Gods among us

QJorge, the Way Maker, stood still beneath the silver glow of the twin moons, his eyes closed, his senses stretched beyond the mortal realm. The moment had come. A scent unlike any other carried through the winds—the unmistakable essence of a newborn god. It was sharp, electric, like the crackle of a storm before it unleashed its wrath upon the earth.

Marr had been born.

Jorge's soul trembled at the realization. He had prepared for this day, for this prophecy, but even he, the last of the Nicroma, felt the weight of destiny pressing upon him. He did not hesitate. The moment he pinpointed the child's location, he moved like a shadow across the land, slipping between realms, bending time to his will.

The infant lay in the arms of his mother, a woman untouched by mortal corruption—a virgin of divine essence. Her very being radiated purity, and the milk she fed him was not of flesh but of something older, something sacred. This was no ordinary child. Marr was born of the heavens, his spirit woven from the same fabric as the old gods.

Jorge knew what had to be done.

Before the world could taint him, before those who feared him could strike, Jorge took Marr and vanished into the only place where neither man nor god could follow—the Land of Fedotu.

The Land of the Dead

Fedotu was not a place for the living. It was a realm of whispers, where shadows moved with minds of their own and the ground pulsed like a sleeping beast. The sky was neither light nor dark, but an endless expanse of shifting mist, flickering with echoes of the past.

Jorge, a warrior forged in the fires of countless battles, had walked these lands before. He was Nicroma, a name that struck both awe and terror into the hearts of men. The last of a forgotten lineage, he was the son of Bulodia, the Unyielding, the legendary warlord who once led the Amado Army in the days when gods and mortals still fought side by side.

But those days were gone. The old gods had vanished, and the world had fallen into the hands of false kings.

For seven days and seven nights, Jorge remained in Fedotu, allowing the spirits to weave their knowledge into Marr's soul. Here, time bent and fractured—what was a week in the land of the dead could be an eternity elsewhere. Marr did not cry, nor did he fear. He listened. He learned. He grew.

When they emerged from the shadows of Fedotu, they returned to Ammasoma Land, a kingdom ruled by a king who had outlived his era, clinging to his throne with the desperation of a man who knew his end was near. He had ruled for 500 years, his reign bolstered by dark pacts and unholy sacrifices.

The moment they stepped foot on the sacred soil of the kingdom, the air buzzed with unspoken tension. The king had sensed it.

The god-child lived.

A Festival of Death

To the people of Ammasoma, the festival was a grand celebration—a mark of their king's eternal rule. The streets were filled with golden banners, the scent of burning incense thick in the air. Music roared, and dancers moved in rhythmic trances, their bodies painted in the colors of the ancients.

But beneath the revelry, whispers crawled like insects through the city. The festival was not just a celebration. It was a warning.

The king had foreseen this day. The oracles had spoken of a god-child who would rise from the ashes of the old world and bring forth a new age—one that had no place for an aging ruler. The king feared change, feared the power that had been reborn in Marr's flesh.

And so, the festival was not just to honor his rule.

It was a sacrifice meant to silence a god before he could rise.

But Jorge had other plans.

The Mountain of Ancestors

Before the king's blade could fall, Jorge took Marr far from the kingdom, ascending the towering Mountain of Gbarantoru, where only the worthy could hear the voices of the old gods. The journey was grueling, the air thin, the path treacherous. But neither warrior nor godling faltered.

At the mountain's peak, surrounded by the echoes of the past, Marr's training began.

The knowledge of the Nicroma was ancient, older than kingdoms, older than history itself. Jorge was not just a warrior—he was a keeper of lost truths, a guide to those who carried divine blood. Marr was no ordinary child. His soul was crafted from something beyond mortal comprehension, his power locked within him like a storm waiting to break.

And it would break.

With every passing day, he grew. His mother's milk—pure, untouched by sin—nourished him in ways no mortal food could. Within a single month, he was no longer an infant but a youth, his body shaped by the will of the gods, his mind sharper than any blade.

He was aware of what he was.

The First Awakening

One evening, as Marr wandered the outskirts of the kingdom, he witnessed a scene that stirred something deep within him.

A man, frail and broken, was surrounded by the Upper Chamber Guards, enforcers of the king's rule. They laughed as they struck him, their boots heavy on his weakened form.

Something inside Marr snapped.

He did not speak. He did not hesitate.

The air crackled with unseen energy, and in a single breath, the guards fell. No screams, no struggle—just the eerie stillness of bodies hitting the earth, lifeless.

Marr had not willed their deaths—it had simply happened. His power, untamed and instinctual, had acted on its own. The man he saved cowered before him, his eyes filled with both gratitude and terror. Marr did not understand why.

