Zina continued to walk through the village, each step feeling heavier than the last as she absorbed the sight of the barren land and the thin, ghostly figures moving about. The air felt thick and dry, with a strange stillness that made her skin prickle. The village itself looked like it had been forgotten by the world—cracked earth stretched out beneath her feet, while the few wooden structures that remained seemed ready to collapse at any moment.
As she wandered, she saw no signs of life beyond the struggling villagers. No animals, no gardens, just a desolate wasteland where the soil looked as though it hadn't seen water in years. The smell of dust and decay filled the air, and every face she saw reflected hopelessness.
Zina's eyes fell on an old woman sitting on a worn stone, her frail body hunched over, her face hidden in her hands. Zina hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to say or how to help, but then she approached cautiously.
"Uh, um... ma'am?" Zina asked softly, her voice uncertain. "What happened to this village?"
The old woman slowly lifted her head, revealing a deeply lined face and hollow eyes that seemed to have lost all light. She gazed at Zina with a vacant expression, as if she were looking through her rather than at her.
"It's no use..." the old woman muttered, her voice hoarse and raspy. "We are all going to die." Her words were followed by a dry, hacking cough, and she clutched her head in her hands, her fingers digging into her thinning hair as she let out a pained groan.
Zina took a step back, startled by the woman's despair. She looked around, feeling the weight of the hopelessness surrounding her, and thought to herself, *Yikes, what's up with these people?*
She tried to offer a smile, but it came out awkwardly, more of a nervous twitch than anything reassuring. The situation was far more dire than she had expected.
Zina stepped back, trying to shake off the old woman's ominous words. She forced a polite smile, though it wavered with discomfort. "Uh, thanks for answering my question, ma'am... Bye!" She turned quickly, her sandals kicking up dust as she walked away with an awkward, hurried pace. The old woman's hoarse voice called out behind her, "Beware... beware..." The warning echoed faintly in Zina's ears, making her spine tingle.
Zina paused for a moment, glancing back over her shoulder, but the woman had already slumped back down, retreating into her own sorrow. Zina sighed and continued walking, her mind racing with unease. *What did she mean, 'beware'?* she thought, her steps becoming slower and more deliberate as she tried to process what was happening in this place.
The village felt even more oppressive now. The dry wind carried with it the faintest whisper of desperation, and Zina couldn't help but notice how empty the air seemed—no birds, no rustling leaves, only the sound of her own breathing and the occasional creak of a collapsing roof in the distance.
"System, what happened?" Zina asked in her head, her tone more urgent now. She needed answers.
The system's voice responded calmly, though with a hint of concern. "It hasn't rained in half a year. The land is dying, and so are the people."
Zina stopped in her tracks, her eyes widening in disbelief. "No way... That's impossible!" She looked around again, her gaze scanning the barren fields and cracked earth, trying to comprehend how such devastation could have happened.
The system remained quiet for a moment before replying, "It's best if you figure it out for yourself, Goddess."
Zina's lips pressed into a pout, and she crossed her arms. "Hmmmm," she grumbled under her breath, frustrated by the lack of direct answers. She looked up at the sky, its harsh, unforgiving sun glaring back at her. The heat was relentless, and she could feel it pressing down on her shoulders like a heavy weight.
She continued to walk, her mind swirling with questions. *What could have caused this drought? Why didn't the gods intervene? Or was this... her responsibility?* The thought made her stomach twist with guilt.
As she walked through the desolate village, Zina couldn't shake the feeling that something much darker was lurking behind the surface of this drought—something that went beyond just a lack of rain.
Zina approached the largest building in the village, which seemed to be the chief's house. It was slightly less dilapidated than the other homes but still bore the marks of neglect. The once-sturdy wooden beams were cracked, and the roof sagged slightly in the middle. The windows, covered with a layer of dust, barely let in any light, and the door had deep grooves etched into it, as if it had weathered countless storms.
She hesitated for a moment, glancing around the quiet village. The air was heavy, not just with heat but with an eerie stillness. Zina took a deep breath and raised her hand to knock on the door. Her fist met the wood with a soft thud. "Umm, hello? Is anyone there?" she called out, her voice sounding small in the oppressive silence.
Zina waited, shifting from one foot to the other. She listened closely, hoping to hear footsteps or the sound of a door creaking open. But there was nothing. Just the low, mournful groan of the wind sweeping through the dry village. She knocked again, a little louder this time, and leaned her ear against the door. Still no response.
After a minute, Zina sighed, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "Looks like there's no one here," she muttered to herself. She stepped back from the door, glancing at the empty street before her. The village seemed utterly lifeless, as if it had been abandoned by hope itself.
As she walked away from the chief's house, she couldn't help but feel a growing sense of frustration. "Seriously, what's up with this village?" she whispered to herself, her brow furrowing in confusion. She looked around at the cracked earth, the empty fields, and the gaunt villagers who shuffled past her like ghosts. "Why is everything so… hopeless?"
