He should have listened.
That's what Ivan thought to himself as he ran in the forest, surrounded by complete darkness of the gloomy night. All alone and completely stranded.
He's alone. Stranded.
And afraid.
Branches lashed at his face, some sharp enough to draw even blood. His tousled black hair, usually combed, now messy, sweat-slicked and disheveled. His blood-red eyes widened in horror and fear.
He could feel his strength fading away fast. After all, any little kid his age, regardless of power, could not run away from nor defeat such a beast, especially not when this forest is its territory, and he was an easy prey accidentally wandered into its realm.
Ivan's lungs were on fire due to the never-ceasing running, every gasp felt like it was tearing his throat apart, full of pine and terror, but the sound behind him was worse — a four-beat percussion of paws on the hard ground, a series of heavy, rhythmic thumps, like a drumbeat counting down the seconds he had left before it reached him.
He risked a glance over his shoulder and wished he hadn't. It was a gray streak, low to the ground, all corded muscle and purpose. It didn't bother to avoid the ferns and branches — it parted them like water, eyes locked onto him, two chips of cold amber glinting with a single-minded hunger under the moonlight. Its mouth was open, not in a pant, but in a fixed, grim rictus, pink tongue lolling.
It wasn't tired. It was expectant.
It wasn't just chasing him. It was herding him, letting the fear bleed the strength from his legs, savoring the certainty of the catch.
His heart was hammering against his chest, each loud thud matching his own footsteps on the hard earth. His vision was getting blurry from exhaustion and dizziness, but he didn't dare stop for a mere second.
His life was on the line, and every second he wasted meant another step closer to a brutal death under this beast's claws.
"Please... Please somebody help..." He sobbed brokenly, his voice hoarse, eyes red from the crying as fresh tears rolled down his cheeks, one of his hands went up to wipe away those tears.
He regretted doing that.
Because immediately after, a hidden root hooked his foot and sent him stumbling forward. He tried to maintain his balance, but the mud slid under his boots, dumping him face-first onto the hard earth.
The impact knocked the air from his lungs. He rolled, mud and leaves clinging to his clothes, just in time to see the beast gather itself and leap.
This was it. He squeezed his eyes shut, a final, silent plea forming in his mind—not to anyone, just to the uncaring dark.
The growl cut off.
Then, with a yelp full of shock and pain, the beast was flung aside like a discarded toy. It hit a tree trunk with a sickening crunch and stopped moving.
The world had gone still. The wind had died. The leaves hung motionless.
Silence, thick and sudden, rushed back into the forest.
Ivan dared to open his eyes.
The moonlight, which had been a weak silver light, now pooled in the clearing as though liquefied, bending around a central figure.
Him.
Man was the wrong word, but it was the only shape Ivan's mind could latch onto. He was tall, clad in robes that seemed woven from the forest's own gloom and the moon's cold silver. Long silvery blonde hair cascaded around him, framing his handsome, ageless face in a way that seemed too perfect to be of human.
His eyes were a color that didn't exist – a shifting, depthless silver that didn't reflect the moonlight, but rather produced light on their own. For a split second, Ivan felt a strange feeling of warmth in his chest. For a moment, he had hope. However, those eyes found Ivan's, they held no pity or empathy, only appraisal and calculating interest. The light in Ivan's eyes, which appeared just a second ago, dimmed quickly, so was the warmth.
"What a curious little soul," The man mused, the corners of his lips curled up slightly. "To shine so brightly in such a dark place."
The man crunched down on one knee, eyes never leaving Ivan's figure. "You are fragile," He continued, eyes gleaming with something Ivan couldn't quite name. "This world devours the fragile. But worry not," He reached out. Ivan flinched, but the hand didn't strike. It cupped his dirty, tear-stained cheek. The touch was icy, yet it burned where it made contact.
"They will call you an angel." The man whispered, the promise curling into Ivan's ear like smoke. "They will kneel, and you will never be prey again."
"All you have to do is, serve me."
Before Ivan could even mutter a response, The God placed his thumb on his forehead.
