Gods among us

Jorge, the Way Maker, sensed the birth of Marr before the first breath left the child's lips. It was not a mere instinct but something far more primal-an ancient, unshakable knowing that rattled the very foundations of the earth. The air itself carried the scent of destiny, thick with the promise of power and the weight of inevitable war. Without hesitation, Jorge sought out the newborn, traveling through unseen paths that only the most attuned could walk. When he found the child, there was no doubt in his heart. Marr was no ordinary being. He was a force waiting to awaken.

Jorge lifted the child into his arms, his grip firm yet reverent. There was no time for hesitation, no time for questions. He stepped into the boundary between life and death, vanishing into the void where only the dead dared tread. The Land of Fedotu-a cursed, sacred, and forgotten realm-welcomed them with an eerie stillness. The air was thick with whispers, voices that belonged to neither the living nor the dead, murmuring of things to come. Most mortals who stepped into this place would crumble to dust, their souls devoured by the abyss. But Marr did not cry. He did not whimper. He only stared, his infant eyes reflecting the silent storm of the afterlife.

Jorge, a Nicroma of unmatched might, was no stranger to the will of the gods. He had walked through fire, battled demons, and held the Hammer of Thor in hands that had never known defeat. He had been born into war, a son of Bulodia the Unbreakable, the fiercest warrior to ever lead the Amado army. He had trained champions, crushed empires, and reshaped history with every strike of his blade. But as he looked upon the child in his arms, even he felt a tremor of awe.

For seven days, they remained in Fedotu. The spirits that lingered there watched in silence, unable to touch the living yet drawn to Marr as though he belonged to both their world and the one beyond. Each night, Jorge whispered lessons of the old ways, of the warriors who had come before, of the forces that sought to shape destiny. Marr listened, even in his infancy, absorbing knowledge in a way no human child ever could. By the time they emerged from the realm of the dead, Jorge knew: this child was not meant to be hidden. He was meant to be feared.

Their return to Ammasoma Land was met with celebration-though beneath the joyous songs and laughter lurked an unspoken dread. The king, a ruler who had clung to his throne for five hundred years, had declared a grand festival to mark his reign. The people rejoiced, unaware that beneath the feasts and music lay a darker purpose: the unspoken sacrifice of a god who had yet to grow. Marr's presence had disturbed the balance of power, and the king would not stand for a rival-especially not one still in his infancy.

Jorge, ever aware of the whispers behind closed doors, refused to let fate be dictated by a jealous king. That night, under the glow of a silver moon, he carried Marr to the High Mountain of Gbarantoru, a place where the echoes of the Ancestors whispered through the winds. Here, in the sacred solitude of the mountain, Marr's training would begin. The boy would learn not just how to wield power, but how to carry the weight of a world that did not yet understand him.

Marr's growth was unlike anything seen before. His mother, a woman whose purity was untouched by mortal hands or divine corruption, had birthed something extraordinary. The breast milk of a virgin with divine essence coursed through his veins, accelerating his body and mind beyond the limits of normal men. Within a mere month, Marr no longer resembled an infant. He was a youth, his strength undeniable, his presence a beacon of something both feared and revered. He walked among men, not as a child but as a force unto himself. Wherever he stepped, joy followed. His touch mended the broken. His voice calmed the restless. His very existence was a blessing upon the land.

But not all saw him as a gift.

One evening, as he wandered the streets of Ammasoma, Marr encountered a brutal display of power. A man-a simple merchant, no soldier, no warrior-was beaten down by the Upper Chamber Guards, the king's enforcers who carried out his will without question. They laughed as they struck him, their cruelty masked as law, their violence justified by the power they served. Marr watched, his golden eyes narrowing, his heart growing heavy with something he had never felt before. Rage.

With a mere flick of his wrist, the guards vanished. They did not scream. They did not fall. They simply ceased to exist, erased from the world before they even understood what had happened. The merchant gasped, stumbling backward, his eyes wide with awe and terror. Marr offered him only a gentle smile before walking away, oblivious to the storm his actions had unleashed.

By dawn, the news had reached the king. He sat upon his throne, his face dark with fury. "The boy thinks himself a god already," he growled. "Let us remind him that gods can die."

The command was given. Summon the sorcerers. Summon the army. He dies tonight.

Jorge knew it was coming. As he and Marr sat upon the Rock of Salvation, a sacred ground where warriors of old once trained, he felt the shift in the air. The night grew still, the wind carrying an unspoken warning. They were coming. The king's army-one hundred and twenty of his most feared warriors, each trained to kill, each backed by sorcerers wielding the Whip of Shadows, a cursed weapon that could bind even the strongest of gods.

Marr lifted his gaze to the horizon. He had already seen it in his mind.

"I could end them all with a breath," Marr mused, his voice almost amused. But tonight, he would not. Tonight, he would fight as a man.

Grasping the Sword of the Ancients, he moved. The earth trembled beneath his feet. The battlefield became a slaughterhouse. Each strike of his blade carved through armor, flesh, and bone. The once-mighty warriors fell like wheat before the scythe, their numbers dwindling until one hundred and twenty lay dead beneath his blade. The sorcerers cast their spells, chanting curses meant to bind him, but their magic shattered against his will.

By the time the battle ended, only Marr and Jorge stood beneath the blood-drenched moon.

As he walked back toward the Rock of Salvation, his senses tingled once more. Down a darkened alley, he saw her-a young woman struggling against a man who boasted that his power was absolute, that the government ruled the very stars. She whimpered, her eyes filled with despair, and Marr felt his rage flare once more.

This time, he did not even hesitate. With a flick of his wrist, the man fell dead, his life snuffed out like a candle in the wind.

The woman, trembling, looked up at him. "Who are you?"

Marr simply extended a hand. "Someone who does not bow to tyrants."

That night, he took her home, offering her the only kindness he knew. For the first time, he felt something new-companionship.

Yet, as the stars gleamed above, unseen forces stirred. The king was not the greatest of threats. A greater darkness had begun to awaken.

The gods had seen what Marr had done.

And they were not pleased.