Almost ten days drifted past in tranquil succession, each sunrise bringing fresh instruction as Duncan absorbed knowledge his father imparted with patient diligence.
The fundamentals of tracking prey through dense woodland, identifying edible vegetation from poisonous varieties, constructing shelters from available materials—these skills became second nature through repetitive practice. Yet nothing captivated Duncan's attention quite like the extensive histories his father recounted about Elyria itself, tales of ancient kingdoms and forgotten wars that painted vivid pictures across Duncan's imagination far more compellingly than survival techniques ever could.
One afternoon, while skinning a caught digeon near their dwelling, Duncan posed a question that had been fermenting in his thoughts for several days. "Father, Mother, what consequences would befall me should I venture beyond our settlement?"
His father's hands stilled mid-motion, the blade hovering above the carcass. "Why would such thoughts occupy your mind? We remain your parents, your family. What purpose would departure serve?"
Duncan shook his head quickly, clarifying his intent. "Not abandonment—exploration. I wish to witness the breadth of this realm, understand its geography firsthand rather than through stories alone."
The older man's expression darkened, concern etching lines deeper around his weathered eyes. "Have you truly forgotten our circumstances? The exile binding our people isn't merely symbolic. Other races maintain active hostility toward us. Step beyond these boundaries and death becomes not a possibility but a certainty."
"But surely I possess some capability for self-defense?" Duncan pressed, frustration creeping into his voice. "Some inherent strength to protect myself?"
His father's response carried the weight of bitter resignation. "We possess nothing of that nature. The divine entities governing Elyria have withdrawn their blessings from our lineage entirely. They bestow no recollections of power, no inherited abilities—punishment for transgressions committed by generations long deceased."
"That lacks any semblance of justice," Duncan protested, his voice rising despite himself. "We bear responsibility for actions we never committed, crimes predating our very existence."
His mother interjected gently from where she tended the cooking fire. "Truth holds little sway over consequence, beloved. You've likely encountered the proverb—the multitude suffers for singular error."
Duncan's jaw clenched, indignation surging through him. He pondered silently whether his power might eventually manifest despite his father's bleak assessment, or whether he truly remained powerless as claimed. Regardless of which reality proved accurate, surrender held no appeal. This existence, this second chance at living, demanded more than passive acceptance of unjust limitation.
"Do you possess a blade, Father?" Duncan inquired after several moments of contemplative silence.
"I maintain a sword, though its condition leaves much desired—partially fractured near the hilt."
"Could you forge a replacement?"
His father actually laughed at that, though the sound carried no mirth. "Forge? That represents a divine memory, sacred knowledge granted exclusively to dwarven craftsmen. Such skills remain forever beyond our grasp."
The revelation only deepened Duncan's frustration, yet simultaneously strengthened his resolve. He craved power—not for domination but liberation, the capacity to transcend the suffocating constraints of exile and embrace life's full spectrum of possibility. For the present moment, however, he would continue this peculiar existence, hoping fervently that something dormant within him might eventually stir to wakefulness. The prospect of enduring another confined existence, whether in this world or his previous one, remained utterly intolerable.
Several days later, while Duncan and his father tracked digeons through the forest undergrowth, they detected movement ahead—human voices carrying through the trees. Duncan's heart leapt unexpectedly at the recognition. Humans. The species he had belonged to previously. Perhaps communication remained possible, perhaps friendship could bridge the gap between their peoples.
Before rational thought could temper his impulse, Duncan began rising from their concealed position, intent on approaching the strangers. His father's hand shot out, gripping Duncan's arm with surprising force as he hissed urgently, "What madness possesses you? They'll perceive you!"
Duncan whispered back with naive confidence, "Remain calm, Father. They pose no threat—we've committed no offense against them."
Breaking free from his father's restraining grasp, Duncan stood fully upright and called out enthusiastically, "Greetings, humans! I'm Duncan. Pleasure making your acquaintance!"
His father's face drained of color, terror replacing the usual composed expression. The response came swiftly and without warning—two arrows whistled through the air with lethal precision. One sailed past harmlessly, but its companion found Duncan's leg, the arrowhead tearing through flesh and muscle. Pain exploded through his entire being, more intense than anything he'd experienced in either lifetime. His scream echoed through the forest, raw and agonized.
His father moved with desperate speed, hoisting Duncan's weight across his shoulders and beginning their retreat. But pursuit followed immediately—footsteps crashing through vegetation, voices shouting commands. His father's breathing grew labored as realization settled over both of them: escape remained impossible at their current pace.
They reached a steep embankment, and without hesitation, his father positioned Duncan near the edge. Understanding flashed between them in that final moment before his father shoved hard, sending Duncan tumbling down the slope as armored figures emerged from the treeline. Duncan caught fragmentary glimpses as he rolled—swords plunging into his father's abdomen, once, twice, three times. The older man's face contorted not in agony but inexplicably into laughter, genuine amusement even as life fled his body. That expression persisted even after the blade swept horizontally, severing head from shoulders.
