciplined, not a single drop touched the ground. Each droplet of his luminous blood hovered mid-air before reversing its descent, flying back into his body like birds returning to a wounded nest. Flesh reknit. Muscle wove back into sinew. His skin, a tapestry of divine resilience, mended silently.
Without fanfare, Ikenga lifted from the scorched surface. His ascent was smooth, effortless, yet heavy with loss. He broke through the fractured sky and hovered in the cold silence of space, suspended between stars, looking down at the planet he had once been bound to.
It was dying.
