As the god-king—now simply a man—ventured further from the temple ruins, he began to feel the weight of this new world pressing upon him. His footsteps echoed in the quiet, each step stirring dust from stones long left to rot. The landscape around him was barren, with twisted trees clawing up from rocky soil and the remnants of once-grand statues half-buried and worn by time. A soft, chill wind swept over the land, carrying the faintest scent of decay.
He stumbled occasionally, unaccustomed to the limitations of his mortal body. His once-godly strength had been reduced to something fragile, something vulnerable. But his eyes, sharp and unwavering, took in every detail with the gaze of one who had ruled over kingdoms and empires. He committed the features of this ruined land to memory, noting where symbols of power had once stood, now reduced to rubble.
As he walked, flashes of his past life returned in scattered fragments. He remembered battles fought atop towering cliffs, the way his voice had commanded storms, how the earth itself had bent to his will. He remembered the fear and awe in the eyes of those who had worshiped him, and the taste of power that had flowed like a river through his veins.
Now, there was only a lingering emptiness.
Hours passed as he trudged through the wasteland, until finally, he reached the edge of a forest. It was not a forest of life, as he had once known, but one of brittle, gnarled trees that seemed to watch him with hollow, empty eyes. Shadows hung thick beneath the branches, and the air grew colder as he stepped into their depths.
He was not alone here—he could feel it. The presence was faint, a lingering essence of something ancient and powerful, though it was buried beneath layers of time and decay. Curious, he pressed on, his senses attuned to any hint of danger.
After a time, he came upon a clearing, where a weathered stone stood at its center. Symbols were carved into its surface, symbols he recognized: ancient runes of protection and binding, woven together in intricate patterns. This was the work of his kind, he realized—an artifact from the days when gods and magic ruled the earth.
Approaching the stone, he laid a hand upon its surface. At his touch, a spark flared, a pulse of warmth that sent a tremor up his arm. Though faint, the stone still held a trace of power. Here was proof that his legacy had not been completely erased; fragments of his world still lingered, buried in this forgotten place.
As he traced his fingers over the runes, he felt a pang of longing, a reminder of all that he had lost. But more than that, he felt a surge of determination. If this stone could survive the ages, then perhaps there were other remnants as well, other fragments of his world that had escaped destruction. And with enough of them, perhaps he could find a way to restore what he had lost.
Lost in thought, he barely noticed the sound of footsteps until it was almost too late. Turning swiftly, he saw a figure standing at the edge of the clearing—a young woman, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and awe.
She was clad in simple, patched clothing, her hair pulled back and her skin weathered by the elements. In one hand, she held a bundle of kindling, while the other rested on a knife at her belt. Her gaze flickered between him and the stone, suspicion and curiosity warring on her face.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded, her voice trembling slightly.
The god-king regarded her in silence, assessing. This mortal girl was small, insignificant—a shadow of the people he had once known. And yet, there was something in her gaze that reminded him of the fire he had seen in warriors and priests, those who had once stood beside him in battle.
"I am searching," he said finally, his voice steady but low, still adjusting to its roughness. "For something that has been lost."
The girl's brow furrowed. "This forest isn't safe for travelers, especially not near the old stones. People say the spirits of the Lost Ones linger here."
"Lost Ones…" He repeated the phrase, letting it roll over his tongue. It seemed these people had preserved pieces of the old world, even if distorted by time and legend.
The girl watched him warily, her hand still on her knife. "Who are you?"
The question struck him. Who was he now? His name, his title—all of it had once been spoken with reverence and fear. But that name no longer held meaning in this world. To claim it now felt hollow, almost pitiful.
"I am… a wanderer," he replied, settling on the answer. "And I mean you no harm."
The girl seemed to relax, just slightly, though her eyes remained cautious. She studied him for a moment, then looked back at the stone. "People come here sometimes, looking for traces of the old magic. They never find anything."
"Magic still lingers here," he said quietly, glancing at the runes carved into the stone. "It's weak, but it remains."
She looked at him in surprise. "You can feel it?"
He gave a small nod. "Once, I could do more than that."
The girl hesitated, seeming to wrestle with something before finally stepping closer. "If you're really searching for the old ways… there's someone in the village who might help. They're old, one of the last who remembers the stories."
A spark of hope ignited within him. Perhaps this "old one" would know of other remnants of his world, other places where his lost power might still linger.
"Take me to them," he said, his voice low but firm.
The girl hesitated, then nodded. "Follow me."
As they walked through the dense forest, he felt a glimmer of something he hadn't felt since awakening—purpose. This encounter, this small fragment of connection, was a step toward understanding this new world and reclaiming the power that had once defined him.
Yet, as they approached the edge of the forest, a thought lingered in the back of his mind: if the old ways had survived, then perhaps others like him had as well. And if they had awakened, it was unlikely they would be as willing to let the world remain untouched.
The journey ahead was fraught with uncertainty, but as he followed the girl toward the distant outline of a village, he knew one thing for certain: his legacy was not finished.