Dust hung thick in the air, as if the city itself had grown tired of breathing.
Aren wiped sweat from his brow, his rough hands caked with the grime of another day's labor. Seventeen and already hunched from work, he lifted crates twice his weight for coins that barely bought a loaf. No parents, no name worth remembering, and no one waiting at home. Because there was no home. Just a tarp nailed between two broken carts, near the city dump.
He walked past the market square, stomach growling, clutching a crumpled pouch of bread crusts and dried roots. He hadn't eaten since dawn. His fingers trembled slightly as he untied the pouch.
"P-please... food... just a little..."
A voice—weak, cracked, and feminine—broke through the noise of the street.
Aren turned.
She was a beggar, hunched and trembling, no more than skin draped over bones. Her eyes were too bright for her age, pupils like deep wells. Her hands shook as she reached forward, not expecting kindness. Just trying anyway.
He hesitated. He had nothing to spare. Barely enough for himself.
But something about her made his chest tighten. Perhaps it was the way she didn't beg loudly, didn't chase others. She simply waited, as if this world owed her nothing and had already taken everything.
Without a word, Aren handed her the food.
Her hands trembled more as she accepted it, biting into the dry bread like it was a feast. She chewed slowly, eyes glistening.
"Thank you," she whispered. Then she reached into the folds of her tattered shawl and pulled out a ring—silver, strange, engraved with symbols that shimmered in the light like moving ink.
"This... is for you," she said, placing it gently into Aren's hand. "In exchange."
He frowned. "I don't need anything. Just—"
"Take it."
Aren hesitated, then slid the ring onto his finger.
And the world shattered.
The ground dissolved beneath him. Light burst from every direction—blue, gold, and black lightning dancing across his skin. He screamed, falling through a sky that had never been above him, through stars that blinked open as he passed.
A voice echoed through his bones—not a sound, but a truth.
> You are the God of Destruction. The third. The last. The balance. The forgotten.
His eyes flew open.
The sky was crimson, cracked like broken glass. Thunder roared without clouds. Before him stood two radiant beings—one wreathed in fire and life, the other in water and light. They hovered above scorched earth, locked in battle.
The God of Creation.
The God of Rebirth.
Their heads snapped toward him.
"Who dares interrupt our war?" Creation thundered.
"He's mortal," Rebirth snarled. "Throw him aside."
Both raised their arms—and divine magic shot toward him like twin comets.
Aren lifted his hand, more out of fear than defiance.
The magic stopped mid-air.
Then exploded backward.
Both gods crashed to the ground, stunned and bleeding.
Aren gasped, staring at his own trembling hands.
"What... am I?" he whispered.
The gods rose, eyes wide with confusion and... fear.
But Aren didn't wait. He turned and ran. Away from them. Away from the battleground. Away from the throne he never asked for.