The next morning, the whispers reached the king's ears.

A force unlike any other had moved in his kingdom. His worst fear had come true—the god-child had awakened.

The War Begins

Enraged, the king summoned his mighty sorcerers, the dark-hearted conjurers who had kept him in power for five centuries. They were not men, not truly. Twisted by centuries of dark magic, they were shadows given form, nightmares bound in human flesh.

Their mission was clear.

Find the god-child. Bind him. Kill him.

That night, the sky turned red.

Storms raged where there had been none. The winds howled like dying beasts. The ground trembled as if the earth itself sensed the coming war.

Jorge watched from the mountain's peak, his grip tightening on his hammer.

He had known this day would come.

He turned to Marr, his voice steady, unyielding.

"Your battle begins now, young god. Are you ready?"

Marr's eyes burned wi

th something ancient, something unstoppable.

He did not answer with words.

He simply smiled. 

Jorge stood still at the mountain's peak, his eyes narrowing as the wind carried whispers of impending doom. The sky, once calm, now churned with restless clouds. He could feel it—the king's army had found them.

Beside him, Marr sat in quiet contemplation, gazing toward the valley below. He did not turn when he spoke.

"They come."

Jorge nodded. The Sorcerer's Whip. That cursed relic had found them. A weapon woven from dark incantations, it could track divine energy, binding gods and mortals alike with its unholy grasp. The king had sent not just his soldiers but a warlock of the Ancient Order, a conjurer who could command the dead and enslave the living.

The ground trembled as the army approached. Their silver-plated armor gleamed under the fading sun, a sea of spears and swords marching in perfect unison. At their center, cloaked in robes of black fire, the sorcerer stood, his skeletal hands gripping the Whip, its dark tendrils slithering like living shadows.

The warlock's voice boomed across the mountain.

"Marr, child of prophecy, surrender yourself! The king decrees your fate! Your power is an abomination, a curse upon this land! Yield, and your death will be swift!"

Jorge glanced at Marr, but the young god only smirked, his eyes flickering with something ancient. He could kill them all in a breath, wipe them from existence with the mere flick of his fingers. To him, these men were nothing—fragile beings of flesh and bone.

But this time, he did not snap his fingers.

Instead, he reached for a sword.

Jorge's eyes widened. "You don't need a blade," he said.

Marr turned to him, his gaze unreadable. "Today, I do."

And then he moved.

Like a shadow given form, he leaped from the mountain's edge, sword in hand. The army barely had time to react before he was among them.

The first stroke came so fast, the soldier did not even realize he was dead until his head hit the ground.

The second stroke severed three men at once, their bodies collapsing like puppets with cut strings.

The battle became a massacre. Marr moved like a tempest, his blade singing through the air, slicing through steel and flesh alike. He was a god in motion, an unrelenting force that devoured an army whole.

Screams filled the valley. Blood soaked the earth.

Jorge watched from above, gripping his hammer. He had seen countless battles, but never this.

The soldiers tried to run, but Marr did not let them.

They had come for a god.

And now, they would face him.

By the time the last soldier fell, Marr stood alone, his sword dripping with the blood of one hundred and twenty souls. The ground was littered with bodies, and the only sound left was the soft whisper of the wind.

Jorge descended the mountain, stepping over the fallen. He did not speak. Marr did not look at him. He simply turned, wiped his blade, and walked away.

The Damsel and the Tyrant

On his journey back to the Rock of Salvation, Marr wandered through a desolate village. The scent of smoke and decay hung thick in the air.

Then, he heard it.

A woman's scream.

His eyes snapped toward the source. At the edge of the street, a young woman was cornered by a brute of a man, his armor marked with the sigil of the king's enforcers.

"You think you can disobey us?" the man snarled. "The government owns this land. We decide who lives and who rots. And you, my dear, belong to us."

The woman trembled, her hands clenched into fists. Her eyes held defiance, but her body betrayed her fear.

Marr stepped forward.

The man barely had time to turn before his life ended.

With a single, effortless movement, Marr ran him through. The enforcer's eyes widened in shock as blood spilled from his lips. He collapsed at Marr's feet, lifeless.

The woman gasped, her gaze shifting between the fallen man and the stranger who had just saved her. She was beautiful, her skin like polished bronze, her dark curls falling over her shoulders. Her eyes, though frightened, held something else—curiosity.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

Marr wiped his blade and turned to her. "Come with me."

She hesitated but saw no deceit in his eyes. Nodding, she followed him.

That night, as they sat by the fire in the heart of the mountain, they spoke of the world, of the kingdom, of the gods and men who ruled them.

And as the embers crac

kled between them, a bond began to form—one that fate itself had not foreseen.