A cold fire erupted in his skull. It wasn't pain—it was a vacancy, something old and innate being scooped out, and in its place, a radiant, foreign weight settling in. A brand. A claim.
Ivan's last sight was of that benevolent, endless smile.
Then, the world dissolved into a painless white silence.
***
Who knew how long had it been, but Ivan slowly opened his eyes again, blinking rapidly as he struggled to adapt to the sudden brightness of the room.
"Where…?" He murmured, head spinning as he sat up, the bed creaking beneath his weight. He looked around, taking in the recognizable surroundings as the familiar aroma of wood filled his nostrils – he was in his own bedroom.
"Ivan!" A familiar voice shouted as a woman rushed to his bedside, hands hovering near his figure yet not quite touching, as though she feared that she might hurt him. "Oh my dear grandson, you're finally awake! You don't know how anxious we were!"
Immediately after her words, two men rushed into the room as well, their eyes wide with shock and worry.
"Oh God, you literally scare us right there, mom." One of them, his uncle, said, one of his hands went up to ruffle his own hair, a heavy sigh escaped his lips at his mother's tactics. Then, he walked to one side of Ivan's bed. "You made us worried sick." His hand reached out to touch Ivan's forehead. "Kinda warm, do you feel sick?"
The other man, his grandpa, approached the bed as well, his eyes softened, but still held their sharpness, arms crossing over his chest. He was silent, but his worry was etched into his face.
"I…" Ivan was silent for a moment as memories came flooding in his mind. "Did– did that man bring me back home?"
"Man? Oh dear, Ivan!" His grandma spoke in her usual exaggerated tone. "He wasn't just a man. He was the Great Flinjik, The Blessed man who ascended to Godhood! Now he's come here to bestow his blessings upon us all."
"A God?" He sounded skeptical, but remembering The God's appearance, that actually made sense.
And… that feeling when he touched his forehead as well.
"Agh!" A white pain, sudden and hot, lanced through his temple. His hands clutched his head tightly as his vision tunneled. The world fragmented into a kaleidoscope of jarring colors and sounds before sharpening into a single, blinding point of pain. For a moment, thought was impossible. There was only the bright, electric shock of the pain.
The reaction made his family panicked as they quickly surrounded him, hands reaching out yet not quite daring to touch, as if scared they would only hurt him more.
The pain only lasted for a fraction of a second, before it turned into a painless cold that burnt on his skin. He was confused, yet felt a sense of familiarity at the icy burn.
But then, his family let out a collective gasp of awe as their eyes were glued to his forehead.
"Oh my God, Ivan..." His grandma's hand was on her mouth, eyes widened in surprise yet glinted with pride.
"W–what?" He raised an eyebrow, hands slowly fell to his sides again. His breathing started to even again as the pain wore out.
His uncle said nothing, eyes stick to the center of his forehead, hand reaching out vaguely until he grabbed the mirror and held it in front of Ivan's face.
And his eyes widened as well when he saw a mark on his forehead. He recognized it. A blessing mark.
The blessing mark was glowing like cold fire against his skin, a sharp, luminous blue that felt celestial. In the center lied a clean, deliberate X, as if drawn by a steady, divine hand. Its arms ended in blunt, blade-like tips, above and below it hover two diamond-shaped sigils, like watchful eyes locking the mark in place.
"That is–" His grandpa swallowed hard, rubbing his eyes to ensure that his vision wasn't deceiving him due to his old age. "The highest blessing of the Great Flinjik."
Silence rushed into the room. But it wasn't the tension kind like that of the forest, no, this one was different.
While Ivan was still processing the reality, his three family members already started celebrating.
"Ivan received the highest blessing!" His uncle screamed in delight, not even trying to hide his excitement at the news they had just discovered.
"I knew our Ivan was always special." The old woman said, wiping away an imaginary tear at the corner of her eye.
"This is– hard to believe." His grandpa commented, one hand reaching outtowards the mark, feeling the coldness before retreating. "But it's real."
The sounds of their words seemed to fade away as Ivan was completely fixated on the fact that he received the highest blessing. From a God.
"They will call you an angel."
Ivan felt a sense of pride rising in his chest.
