In the floating city of Limnos, suspended high above the ever-changing world, Hephaestus stood within his forge. The air was thick with the scent of molten metal, embers danced like fireflies, and the rhythmic hammering of his tools echoed through the vast chamber.
Yet, today was different. The world beneath had shifted. He could feel it. The very essence of the land had evolved. Beasts had grown stronger. Magic pulsed through the air like an invisible storm. The sea roared with new life, and even the sky itself had rewritten its own stars.
Hephaestus placed his hammer down, his normally unshaken hands trembling. He had always been a god of the forge, the master craftsman of Olympus. But now—something was calling to him.
It began as a whisper at the edges of his mind. A feeling, a presence—no, a memory.
He closed his eyes, letting himself drift deeper into his own soul. And then, he saw it.
Not Olympus. Not the world of the gods.
But another place. Another time. Another life.
He saw fragments—the very ones that had fallen into this world.
He saw a sea of horrors, where monstrous entities swam through endless black waters.
He saw a sky filled with stars, histories written in constellations.
He saw a race of dragons, their king roaring in defiance against an unseen force.
He saw spirits of pure elements, whispering in a language beyond mortal comprehension.
And finally—he saw magic itself, a force so vast, so powerful, that it had reshaped the world in its entirety.
He remembered. This was his world. Or rather—the world of his past life.
Hephaestus gasped as he snapped back to reality, his body drenched in sweat. His mind reeled from the truth.
The fragments that had rained down upon the world—they were not simply foreign objects.
They were remnants of a world that had once existed. A world that had died. A world where he had lived before.
His memories were scattered, fragmented—just like the pieces of that world. But one truth burned within him now:
This world was becoming something new.
No longer was it bound by the old rules of Olympus. No longer was it just a battleground for gods and mortals.
It was evolving, reborn from the ashes of a forgotten past.
And he, Hephaestus, was no longer just a god of Olympus. He was a witness to this grand transformation. A survivor of a world that no longer existed.
This was no longer just the world of Zeus, of Olympus, of old myths. This was something greater.
The forge of Limnos burned as bright as ever, filling the chamber with an orange glow. Sparks danced through the air as molten metal sizzled against cool stone. The rhythmic sound of hammer striking steel echoed across the floating city.
Hephaestus worked as he always had—silent, methodical, and focused.
Yet, something stirred within him. A memory. No, not a vision, nor a dream. Just… a flicker.
It was as if a distant fire had been reignited at the edges of his soul, its warmth barely noticeable.
But Hephaestus did not falter. He did not stop working.
For a god of the forge, memories were like iron—malleable, useful, but ultimately, just another material to shape.
The world had changed.
The fragments that fell from beyond the stars were reshaping reality itself.
Hephaestus had sensed them the moment they descended—their essence, their power.
But it was the dragon fragment that lingered with him the most.
It was familiar, though he could not say why.
And then, the memories came—not as an overwhelming flood, but as an ember rekindled.
He remembered a world before this one.
A world where he had been a man, not a god.
A world where he had been an adventurer, traveling across vast continents, battling nightmarish creatures from the abyss.
A world where he had fought, where he had loved. A world where he had a wife. A dragon.
She had been unlike any other—a being of both fire and wisdom, fierce yet kind, powerful yet gentle.
They had walked together, fought together, built a life together.
But when the war began—when the Undead King rose from the depths and twisted the world into chaos—she did not hesitate.
She fought, as she always had.
She burned through legions of the dead, her wings blotting out the sun, her flames turning night into day.
But even she could not stand against the endless tide.
In the final battle, as the world began to crumble, she made a choice.
She sacrificed herself.
Not just to stop the enemy, but to ensure something of their world remained.
And as she perished, her children, eggs born from Hephaestus's past life with her—was preserved in the dying world's final breath.
Her body became one of the fragments—the very same that had fallen into this world and birthed a new race of dragons.
She had become the foundation for a new beginning.
Yet, her sacrifice was useless in saving their world.
The Greatest Evil that cause the war who was born from bones and death, an undead unlike any before it that rose from the abyss. It continued gathering his armies—behemoths from the deepest trenches, nightmarish leviathans that eclipsed the sun, and spirits of the elements twisted into horrors of corruption.
The adventurer fought alone after the dead of his wife.
He fought for his home, for his people, for the love he had found in this world.
He led warriors, mages, and kings into battle.
Until he alone stood at the end.
His blade pierced the Undead King's heart, and the abomination crumbled to dust.
But the victory was hollow.
The world had already begun to shatter.
The battle had been so cataclysmic, the very foundation of reality had cracked.
Continents split apart. The sky burned. The seas boiled.
The world, once whole, shattered into fragments, pieces flung across the endless void of the multiverse.
Only the central landmass remained—dying, crumbling.
And there he stood, the last man of a dying world, watching its final breath.
The memory soon faded. However Hephaestus did not tremble. Instead, he continued his work, shaping metal with steady hands. Because that was who he was.
He was not the man from before. He was Hephaestus, the god of the forge.
The past was a material to be forged into something new—nothing more, nothing less.
The world was evolving. And somewhere out there, the dragons of this new world—the descendants of his past life—were taking their first breath.
Perhaps, in another life, he would have sought them out. Perhaps, in another life he would try to rivive them.
But this is a new life after all. No need to dwell in the past. Plus, biologically those dragons are not his children. He would not care for their well being. The only thing that could interest Hephaestus to them are probably their corpse. After all, in nearlly all worlds, dragons makes good materials for forging.