In the distance, Augustus caught sight of a small village, perched like a jewel upon a gentle hill. Even from afar, it struck him as something utterly foreign—a place that belonged to another age. He had wandered through countless backwater settlements, scattered hamlets and forgotten outposts, yet this one carried the weight of a forgotten era. The wooden palisades encircling it, though modest, spoke of careful defense, of a people wary of both beast and man. Smoke rose from chimneys, thin and winding in the cold air. Yet these were not the black, choking funnels of industrial cities; these were humble stacks from which the smoke of hearth fires, forges, and kitchens spiraled into the sky. Blacksmiths, he guessed, and bakers, and the simple lives of men and women who had learned to wrest survival from the soil and stone.
Men with spears patrolled the walls in tight groups of four, pacing with methodical precision. Their movements were measured, their eyes sweeping the horizon with vigilance, and yet there was something almost desperate in the way they carried themselves. The village teemed with life despite its small size—children running between huts, women hauling water from distant wells, and the occasional villager pausing to observe the sky, perhaps sensing the tremors of the forest far beyond. Augustus wondered what force had roused them into such activity. Had the battle of the kings of the forest, as Morak had called them, shaken the land even here? Was such a clash so rare—or so devastating—that even these humble folk had no choice but to respond?
If it was the latter, Augustus mused, then why had they not fled? Surely a fight between creatures capable of warping nature itself, shaking forests to their roots, could force a village of mere hundreds, armed only with spears and courage, to scatter into the hills. And yet, they remained, clinging stubbornly to hearth and home, oblivious—or perhaps defiant—against the encroaching chaos.
"Civilization," Morak's voice rang in his mind, rich with awe, as if he too beheld the village for the first time. The blue glow of the memory-god shimmered faintly around Augustus, framing the distant settlement like a living jewel upon the earth. "What a beautiful thing to behold after centuries—millennia—spent in that temple, alone, consumed by memory and wrath. Here lies the seed of power, the foundation of dominion."
He heard the specter's command as much as his own pulse echoed it: "Bend them to your will, Augustus. You will need many to reach the grandest heights. These lives, these souls… they are tools, bricks in the tower of your destiny. Claim them wisely, and the world itself shall tremble beneath your reach."
Augustus's gaze lingered on the village, and for the first time since emerging from the forest, he felt the faint stirrings of purpose. Civilization, fragile yet stubborn, awaited him. And he, reborn with the memory and blood of a god, would shape it to his will.
"And how," Augustus demanded, his voice sharp with irritation, "am I to do that?" He gestured to himself in disbelief. "I wear nothing but rags scarcely fit to clothe a beggar. I have no blade, no armor, no coin—nothing but my hands, still raw and bloodied from stone and root. I know nothing of this world, nor of this cultivation you speak of so casually. Who am I to demand obedience from them, when any one of those villagers could end my life with a single thrust of a spear?"
The question lingered in the air, heavy and unresolved. Augustus clenched his fists, frustration burning low in his chest. He had been cast blind into this world, stripped of certainty and burdened with half-knowledge. He had always despised ignorance—especially when it was forced upon him. To be expected to dominate without understanding felt like mockery.
A low laugh echoed beside him, deep and scornful.
"These are village folk," Morak replied, his voice thick with amusement, reverberating as though spoken from the depths of the world itself. The sound rolled outward, and Augustus instinctively glanced toward the distant walls, half-expecting the villagers to look up at the sky in alarm. "They know no more of this world than you do. They scratch at the dirt, fear the dark, and pray that tomorrow resembles yesterday."
Morak's laughter sharpened. "Do you truly believe any one of them could seize a stone and slay a demonic beast such as a Shadow Panther? That creature was born of the forest's malice, tempered by blood and darkness. And yet you crushed its skull with your bare hands and a rock."
The specter's tone shifted, turning cold. "If you had heeded my words—if you had taken its core and consumed its power—you would already feel the weight of my gifts stirring within you. I surrendered to you all that remained of my living self. My constitution. My essence. Awaken it, and you would outrun thunder, strike with the violence of lightning, and speak with the authority of the wind itself."
Morak paused, letting the words settle like embers in Augustus's mind.
"But you chose not to listen."
A cruel chuckle followed. "So now you must go to them without that strength, naked before the world you must conquer. Consider it a lesson." There was no attempt to hide the satisfaction in his voice; this, clearly, was another test. Another measure of worth.