***
It has been a day or two ever since he woke up. He's been staying in his room to recover since then, rarely going out unless it was necessary.
He was holding a mirror, lost in thoughts as he stared at himself, at the mark on his forehead.
The light of the mark wasn't flat. It pulsed softly, as though the mark itself was alive, breathing. When it flared, faint motes shimmered around it, like frost in moonlight.
The symbol felt less like a wound and more like a verdict. Chosen, bound, acknowledged.
The peaceful moment, however, didn't last long when the door to his bedroom creaked open. And a figure walked in.
Ivan's heart skipped a beat when he saw who it was.
"How many time do I have to tell you not go to that forest at night?" The brunette woman grilled, her sharp brown eyes staring straight into Ivan's as she stomped over. It was his adoptive mother.
"You could have been seriously injured." She continued, hand reached out towards him and grabbed his wrist, not exactly hard enough to bruise, but still firmly.
Ivan's eyebrows furrowed, he tried to pull away from her grasp, but his little strength was nothing compared to hers. "Shut up!" He shouted angrily, his red eyes shimmering with fury. "It's not like you care anyway, you didn't even bother to come see me right away but instead focused on your job!"
His eyes softened as he finished his statement, but they hardened again, this time more furious. "If you did really care, you would have abandoned your job to come and see me." Then he added, a look of both confusion and disappointment in his eyes. "You used to care. Now you're distant, why?"
The mother said nothing, but her eyes widened ever so slightly, almost as though she was startled at his questioning. Something flickered in her eyes. Guilt? Or was she simply thinking for an excuse? He couldn't tell. He was never the "Emotions reader" kind of person.
Then, her face became blank again, almost unreadable, but her jaw visibly tightened. For a moment, Ivan thought she would hit him, he closed his eyes shut, bracing himself for impact.
But nothing came.
She eventually let go of his wrist, letting out a exasperated sigh. "Be careful next time." She calmly said, as though she wasn't mad at him just seconds ago.
Just like that, she turned around and walked out of the room, closing the door behind her, leaving him alone in his own room, again.
Ivan was slightly stunned by her lack of reaction to his words. She really became distant, to the point she couldn't even be bothered.
His hands clenched into fists as the thought crossed his mind, face contorted in anger and disappointment. She used to care a lot, then withdrew her love without any explanation.
Maybe his grandma was right, maybe his family was right – she never really cared, she was simply pretending until she got paid off.
He hated her.
***
Ivan was recovering faster than he should. Maybe because of the blessing, or simply because angels, now that he knew he was one, heal faster than humans.
All the bandages were removed by now, and to his surprise, there wasn't a single scar. Even though he wasn't exactly severely injured, he still expected some scars, albeit their potentially small size.
After being lost in thoughts for what seems like an entire hour, Ivan finally got off his bed.
His body felt… light, as if he lost several kilograms just from being bedridden alone. He swore he could run faster than he used to with his current condition. Was this effects of the blessing? Likely.
Then his bedroom door creaked open, and there was his uncle again, looking like he just won at life, almost glowing with… pride?
"You won't believe this." He rushed to his side, hands holding what seemed to be a letter carefully. At first glance, he would have thought he was holding something extremely precious.
Then, he opened the letter and showed him the content:
"As the presence of our new God, the Great Flinjik, had been made clear to all townspeople, we shall celebrate tonight at the local church to express our gratitude to the Great Father himself.
Furthermore, recently, the God had chosen one among us all to be not just an assistant, but his right-hand man.
Tonight, the God himself will appear to declare the identity of the Chosen One.
All townspeople and guards must attend.
– Father Henry."
The middle-ages man was partially jumping in delight. "You received his highest blessing, it is undoubtedly you!"
"But, what if it's not me?" He asked nervously, fingers fidgeting.
"What nonsense are you spouting?" He scolded, hand gripping his tightly as he dragged him out of the room. "If it's not you, then it's nobody. Come now, you must appear flawless at tonight's party."
***
It was only about 7 p.m., but the church was already crowded with people. Everyone was wearing their best-looking clothes, trying their best to appear noble in this particularly special ceremony.
