The Island of Nex was silent, save for the roar of the sea. Azeron sat upon his throne, his crimson eyes half-closed, deep in thought.
He had made his presence known. He had spread his name.But whispers and shadows alone were not enough.
"A god unseen is a god doubted. A name without flesh is a name they can dismiss."
He clenched his hand, and shadows twisted violently in the air.
Azeron:"Very well… If they crave a god they can see, I will descend among them. I will not bring my throne, nor my storms, nor the sea that bends to me. No. I will come as flesh, as bone, as a form that walks beside them. Let them think me powerless. Let them believe I can be struck down. And when they try—"
A smile carved across his lips. "They will learn despair."
The chamber darkened. Shadows bled from the walls, coiling around his body like serpents. His throne trembled as he rose, the storm outside screaming with fury. His form began to unravel, dissolving into smoke and ash.
The last words that echoed from his lips before the throne was empty were simple:
"Form One."
The capital of Estrellia bustled with life. Merchants shouted, guards patrolled, nobles paraded in gold and silk. Life moved on, even as fear of the name Azeron lingered in whispers.
And then… a man appeared.
He stood at the edge of the city gates. Barefoot. His clothes were simple, ragged, as if he had wandered from nowhere. His hair hung in shadows across his face, his eyes dull and unremarkable—yet somehow piercing.
There was nothing divine about him. No glow, no storm, no power. Just a man.
But when a guard shoved him roughly aside, the man did not flinch.When a merchant's cart rammed into his shoulder, he did not stumble.And when a thief drove a dagger straight into his chest—
The blade sank in. Flesh tore. Blood spilled.
The thief smirked—until the man looked down at the wound, expression unchanged.
He gripped the dagger's hilt, pulled it out slowly, and let it clatter to the ground. The wound did not heal. Blood still dripped. Yet he did not falter. He did not cry. He did not scream.
He simply whispered:
"Is that all?"
The thief paled. His legs gave out. The guards, watching in horror, muttered, "Impossible… he didn't even feel it."
That night, the man walked the slums. Rats scurried, children wailed, beggars begged. He sat upon a broken stone, gazing at the sky, as though waiting.
And then, in the dark, a voice whispered to him.
"My lord… is it you?"
From the shadows, Liona stepped forward. Her gown was veiled, her eyes glowing faintly crimson. She knelt before the ragged man.
He looked at her, silent for a long moment. Then his lips curled into a faint smile.
Azeron (Form 1):"Rise, Liona. Even in this flesh, even with no power, I am Azeron. This body cannot wield storms, but it cannot feel pain. It cannot die by their blades, nor falter to their fire. Let the world strike me as they wish—they will only reveal their own futility."
Liona's breath trembled. "Then this is your… human form?"
"Form One," he confirmed, his tone sharp as steel. "The mask I will wear to walk among them. They will see me as weak, powerless, broken. And when they kneel before me, when they beg at the feet of a god they believed mortal—my throne will not be below."
His eyes flashed crimson through the night.
"It will be everywhere."
And so Azeron's first human form walked the earth.No power.No pain.No limits.
A god among men—hiding in plain sight.