Ren and Mara lived a life woven from simplicity and hardship in a small, ramshackle cottage nestled by the river. Their days unfolded in a gentle rhythm: tending a meager vegetable patch, casting nets for the day's catch, and mending what little they owned. They were old, their faces deeply etched with the twin narratives of hard work and quiet contentment, their poverty worn like a familiar cloak. They had seen much in their long lives, witnessed countless sunrises and sunsets over these same waters, but never anything quite like the sight that greeted Ren on his habitual morning check of the fishing lines.
There, caught in the tenacious grip of the reeds, was a young man. He looked impossibly pale, almost ethereal in the pre-dawn light, his dark, river-soaked hair plastered to his forehead. His clothes, what remained of them, were torn and stained, clinging to his slender form. But what truly struck Ren, sending a shiver of disquiet down his spine, were the young man's eyes – wide open, yet utterly unseeing, like polished, grey stones reflecting the nascent light without truly perceiving it. He looked like a drowned man, yet… there was a faint, almost imperceptible warmth radiating from him, a subtle pulse that defied the stillness.
"Mara! Come quick!" Ren called, his voice raspy with age and a burgeoning sense of alarm, his gnarled hand already reaching towards the water.
Mara, her back slightly hunched from years of labor, hurried down to the riverbank, her movements surprisingly agile for her age. Her eyes, sharper and more intuitive than her husband's, immediately noticed the subtle, healthy glow beneath the young man's pale, almost translucent skin. "He's alive, Ren! Barely, but alive! What a strange, beautiful boy."
Together, with a surprising reservoir of strength born from their concern, they managed to pull Mark from the chilling embrace of the water. He was heavy, his limbs lax and unresponsive, but as they laid him gently on the damp grass, Mara pressed her ear to his chest. "His heart… it's beating so slow, like a drum in a deep well, but it's undeniably strong. A resilient one, this boy."
They carried him back to their humble cottage, a place of warmth and the scent of woodsmoke, laying him gently on their guest cot. The worn, patched blankets provided a stark, comforting contrast to the immense, silent divine energy that now hummed beneath his skin. They cleaned his skin, though remarkably, there were no visible wounds beyond a few minor scrapes, and dressed him in some of Ren's old clothes, which hung loosely on his slender frame.
"Who do you think he is, Ren?" Mara whispered later, her brow furrowed with a mixture of concern and profound curiosity, as she sat by his bedside, watching the slow, even rise and fall of his chest.
"A mystery, old woman," Ren replied softly, stoking the small, crackling fire in their hearth. Its warm glow danced across Mark's serene, unconscious face. "But no matter who he is, he needed our help. No one should be left for dead in the river, especially not one so young."
And so, Mark, the discarded project of a corrupt government, the unacknowledged child of legendary heroes, lay in a deep, transformative coma in the care of two kind, anonymous strangers. A year would pass in the quiet solitude of that riverside cottage, a silent vigil maintained by the old couple, as the divine energy within him slowly, meticulously, prepared for his true rebirth. The world, in its vast indifference and calculated deception, believed him dead, a failed experiment vanished without a trace. But beneath the surface, a god, scarred and remade, was stirring.