The sky above was a pale, relentless blue, offering no promise of rain or relief. Zina's sandals crunched against the dry soil as she continued down the path, her mind racing with questions. The village felt like it was on the brink of collapse, and yet she had no idea what had caused it—or how to fix it.
Each step she took seemed to echo the despair around her. The smell of dust and decay hung in the air, and the silence was only occasionally broken by the distant, hollow cough of a villager or the creak of an old wagon wheel. Even the animals had left this place, it seemed.
Zina continued walking, her feet dragging through the dusty streets as she wandered aimlessly around the barren village. The number of people she saw dwindled as she made her way through the empty streets, a sign of how few remained in this once-thriving community. The silence around her pressed down like a weight, broken only by the occasional sound of distant footsteps or hushed whispers. The sun, hanging low in the sky, cast long shadows over the village, amplifying the eerie stillness.
As she turned a corner, something caught her eye—a gathering of villagers huddled together in a clearing at the far end of the village. Zina's curiosity piqued, and she made her way toward them, her sandals brushing softly against the dry earth. As she approached, she saw what had drawn them: an altar stood in the center of the clearing, with a large stone sculpture resting on top.
The sculpture depicted a serene figure with angelic wings folded behind her back, her expression calm and benevolent. In her hands, she held a jar tilted slightly as if water should have been flowing from it. But it was just a stone carving—no water flowed from the jar, just a rough imitation of what had once been a symbol of hope for the villagers. The altar was worn, with cracks running through the stone, and faded markings surrounded its base, showing how long it had stood there as a silent witness to the villagers' suffering.
A group of people gathered in front of the altar, their faces drawn and weary, their bodies thin and fragile. Zina could see the desperation in their eyes as they bowed down in unison, hands clasped together in prayer. Their voices rose up, a quiet, trembling chorus, full of sorrow and longing.
"Oh, Goddess Aqua, please make this village rain," the leader of the prayer group intoned, his voice hoarse with emotion. He was an older man, his body stooped with age, his hands shaking as he raised them in supplication toward the stone figure. His eyes were sunken, but they glistened with unshed tears, a sign of the hope he still clung to despite everything.
The others followed his lead, their voices joining his in a ragged echo. "Please make it rain… we are suffering… please, goddess, we have nothing left…" Their words were broken by sobs, a mix of anguish and desperation.
Zina's heart clenched as she watched a young mother near the front of the group cradling her child, her face streaked with tears. The child's eyes were half-open, their small body limp and fragile. The mother's shoulders shook with silent sobs as she pressed her cheek against her child's forehead, whispering prayers through her tears.
Next to her, a father knelt on the ground, his hands trembling as he held his wife's hand, both of them looking up at the statue with tear-streaked faces. "Please… our children are starving… we have nothing left to offer… please save us," he choked out, his voice barely more than a whisper.
The air around the altar was thick with sorrow, the despair of the villagers hanging heavy like a dark cloud over the scene. Even the land seemed to echo their hopelessness, with cracked earth and shriveled plants surrounding the altar like a graveyard. A few tattered offerings lay at the base of the stone figure—broken trinkets, dried-out flowers, and a handful of wilted vegetables. It was all they had left to give, a final plea to the goddess they believed could save them.
Zina stood frozen in place, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She could feel the weight of their despair pressing down on her, and for the first time, she truly understood the gravity of the situation. The hopelessness in the air was suffocating, and yet, as she looked at the stone figure of the goddess, something inside her stirred.
"I thought this world had no goddess..." Zina muttered to herself, her gaze lingering on the statue. The desperation of the people pulled at her heart, but confusion clouded her thoughts.
The system's voice echoed softly in her mind, bringing her back. "Did you pay attention earlier? I said there were goddesses in the past. They're long gone now."
Zina's expression shifted from confusion to realization. "Right… you did mention that..." She glanced back at the villagers, their prayers filled with such longing and hopelessness. Tears glistened in the eyes of parents cradling their starving children, their pleas mingling with the dry, unforgiving wind.
A deep ache settled in her chest as she looked at the faces around her—so thin, so tired, clinging to the hope that some long-lost deity might hear their cries. Her eyes softened with empathy, but a sense of determination began to bloom within her as well. This world needed a goddess, even if it had to be her.
"What do we do now?" she whispered to her system, hoping for some guidance, some reassurance that she wasn't alone in this.
The system responded with a calm voice, almost soothing in its simplicity. "It's your duty, goddess, not mine. The decision is 100% yours."
Zina took a deep breath, her heart pounding in her chest. The system's words echoed in her mind. It was all up to her. She wasn't just a passerby in this world—she was the Goddess of Creation. If anyone could help these people, it was her.
But doubt lingered. Could she really do it? Could she bring rain, save this village, and fulfill the role of a goddess?
She looked back at the villagers, their prayers still rising in unison. Their hope, fragile as it was, now rested on her shoulders.