Leon didn't know how long it had been since he felt the sharp sting of betrayal. The memory of those moments lingered in the shadows of his mind—the desperate fight, the look of guilt on Mikel's face, and the sinking sensation as the knives pierced his chest.
At first, those memories consumed him.
Why did they do it?
He had replayed the scene over and over in his mind. Lyra's trembling hands, Mikel's tear-streaked face, and the weight of their actions crushed him. He couldn't make sense of it.
Were they forced? Did they have no choice? Or… was it me?
The endless silence only amplified his self-doubt. He thought about his failures at the academy, his struggle to keep up, and his inability to excel in anything.
Maybe I wasn't good enough. Maybe I never should've been there.
His heart ached at the thought, though he could no longer feel it beating.
As time dragged on, Leon's grief began to morph. The sharp edges of betrayal dulled, and the fire of his anger burned out. Slowly, he grew indifferent to the questions that had once tormented him.
It doesn't matter anymore, he thought one day, a sense of calm washing over him. I don't even know if they're alive.
Instead of dwelling on the past, Leon turned his focus outward.
Though his body remained still, his mind was far from dormant. Over time, the muffled sounds around him grew clearer. He began to discern voices, piecing together fragments of conversation. The words painted a picture of a strange new world—a secluded tribe that revered him as a god.
At first, Leon didn't believe it.
A god? Me? What kind of god ends up stabbed to death?
But the more he listened, the more he realized they weren't lying. These people, the Zarynthians, genuinely believed he was some ancient deity named Relethis, destined to awaken and bring salvation.
Leon's thoughts were still sharp, but he no longer felt the fiery emotions of his youth. His mind had matured, tempered by years of stillness. He no longer felt the need to cry or scream. Instead, he listened quietly, absorbing the lives around him like a silent observer.
The Zarynthian Tribe bustled with activity every day, their faith woven into every aspect of their lives.
Leon heard their footsteps as they carried offerings to the shrine—baskets of fruit, garlands of flowers, and intricate carvings of his so-called divine symbol. He heard their chants, rising in unison at dawn and dusk.
And he heard their doubts.
"It's been ten years," one young man whispered to his companion one morning. "Ten years, and still no sign of awakening. What if we did something wrong?"
"Don't say that," the other replied quickly, his voice hushed. "Tovik says we must remain patient. Relethis is eternal. A decade is nothing to a god."
Leon wanted to roll his eyes. You'd think I'd at least have opened my eyes by now, wouldn't you?
The villagers' doubts didn't go unnoticed by Tovik, the tribe's chieftain.
One day, as the whispers grew louder, Tovik gathered the villagers at the base of the shrine. His tall frame towered over the crowd, his staff gleaming in the sunlight.
"My brothers and sisters," he began, his voice steady and commanding. "I know some of you are troubled. You have waited faithfully for ten years, and still, Relethis has not spoken to us."
The crowd murmured in agreement, their unease evident.
"But remember this," Tovik continued, raising his staff. "Relethis is an eternal being. Time flows differently for him than it does for us. To a god, ten years is but a single heartbeat. We must remain steadfast in our devotion. When the time is right, he will awaken."
The villagers nodded slowly, their faith bolstered by Tovik's words.
Leon, listening from his stillness, felt a pang of guilt. They really believe in me, he thought, his mind calm but somber. I wish I could tell them the truth.
Not everyone in the tribe shared the villagers' unwavering faith. Marion, the self-proclaimed "summoner," had spent the past ten years grappling with the consequences of his lies.
Leon heard Marion's voice often, rambling beside the altar as though the boy could hear him.
"Another day, another ridiculous prayer session," Marion muttered one evening, slumping against the altar. "Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to pretend to be devout all the time? I mean, come on. I don't even know how to pray properly!"
Leon mentally raised an eyebrow. You're the one who started this. Don't act like a victim now.
Marion exhaled heavily, glancing at the still boy on the altar. "I'll admit, kid, you've got it easy. Just lying there while they worship you like you're the next big thing. Me? I'm stuck hauling water, scrubbing shrine steps, and listening to Tovik talk about divine responsibility."
Though Leon couldn't move, he found himself amused by Marion's complaints. Over the years, he had grown strangely fond of the man's candid confessions.
"You know," Marion continued, leaning closer to the altar, "I still don't know how you ended up here. I didn't summon you. You just… appeared. Maybe this fruit of theirs really is magic." He paused, scratching his head. "Or maybe I'm just cursed with bad luck."
Leon would have laughed if he could. Bad luck? You think this is bad luck? Try being me.
The village elders often visited the shrine, their voices filled with reverence as they recounted the tales of Relethis's supposed deeds.
"Great Relethis," one elder said, bowing deeply, "when I was a child, my grandmother told me of your strength. How you forged rivers with your tears, how you swallowed the suns to bring us night…"
Leon wanted to groan. Swallowed the suns? Forged rivers? Are these people serious?
Another elder chimed in. "Your wisdom is unparalleled, great one. They say you taught the trees to whisper their secrets to our ancestors, guiding them through the forest."
Trees whispering? Really? Leon thought, his bemusement turning to exasperation. If I ever wake up, I'm going to need to set the record straight.
As the years stretched on, Leon grew indifferent to the villagers' prayers and offerings. What had once felt strange and overwhelming now seemed like a distant hum, a background noise to his thoughts.
He listened to their lives, piecing together their world through their words. He learned about their hardships, their joys, and their unwavering faith.
But most of all, he listened to Marion.
The man's ramblings had become a strange source of comfort—a reminder that, even in his stillness, Leon was not entirely alone.