"Understand this," Morak continued, his voice lowering, gaining weight and certainty. "A village will always need labor. Strong backs to till fields, mend walls, haul stone, and stand watch through the night. Begin there. Humble work breeds trust. Trust breeds influence. Influence becomes dominion."
His presence loomed close, unseen yet oppressive. "Twist them toward you. Shape them. Dominate them—not with brute force alone, but with inevitability. You were born for this, Augustus. Otherwise your soul would never have sought mine when you fell into this world. Fate does not make such mistakes."
The laughter faded, leaving Augustus alone once more with the distant village, his bare feet upon foreign soil, and the unspoken truth settling heavily in his chest:
Power would come.
But first, he would have to earn it—among mortals who did not yet know they were meant to kneel.
Growling low in his throat, Augustus felt the raw sting of irritation as Morak vanished, leaving him to navigate this world unassisted. The village loomed before him, perched like a small jewel atop the gentle hill, its wooden palisades dark against the sunlit earth. He regarded it reluctantly, a knot of unease tightening in his chest. He had no choice. Whatever else awaited him here—hostility, ignorance, or wonder—he would have to confront it.
As he advanced toward the village, his mind teemed with questions, each one more disquieting than the last. Would we speak the same tongue? How would I respond if they inquire of my origin, or question my identity? What words could suffice if they demand the reason for my presence here? And what if, in some horrifying revelation, they glimpsed the truth of what I am—less than human, more than mortal? Could they see my blood for what it is, and if they did… would they rise in fear and fury, torches in hand, to burn me at the stake? Or would my true nature remain hidden, a shadow they could not discern?
These questions spun within him, gnawing at his focus, dulling his awareness, until he realized—without noticing the passage of time or distance—that his feet had carried him to the very gates of the village. Spears glinted in the sunlight, sharp and cruel, held by men whose expressions were unreadable yet alert. They were clustered in groups, observing him as one might a stranger who walks too confidently into a hunter's den.
"Who are you?" came a sharp, strident voice. The sound grated harshly against his ears, sniveling and weaselly, as though every word was intended to belittle him before it demanded answer.
The first question, at least, was answered by the very act of comprehension: they spoke a tongue he could understand. Yet not entirely—not in the way that would have been familiar. It was neither Italian, nor English, nor any tongue of the Germanic or French worlds. It was a strange, alien language that seemed both foreign and understandable at once. A language he had never heard before, yet his mind translated it with uncanny ease.
The realization struck him fully only after a pause: he had been speaking and listening to another language all this time with Morak. The knowledge that every exchange, every command, every whispered word had been in this unknown tongue had not occurred to him until now. He shivered at the thought. If Morak's voice had been so constant, so natural, then perhaps the gifts inherited were more than physical. Perhaps they had already begun to warp his mind, shaping him to perceive the world in ways humans were not meant to perceive.
"I am Augustus Morth," he announced, his voice steady though a storm of thoughts churned behind his eyes. Each heartbeat rattled his chest like a war drum, reminding him that hesitation was a luxury he could ill afford. The guards before him, clad in rough-spun tunics and bearing sharpened spears, glared with suspicion. Their eyes flicked from his ragged form to his bare, bloodied feet, lingering on the mud-caked rags that hung like prison shrouds from his body. Augustus felt the weight of their gaze like iron upon his shoulders. He had to speak, and speak quickly, or they might see through his fabricated tale.
"I am the son of a freedman," he continued, his words carefully measured, "who once worked in a caravan. We were crossing the mountains, and beasts… monstrous, relentless beasts… struck us down. Everyone was killed. Only I survived." His voice faltered slightly, just enough to suggest the faint tremor of a man who had witnessed horrors and yet endured.
"Okay, Augustus Morth," the sniveling man said, voice high and sharp, placing undue emphasis on the name as though to taste it like bitter wine. "Why are you here at Breakpoint Village?" His lips curled in derision. "Wearing the rags of a slave?"
"I need supplies," Augustus said quickly, each word laced with a carefully wrought sense of panic and desperation. "I am willing to work for them. I have nothing left after fleeing the caravan… the beasts, they were everywhere." His tone trembled just slightly, a whisper of fear that he hoped seemed genuine. Years of manipulating those weaker than him had taught him the subtle art of feigned emotion; panic, when tempered correctly, could be persuasive. Empathy and compassion were easier tools to wield than brute threats—but only if the audience was willing to believe.
