The wind carried the sound of battle long before the flames became visible.
High above the shattered coastline, where jagged cliffs cut against the sea like broken teeth, an old man stood unmoving. His robes hung loose around his frame, weathered by time and salt, the fabric whispering faintly as the wind pulled at it.
Below him, the water burned.
Ships cracked and collapsed into the water, their hulls splitting apart under black fire. Smoke rose in thick, choking spirals, staining the sky. The clash of power echoed even this far up the cliff, thunderous impacts, bursts of light, the roar of something ancient unleashed.
The old man watched it all in silence.
His eyes did not widen.
He did not flinch.
He simply… observed.
A massive shape tore through the air below, wings beating with enough force to ripple the sea itself. Flame followed in its wake, devouring everything it touched.
The dragon.
The devourer.
The mistake.
The old man exhaled slowly through his nose.
"They never learn," he murmured.
Below, the battle shifted.
Water rose in towering spirals, crashing against black fire. Golden light erupted, clashing against something darker, more primal. The cavern beneath the cliffs trembled with the force of it.
God against devourer.
Again.
Always again.
The old man's gaze hardened slightly.
"Cycles," he said quietly. "Endless, unbroken cycles."
Behind him, something shifted.
A soft scrape of talons against stone.
The old man did not turn.
He didn't need to.
A raven perched on a jagged outcrop a few yards away, its feathers black as void, its single visible eye gleaming with unnatural intelligence. The other socket was empty.
It watched the battle below.
Then it turned its gaze toward the old man.
For a moment, neither moved.
Two witnesses.
Two things that did not belong entirely to the present moment.
The raven tilted its head once.
Curious.
Measuring.
Then its wings spread silently.
It launched into the air without a sound.
Gone.
The old man's eyes followed it only briefly before returning to the battle below.
"Even you just watch," he muttered.
Below, the clash reached its peak.
Light and flame collided in a blinding detonation that shook the cliffs beneath his feet. The ocean surged violently, waves slamming against the rocks as if trying to climb the land itself.
Then just the crackling of fire and breeze from the wind.
The fire remained.
The destruction remained but the struggle had ended. The old man closed his eyes for a moment. Then opened them again.
"Another one," he said.
Not surprised.
Not satisfied.
Just… tired.
Far below, the dragon moved again.
The old man watched as Michael approached the fallen god. There was no hesitation or mercy. Just inevitability and a feeling of sadness as this path was repeated by another.
The old man's jaw tightened slightly.
"He devours them now," he said under his breath. The wind carried the distant echo of bone breaking.
Of power being consumed.
The old man's gaze darkened.
"So it begins again."
He had seen this before. He had watched Kur devour the gods before leaving earth and embracing his identity as Bahamut. He knew how Kur became a catastrophe.
The devourer who shattered balance and forced the heavens to unite in fear.
The thing that made gods act like prey.
And now Michael.
A different name.
A different mind.
But walking the same road.
The old man turned away from the cliff's edge.
The battle was over.
But the consequences were just beginning.
He took a single step forward.
And vanished.
He reappeared miles inland. Standing atop another ridge overlooking the land.
The dragon had already taken to the sky again.
A massive silhouette cutting across the horizon, wings stretching wide as it moved inland.
Toward cities.
Toward temples.
Toward more gods.
The old man watched him go.
A deeper scowl forming across his face.
"Michael," he said quietly.
The name felt heavy.
Not because it was unfamiliar.
But because it still meant something.
Something that was slipping further away with every passing moment.
"He did not heed the warning," the old man muttered.
His hands folded behind his back as he began walking.
Each step carried him forward across the uneven terrain as if distance itself had less meaning to him.
"He was given a choice."
The wind picked up again, carrying dust and heat across the land.
"He was shown the path."
His eyes tracked the dragon's movement across the sky.
"And still…"
The scowl deepened.
"He walks it."
There was no anger in his voice.
No rage.
Just disappointment. A heavy, crushing sadness of memories flashed in the old man's eyes.
"He has become the very catastrophe I had hoped he would avoid."
The old man stopped walking.
For a moment, he simply stood there, watching the dragon shrink slightly in the distance as it continued inland.
Toward something inevitable.
Toward something waiting.
The old man's shoulders lowered slightly.
A sigh escaped him.
"Very well," he said.
The words were quiet.
But final.
"Let them reap what they sow."
His gaze lifted slightly, not to the dragon but beyond it.
Beyond the sky.
Beyond the present.
To those who had made the decision.
Those who thought themselves in control.
Those who believed they could shape outcomes without consequence.
"They sent him here," the old man continued softly. "To relive Kur's path."
His expression hardened.
"And now they will remember why that was a mistake."
The wind died down.
For a brief moment, the world felt still.
Then the old man's eyes softened.
Just slightly.
Sadness flickered there.
Not for the gods.
Not for the world.
For one person.
"Michael…"
He shook his head faintly.
"A harsh decision awaits you at the end of this path."
There was no judgment in the words.
No condemnation.
Just certainty.
The kind that came from having already seen how stories like this ended. The old man looked out across the land one last time.
Then stepped forward and vanished once more.