Chapter 2 –
The Spark of Creation
Next day has started and the sunlight hits his eyes.
Is it already morning.
He mumbled to himself .
For a long moment he just lay there, stunned, his mind struggling to catch up. The air was fresh—too fresh. Clean and earthy, nothing like the smoke-choked city he knew. Birds chirping somewhere overhead. Leaves rustled in a gentle breeze.
He sat up slowly.
The first thing he saw was endless trees . Towering , thick with vines, stretched above like natural cathedrals. Ferns the size of his torso crowded the forest floor.
"This… isn't Earth." His voice trembled.
No cars, no house, no office towers. Just wilderness.
Damian looked down at himself. Same old clothes—dark purple hoodie, faded black jeans, sneakers that were one bad step away from falling apart. No injuries from the car crash, no blood, not even a scratch.
"Did… did that really happen?"
he whispered, but the memory of screeching tires and bone-crushing impact was too vivid to dismiss.
He forced himself to breathe, to focus.
Okay.
Step one: don't panic.
Step two: figure out where the hell I am.
His stomach growled.
"Step three: food."
But before he could move, warmth bloomed again in his chest—the same strange spark from the void. His hand twitched, and suddenly… an image formed in his mind. A knife. Simple, made of steel, sharp. The same kind he'd used in his apartment kitchen hundreds of times.
The warmth spread to his palm. Light flared—soft, silvery—and when it faded, a knife lay in his hand.
Damian nearly dropped it in shock.
"What the—" He turned it over.
The weight was real, the metal cold. The edge is sharp. He tested it against a vine. The blade sliced cleanly.
His heart pounded.
"No way… I just… made this."
The voice from the void slowly whispered again to him.
Walk the path of the maker. Survive… build.
Damian stood there for some time, clutching the knife, his mind racing. This wasn't a dream. He could imagine things—and they became real.
His lips curled into a shaky smile.
"Alright then. If this is real… I'm not dying out here."
He scanned the forest, eyes narrowing. First priority: shelter. He pictured sketches from his childhood—a small wooden cabin with a roof sturdy enough to keep out rain. The warmth flared again, but weaker this time, like straining a muscle. A shimmering outline appeared in the air, logs stacking, beams forming… then flickered and faded before completion.
Damian fell to one knee, panting. Sweat ran down his temple.
"So… I can't just make something big right away. There's… limits."
He gripped the knife tighter, determination settling in. Fine. If he couldn't build a cabin yet, he'd start small.
A campfire. A lean-to. Tools.
He would learn, step by step.
The forest loomed around him, vast and untamed. Somewhere far away, a beast roared, low and guttural. The sound rattled his chest.
Damian swallowed hard.
"Guess I'm not alone here, huh?"
But he straightened, shoulders squared, eyes burning with something he hadn't felt in years.
Not despair.
Not exhaustion.
But possibility.
"Alright," he muttered. "Let's see what I can make.
Damian started gathering branches and dry leaves, dragging them into a small clearing between two thick roots. He knelt, closing his eyes, picturing a lighter—bright orange flame flicking to life at the flick of a thumb.
The spark in his chest pulsed. A cheap plastic lighter appeared in his hand. He nearly laughed. "Unbelievable."
A few clicks later, the fire was burning. The crackle of flame filled the clearing, chasing back shadows. Heat touched his skin, real and comforting.
Next came shelter. He imagined a simple lean-to: a frame of branches, leaves woven tight to block the wind. The warmth swelled again, and with effort, the outline shimmered into existence before solidifying into wood and leaves. It wasn't perfect—crooked, rough—but it stood.
Damian slumped back, chest heaving. Every act of creation drained him, like lifting weights with his very soul. But when he looked at the fire, the shelter, the knife at his side… he felt something he hadn't in years.
Pride.
A deep, horrifying roar shattered the peace.
Damian froze. The sound came from deeper in the forest—something big moving through the under bushes. Branches cracked. Leaves rustled violently.
His pulse spiked. Instinct screamed at him to run, but his legs wouldn't move. He tightened his grip on the knife, forcing himself to think.
Don't panic. Don't panic.
The bushes shifted. Glowing yellow eyes flashed in the firelight.
Damian staggered back, breath caught in his throat. The creature stepped forward—wolf-like, but bigger than a bear, its fur bristling with streaks of shadowy black. Saliva dripped from its fangs as it growled, low and hungry.
Damian's mind raced. He couldn't fight this thing head-on. Not yet.
But then the spark pulsed inside him again. His imagination flared to life—an image of something crude but powerful: a spear, reinforced with steel, balanced for throwing.
He clenched his teeth, forcing the warmth into his hand. Light flared—sudden, blinding—and in his grip appeared a long spear, gleaming under the firelight.
The beast snarled, stepping closer. Damian raised the weapon, heart pounding, his body trembling.
"Alright," he whispered, voice shaking but firm.
"Let's see if I can survive my first
night."
The fire crackled. The beast roared.
And Damian, the Maker, took aim.
And throw the spear with every ounce of strength at the beast and then what he saw shocked and terrified him at the same time..
To be continued..