"And the rags? Why—" The question began again, sharp and probing, before it was abruptly cut off. A new presence emerged from the shadows beyond the gate. A thick man, broad and imposing, wearing clothes darkened by years of smoke, soot, and filth, stepped forward. His apron, charred black from countless hours at the forge, seemed almost fused to his skin. Around him, villagers paused, drawn by the commotion.
"Let him in," the man declared, voice like a rolling boulder, heavy and unyielding. "I have need of an apprentice."
The sniveling captain of the guard recoiled, almost instinctively. "Wayland," he hissed, contempt twisting his features. "This… foreigner… will not enter this village. He is weak, pathetically so—look at him! He would crumble in your forge in an hour!" He exaggerated his inspection, gesturing from Augustus's bare, dirt-caked feet to the rags clinging to his shoulders, as if to emphasize the pitiful nature of the man before him.
"Nonsense," Wayland countered, stepping closer, hammer slung over his shoulder like a weapon of authority. "He could make a fine smith. With some food, and care to those feet of his, he would serve well at the forge." The man's eyes bore into the captain's, unyielding. "Now let… him… in." His voice thundered, each word punctuated with weight and finality, like the strike of a hammer upon iron.
Augustus's heart skipped a beat, the subtle thrill of victory masked beneath the rags and grime. A whisper caressed his ear, drawn long and low as though carried on the wind.
Accept this offer… do not delay!
It was Morak.
No one else could hear it. But Augustus felt the command deep in his chest, a pulse that vibrated through his bones. He knew, without question, that hesitation now would cost him more than just time. It would cost him opportunity, and perhaps life itself. He swallowed, nodding minutely, and stepped forward into the village as Wayland opened the gate fully, the smell of smoke, iron, and the strange tang of the human world filling his senses.
"If you will have me, sir," Augustus said, bowing his head just enough to signal humility without surrender, "then I will work for you—no matter how difficult the labor, nor how heavy the burden." His voice carried the rough edge of desperation, but beneath it lay iron restraint, carefully hidden.
By now the tension at the gate had begun to ebb. Though the captain's hostility still burned hot and undisguised, the guards themselves were already disengaging. Spears were lowered and slid back into leather loops, crude swords returned to their scabbards with dull metallic sighs. Auxiliary squads who had rushed in at the sound of raised voices slowed their steps, then turned away altogether. They had seen this play out before. When Wayland the smith set his will upon something, resistance was usually brief and futile.
"Very well," the captain of the guard spat, turning his head aside as if Augustus were no longer worth the effort of his breath. He spat furiously into the dirt at his feet, grinding it beneath his heel. "Resume patrols. Double the watch. The beasts could break at any moment." His voice snapped like a whip, sending the idle guards scrambling back to their duties, their earlier curiosity extinguished.
Then he turned back, fixing Augustus with a cold, measuring stare. "I am Osmond Willmire," he said stiffly, drawing himself up. "Captain of the Guard. Son of Village Chief Tatum Willmire." The names were delivered with practiced weight, as though lineage itself were a weapon. "It is my recommendation—no, my warning—that you learn the customs and courtesies of this village, and abandon whatever foreign habits you dragged here with you. Fail to do so, and I will have you quartered myself, regardless of this oaf's opinion."
With that, he turned away, dismissing Augustus entirely, unfurling a scroll of parchment as though the stranger before him had already ceased to exist.
I will enjoy stringing you up in the forest by your guts, Augustus thought coldly. The idea came unbidden, sharp and vivid, carrying no heat of rage—only promise. It had been a very long time since anyone had dared to speak to him in such a manner, to threaten him so openly and so foolishly. That imbalance would be corrected. And soon.
Masking his thoughts behind a bowed head, Augustus moved swiftly past the remaining cluster of untrained militia. They smelled of sweat and fear, their armor ill-fitted, their hands more accustomed to farming tools than weapons. He stopped before the large man who had altered his fate with a few simple words.
Wayland stood like a living anvil, broad and immovable, soot-stained apron hanging heavy across his chest. His hands were thick, scarred, and powerful—hands that shaped iron and ruled the forge by strength and experience alone. This was Wayland, a smith of Breakpoint Village, and for now, Augustus's shelter from the world.