Duncan's vision blurred as moisture gathered in his eyes, spilling down his cheeks. The tears fell white as snow, and even through his grief, the observation struck him as profoundly strange. If he wasn't human, why did sorrow manifest through such familiar expression?
The slope eventually leveled, leaving Duncan crumpled at its base. He began dragging himself forward using his arms alone, the injured leg trailing uselessly behind as he crawled toward home. Each movement sent fresh waves of agony radiating outward, but he continued with single-minded determination.
His mother spotted him from a distance, her face transforming from routine concern to absolute horror as she sprinted toward him. Duncan managed to speak through tears and pain, "They captured Father because of my stupidity. I should have remained hidden, should have listened—"
"Hush now," his mother interrupted, gathering him carefully. "I have you, beloved. They won't claim my son."
She half-carried, half-dragged him back to their dwelling, settling him onto the hay bedding with trembling hands. "Regardless of what transpires next, you must not emerge from here. Promise me."
"Where are you going?" Duncan asked, though dread already supplied the answer.
"To retrieve your father."
Duncan's chest constricted. He couldn't articulate the truth, couldn't describe the finality of what he'd witnessed. Finally, he forced the words out: "Mother, Father isn't returning."
She met his gaze with heartbreaking understanding. "I know, precious one. That's precisely why I must join him in whatever realm awaits beyond. But you—you must survive."
"Don't go," Duncan pleaded desperately. "They'll kill you too. I cannot bear responsibility for both parents' deaths—"
But armored figures had already surrounded their home, and rough hands seized his mother, dragging her into the open air. The knights laughed with genuine amusement, the sound grating against Duncan's ears like rusted metal.
"What brings you such entertainment?" Duncan shouted furiously. Silence answered him. He tried again, voice breaking. "What's funny?"
His mother's voice reached him, impossibly calm given the circumstances. "Son, they cannot comprehend our language."
The realization struck like physical impact. Everything—his greeting, his pleas, his questions—all meaningless noise to human ears. And worse, his foolishness had marked their settlement's location, endangering everyone who shared their exile.
One knight raised his weapon with casual indifference. The blade descended in a clean arc, and Duncan's mother's head separated from her body spurting out red blood all over, falling to the earth with a dull thud.
Something fundamental shattered inside Duncan's psyche at that moment. Grief transformed instantaneously into rage—pure, incandescent, all-consuming fury that demanded release. He wanted nothing more than to obliterate every human present, reduce them to scattered components and broken flesh. Yet his body refused cooperation, the injured leg pinning him in place as effectively as iron shackles.
Internally, he screamed at whatever divine forces might be listening: *Let me kill them. Grant me that single mercy. Let me kill them all.*
The last thing Duncan registered was a sword's pommel swinging toward his skull, then darkness claimed consciousness entirely.
When awareness returned, Duncan found himself still within the hut, but the world beyond had transformed into a charnel house. Human bodies lay scattered in impossible configurations—limbs separated from torsos, heads rolled to unnatural distances, blood painting every visible surface in arterial spray patterns. The attacking force had been utterly annihilated.
A translucent panel materialized before Duncan's eyes, text appearing in script he somehow understood:
[Host has awakened: Overpowered God System]
[Also known as twelvefold God's hand]
Wonder warred with devastating regret. Why now? Why not hours earlier when intervention might have preserved his parents' lives? He glanced downward, discovering his leg wound had vanished completely, fresh skin replacing torn tissue as though injury had never occurred.
Duncan stood on steady limbs and pushed through the doorway. The remaining survivors of his people clustered together, faces uniformly displaying expressions of profound fear. Upon seeing him, they spoke simultaneously, voices overlapping: "What are you?"
Confusion furrowed Duncan's brow. "What meaning lies behind that question?"
"You slaughtered them all," came the trembling response. "You don't remember?"
"I did?" Duncan's voice carried genuine bewilderment.
"Yes. Every single one."
Before Duncan could process this revelation, intricate geometric patterns blazed to life around the gathered survivors—a magic circle pulsing with malevolent energy. The formation contracted violently, crushing everyone within its boundaries into unrecognizable fragments of meat and bone.
Duncan spun toward the source, spotting a female warrior standing at a distance, her expression twisted into smug satisfaction. Questions cascaded through his mind: Who was she? How had she manifested such devastating magic? Why target harmless exiles living peacefully in isolation?
None of that mattered as much as the cold certainty crystallizing in his chest. This woman, whoever she represented, whatever agenda motivated her presence here—she would answer for these deaths. And then she would die screaming.
The hunt had begun.