Just then, the large doors swung open, drawing everyone's attention as a new group of people walked in. Waves of murmurs and gasps occurred as they saw the person leading.
It was Ivan. His outfit was meticulously layered – A fitted waistcoat in deep wine-red hugged his torso, its color rich and muted, like aged velvet. It cinched his waist sharply, fastened with a neat row of dark, ornamental buttons that gleamed faintly when they caught the light.
Beneath it was a high-collared, black blouse. The fabric was soft and sheer, with a neatly folded handkerchief in the breast pocket. At the throat, a small brooch anchored the overall outfit.
The sleeves billowed generously, loose and flowing, the fabric thinning toward the wrists where it ultimately pinched around his wrists. Black trousers and dark high boots completed the look, stark and unadorned in contrast, allowing the upper layers to command attention.
The clothes granted him an air of refinement far beyond his years, yet they only made his youth more apparent. The careful tailoring could not disguise the fact that he was still growing into himself, and yet he carried the attire with unsettling grace.
Ivan, despite his almost unreadable face, was slightly perplexed at everyone's reactions at his entrance. Then he glanced over his shoulder, and there his family was, preening and chest puffing with pride. All except his mother, of course, she looked like she'd rather be elsewhere than inside this church.
They definitely told everyone about what happened.
Ivan admittedly felt prideful to be the center of attention, albeit his initial exasperation at his family members' inability to keep their mouths shut.
Then, faint footsteps against the wooden floor, and the backdoor swung open, revealing a silhouette against the dim light before the heavy oak thudded shut. Father Henry moved down from the side aisle to the pulpit. His gaze, sharp and unwavering, scanned over the room, and silence fell in their wake.
Ivan rarely met him, but his authority was felt everytime Father Henry entered a room – he did not merely move, he occupied the space.
He looks like a retired solider was everyone's first impression of this man. His hair was the iron-grey of a winter sky, swept back and streaked with the last remnants of stern black. A close-cropped beard followed the grim line of his jaw, and his eyes, pale and flinty, held a scrutiny that felt less like observation and more like an appraisal of one's soul.
"Good evening, everyone." Father said, his voice low yet firm. "I'm glad you all have cleared your schedules to attend this particular meeting." His stern gaze swept over the room again, before letting out a satisfied hum at the silence.
He cleared his throat. "As you have probably heard," His smile widened, a glint of crazed delight in his old eyes. "About the God, our God, Flinjik. The man who embarked on a journey to reach the divinity, who got blessed by the higher beings above, and ultimately," He paused, almost as though creating dramatic effects. "Ascended to Godhood himself, albeit just a low-grade one. But worry not, he will soon become more powerful, and our worship will be paid off when that day comes."
And then he was silent again. Immediately, murmurs and whispers filled in the empty space again. Every single person in the room has a reaction of their own – some awestruck, some amazed, some delighted.
Then, Father Henry raised his hand up, and the whole room was quiet once again. "Some of you might think that this meeting was set up to worship our God altogether, technically, that is true," His gaze fixated on one person – Ivan – for a second before averting away. "We're here to celebrate that one of us had been chosen by the God himself to become his personal assistant."
After Henry's words, a few gazes redirect to Ivan's figure as well. He had to restrain himself from smirking because of the attention he was receiving.
"Tonight,the God himself will descend to announce the presence of the Chosen One. Until then," Henry grinned. "Enjoy the feast."
As if waiting only for those words, the entire church erupted. Voices overlapping each other. People gathering together to gossip and chatter. Some particularly approached Ivan, trying to get a chance to build a relationship, or at least, strike a conversation with this teenage boy who was likely to be the Chosen One in Henry's words.
Ivan's polite mannerisms quickly charmed those who conversed with him. A gentlemanly personality at such a young age while being raised in a small town is to be admired – most boys his age are either chaotic or quiet to a fault.
Despite the busy and hustling space, there was one person who didn't engage at all, and nobody seemed to notice her.
Ivan's mother leaned against the wall, arms crossed as her eyes swept over all the presences in the room. Her lips pressed into a thin line at the sight of her son conversing with the crowd surrounding him.
