I stayed in the village longer than I intended.
Not because I needed to rest. Not because I wanted company.
Because I needed to understand this world—the people, the politics, the power. If I was going to destroy gods, I had to understand what they ruled. The villagers didn't know who I really was. They saw a mysterious traveler who wielded magic that shouldn't exist, someone too dangerous to provoke and too useful to cast out.
They treated me like a god. Or a devil.
I preferred the latter.
For six days, I lived among them, listening more than I spoke. I helped mend a crumbling wall with a whisper of earth magic. I healed a sick child with fire and water woven into warmth. I watched the way people prayed before eating, hands pressed together, murmuring thanks to the "Celestial Father."
It made my blood boil.
They were thanking the one who let me die.
---
On the seventh day, a scout returned on foot, panting and pale. His horse had been slain on the road.
"Bandits," he gasped. "They're coming. Armed. Maybe a dozen."
Panic spread like wildfire. Women clutched their children. Men grabbed rusted spears and rusty swords. The village elder, a wrinkled man who walked with a carved staff, called for calm.
"They're after supplies," he said. "We'll give them what they want. Avoid bloodshed."
His voice trembled. He was used to giving in. Used to fear.
I stepped forward.
"No," I said.
Every head turned.
"You don't reason with wolves," I said. "You teach them to fear your fire."
Some murmured agreement. Others recoiled.
Lira stood among the crowd, watching me carefully. She didn't speak, but she didn't look afraid. That mattered.
"They'll burn your homes, even if you hand them your coin," I said. "They'll hurt your children. If you want to survive, you make a stand."
"And if we lose?" one man asked. "What then?"
"Then they'll learn that killing you comes at a cost."
Silence fell.
The elder sighed. "You speak with conviction, boy."
"I speak with experience."
---
When the bandits arrived, I was waiting for them.
I stood in the center of the dirt road leading into the village, arms crossed, cloak flapping in the wind.
There were eleven of them—grimy, cocky, armed with steel blades and crossbows. Their leader rode a black horse with jagged scars across its flanks. His beard was braided, his armor mismatched. He grinned when he saw me.
"Well now," he said. "That's a bold place to stand, stranger."
"This is your only warning," I said calmly. "Turn back."
He laughed. The others joined him.
"Is this a joke?"
I said nothing. Just raised my hand.
The wind picked up. Dust spiraled around me. Fire sparked from my fingertips. A thin line of blood traced down my palm, swirling into the air like a snake.
The laughter stopped.
"Kill him," the leader barked.
The first two charged.
I didn't move. I simply whispered a word.
Their swords melted.
They screamed as the blades turned to liquid metal in their hands, burning their skin. I stepped forward, caught one by the collar, and slammed him into the dirt hard enough to crack his ribs.
The other I pinned with blood spears through his boots.
The next three hesitated. I flicked my wrist, and the earth beneath them opened up, swallowing them to the waist. One screamed for help. Another tried to climb out. The third cried as I froze the ground around him into solid ice.
"Who's next?" I asked.
The rest turned to run.
I didn't chase them. I simply snapped my fingers.
A wall of fire erupted behind them. Horses screamed. Men fell.
The leader drew his sword and dismounted. He charged me alone.
I let him.
His blade came fast, aimed at my neck. I caught it with bare fingers, melting the steel as I held it.
He stared in horror.
"Mercy," he whispered.
"You brought death to their door," I said. "You'll leave as ash."
I incinerated him in silence.
---
When I returned to the village, people parted like waves before me.
No one spoke. No one met my eyes.
Only Lira stepped forward.
"You didn't need to kill them all."
"I did," I said. "Because if I hadn't, they'd have told others this village was weak."
Her lips tightened. She didn't argue.
She knew I was right.
---
That night, she came to my hut.
I was sitting by a small fire, staring into it like it owed me answers. She sat beside me without asking.
"I used to believe in the Celestial Father," she said quietly. "I used to pray every night."
I didn't respond.
"I thought… if I was good, if I followed the rules, I'd be safe."
I looked at her. Her hands were trembling.
"But I was wrong," she said.
I nodded. "So was I."
She turned to me. "Then who do we believe in now?"
I answered without hesitation.
"Ourselves."
---
The next morning, I left.
I didn't tell anyone except Lira. She walked with me to the edge of the woods, her blade strapped to her back, a pouch of herbs at her hip.
"You could stay," she said softly.
"I can't."
"I know." She reached into her coat and pulled out a red ribbon. "Then take this."
I hesitated.
"It's from my mother," she said. "She wore it in every battle she fought."
"I'm not a hero," I said.
"I know," she repeated. "But you're something more."
I took the ribbon and tied it around my wrist.
---
I traveled south, into the Crimson Wastes, where the Pact held sway. According to Seraphina, it was the land of forbidden magic and blood cults. A place where angels feared to tread, but devils walked in human skin.
The road was harsh. Sandstorms came without warning. Beasts hunted in packs. I was attacked twice—once by a shape-shifting wolf with six eyes, and once by a cultist who tried to drink my blood.
Neither survived.
I slept beneath dying trees. I ate roasted roots and summoned water from the air. My powers were growing stronger—easier to control. My mind stretched farther. I could feel people miles away. I could hear the heartbeat of the world.
And then I felt him.
---
The angel descended like a falling star.
Wings of silver light. A sword made of pure radiance. Armor gleaming with divine runes. He didn't speak when he landed—he just looked at me with cold fury.
"You are the heretic," he said.
"I'm the correction," I replied.
He lunged.
The air shattered as he moved. Faster than lightning. Stronger than steel. He slammed into me with enough force to crack the ground.
But I didn't move.
I caught his blade between two fingers and shattered it.
His eyes widened.
"Impossible."
I smiled.
"You're not the first who thought that."
He backed up, summoned another blade. This one glowed brighter.
I spoke a word of blood.
His wings caught fire.
He screamed, staggered back, and I struck—driving a spear of wind through his shoulder and binding him in a prison of ice and flame.
I knelt beside him.
"Go back to your master," I whispered. "Tell him the one he left to die is coming."
I placed a mark on his forehead—my sigil, black and burning.
"Tell him I remember."
Then I vanished.
---
That night, Seraphina appeared in the firelight, stepping from shadow to shadow until she stood at the edge of my camp.
"You've made your move," she said.
"They made theirs first."
She studied me for a long time.
"You're not the same as when we met."
"I hope not."
"I don't mean in strength."
I said nothing.
Then she stepped forward and held out her hand. A drop of glowing crimson hovered above her palm.
"My blood," she said. "You gave me power. I return it now."
The drop entered my chest.
My body surged.
The sigil burned brighter. My breath caught. My vision blurred—and then cleared.
I could see the sky like it was alive. I could hear a heartbeat from beyond the mountains.
"You're awakening," she said.
"To what?"
"To what you were always meant to become."
---
And just like that, I knew.
The heavens weren't ready.
But I was.