She knew him better than anyone could ever give her credit for.
And she knew that politeness is a facade.
***
Time flew fast, and soon enough, it was almost midnight. At this point, the church was silent again, waiting until the manifestation of the God they all had been worshiping without ever knowing the face of their God.
The clock tower, located on the left side of the church, ticked by every second, mirroring the people's diminishing patience as they awaited the One they prayed to.
Father Henry stood at the front, facing the crowd of townspeople, but now no longer standing on the higher ground of the pulpit. "It's almost the time, dear people." He said firmly, but the delight in his voice was not undetectable. "We can finally witness the physical manifestation of he man we all prayed to every night."
And then, he took a few steps forward, distancing himself from the pulpit, where the God would supposedly manifest. He then spun around and faced the wall like everyone else.
The clock ticked. And ticked. People held their breath, trying not to make a sound. The silence was so thick that the heartbeat of everyone and the ticking of the clock were the only audible sounds. And then – a loud ding echoed through the silent darkness of the ungodly hour, marking the threshold between day and night – Midnight.
For a moment, there was nothing. Just pure stillness. But then light filled into the space – a circle of magic, its outer etched with a sort of ancient language that nobody was bothered enough to notice. The light moved like a sentient, solid being, it moved outward and shaped itself into a recognizable form of a human.
The light dimmed, revealing the appearance of a man standing on the higher ground. He carried an air of divinity and gentleness, yet it didn't make him any less imposing.
He looked exactly like how Ivan remembered from their last meeting in the forest.
Everyone was stunned for a second, before one b one, all of them clasped their hands in prayer, their heads lowered to a certain angle.
Flinjik cast his eyes over the room, brief, almost dismissive in its wake, before settling onto Ivan. One of his hands extended toward him. "Come, dear child." He said gently, like a loving father calling out to his beloved son.
Ivan grimaced slightly, but his face quickly returned to its default, relaxed state. He's not stupid enough to fall for the same benevolent facade again.
Nonetheless, he started striding towards Flinjik's direction. He was confident, almost elegant, in the way he carried himself to the hand of the God. People reflexively parted, leaving a path for him to walk freely without any obstacles.
He stopped right just in front of the God, and then, almost begrudgingly, he got down on one knee, hands clasped together like everyone else. "A honor, my God."
Flinjik gave out a satisfied hum at Ivan's "obedience". "Tell me, my dear," He spoke again, this time more firmly, his gaze never once leaving the boy's figure. "Have you finally made your decision?"
The space was still, almost like the atmosphere itself was stopping its own flow to hear Ivan's answer.
Slowly, Ivan looked up at the God, his eyes filled with a kind of determination. "Yes," He said quietly, but in the silent space, the syllable echoed. "I'll serve you, my God."
Flinjik's smile turned into a small grin at the young man's response. His extended hand lowered, and touched the center of Ivan's forehead. The blessing mark lightened up upon sensing the energy from Flinjik's fingertip.
Ivan's entire body stilled as he tried to process the intense energy coursing through his veins. He felt even lighter than before – as though his body was no longer as affected by gravity as it used to, as though his essence is being shaped to endure things beyond an ordinary human's capabilities.
Eventually, the flow of energy ceased, and Flinjik lifted his finger away from Ivan's forehead.
"Dear Ivan," He spoke up again. "You are now no longer an ordinary being bound by the rules of this world, but my right hand who will serve me until the cease of my own existence." He motioned Ivan to look up at him. "Let me ask again, before the pact is fully sealed."
"Will you serve me for eternity?"
The question hung over the air like a spell, slowing down everything else in the flow of the nature. In this moment, the only thing that mattered was the query – and the answer to it.
Ivan stayed silent for another second, before extending one hand to hold onto Flinjik's, a smile tugging at his lips. "Yes, my Lord."
Just like that, history had been made.
A seemingly small deal between an ordinary young boy and a low-grade God, yet it was the single cause of the future chain of tragedies that everyone should have seen coming, but nobody did because they were blinded by the gentle divinity on the surface.
By the time everyone realized, it was all too late for intervention. Now there's only witnessing to the destruction.