His God Was Dead

  On a dark night, surrounded by enemies on all sides, the God who took care of them like his own children did not come. The God who stood steadfast in front of them was not there. The God who was the pride and object of their fanaticism was not coming. He was dead. And nobody had any inkling of how.

  To save just one, tens were sacrificed. To save ten, hundreds were sacrificed. To save just a hundred, thousands were sacrificed. And after that dark and bleak night filled with thunder and rain and blood and corpses, just two hundred came out alive—by climbing on the corpses of their companions, who were like family.

  And the only thing they could do was hide. They had to hide the clothes they prided themselves upon. They had to hide the names given by their god. They had to hide their faces, which their god had praised.

  They hid—not to save their lives, but to gather strength and reclaim what was theirs. To get revenge and drink the blood of all those who had come after smelling blood. To once again claim the throne of their god, which was rightfully theirs.

  They all split up and went their own ways, awaiting the day when they would be called again. Some died in pursuit; some succumbed to their wounds; and the others found their calling, waiting. He also continued venturing into dangerous places and searching for ancient secrets, all in the hope of growing strong.

  He made new friends. They came in all forms—the grizzled veteran who shared his last rations during a bitter winter in the northern wastes, the young prodigy who reminded him of the children who hadn't survived that night, the scarred wanderer who asked no questions about his past and expected none about theirs. They fought back-to-back in crumbling ruins, shared stories around campfires that flickered against the endless dark, and saved each other's lives more times than he could count.

  And those friends also betrayed him. The veteran sold their location to enemies for a promise of safe passage to lands he would never reach. The prodigy, hungry for power, tried to claim the ancient secret they had discovered together for himself, leaving him for dead in a tomb that became his grave. The wanderer—the one he had trusted most—simply vanished one night with artifacts meant to protect his people.

  What he believed to be right proved to be wrong. He once spared a village that had sheltered his enemies, convinced that showing mercy would sow seeds of goodwill. Yet months later, that very village led a hunting party directly to his whereabouts. He also hesitated to kill a child manipulated by his new foes into becoming an assassin, seeing only innocence in the youth. That child eventually grew into a ruthless monster, slaughtering the innocents before he was forced to end the child's life with his own hands.

  And sometimes what he thought was wrong turned out to be right. The ruthless decision to execute prisoners rather than take them along saved his group from being slowed during an ambush. The cold-blooded murder of a sleeping camp—men, women, their beasts—prevented news of his passage from reaching enemy lines. The line between righteousness and damnation blurred until he could no longer find it, until the man he had been before that rainy night became a stranger he mourned but could not reclaim.

  He discarded those redundant moves designed to disarm or incapacitate that had been instilled in him during his youth. Such luxury was reserved for those who could afford mercy. Instead, he mastered striking from the shadows, wielding poisoned blades, and aiming for vulnerable spots like throats, eyes, and the soft flesh beneath armor gaps. He became skilled at killing sleeping foes without alerting their comrades, making deaths appear accidental, and vanishing before the bodies even touched the ground. Even his companions became tools to be used while orchestrating the enemy's end.

  Sometimes he felt the world was the brightest place. Dawn breaking over the mountains he had crossed at great cost. The genuine laughter of children in villages untouched by war. A meal shared with strangers who treated him simply like a normal man. Moments so painfully beautiful they made his chest ache, reminders of what he had lost.

  And sometimes, a literal hell. Cities burned to ashes, their people's screams swallowed by fire. Mass graves where families were thrown together as if their lives meant nothing. The faces of the dead superimposed over the living until he could barely tell the difference. Nights when sleep brought only nightmares and waking brought only more nightmares.

  But in the name of his god, for the day he would be needed, he continued.

  He pressed on through betrayals that left fresh scars over old ones. He persevered through victories that felt like ashes and defeats that tasted like blood. He continued when his body screamed for rest, and his mind begged for oblivion. He pushed forward when hope became a distant concept, and faith turned into a habit rather than a genuine emotion. When the image of his god faded in his memory, all that remained was a hazy silhouette. He continued because somewhere, in some hidden place, others like him were also continuing—waiting, gathering strength, dreaming of the day they would no longer have to hide.

  For ninety-three years, he fought and grew stronger, eventually even surpassing mortality and entering the realm of the Ascenders. But it was still not enough, as their enemies had dozens like him at their beck and call.

  Finally, the constant adventures—putting his life on the line—had taken a toll on him. With his mind completely worn out by the constant slaughter, he decided to rest. And in the village where he was resting, he met her.

  She was like a breath of fresh spring air to his withered mind, bringing warmth and renewal where there had only been cold, decay, and loneliness.

  After decades of blood and death, of watching companions fall and committing acts that haunted his sleepless nights, his soul had become a barren landscape, incapable of feeling anything. Then she arrived like green shoots pushing through frozen ground, and took root in his mind.

  She also liked to say the most outrageous things in the most innocent voice.

  "Mister, why do you always look like someone stepped on your grave?" she asked once, tilting her head with genuine curiosity. Another time, watching him train before dawn, she announced loudly to no one, "That man over there fights like he's angry at the air itself. Poor air. What did it ever do to him?" Once, she even tried to negotiate with a storm, pleading, "Please rain somewhere else today; we're having a festival." And surprisingly, the storm did recede. Not because of a prayer, but simply because an inconspicuous man lightly waved his hands.

  Her ideas were so crazy that they left even him baffled and unconsciously laughing.

  She decided they should build a bridge across the stream "so the fish can visit each other." She suggested planting flowers upside down "to see if they'd grow toward the center of the world." She wondered aloud whether clouds got lonely floating so high, and whether someone should build a very tall ladder "just in case they need company." He found himself actually chuckling at things that would have earned only a grunt from the man he used to be.

  At first, it was just curiosity toward a being not corrupted by this wretched world. She trusted strangers. She gave away food she needed. She cried when birds died and celebrated when flowers bloomed.

  But after interacting with her more, feelings he had never felt before bloomed. His heart would beat unevenly depending on her mood. The constant vigilance in his mind would ease whenever she appeared. The voices of the dead would quiet when she spoke. The weight of all those years would lift, just enough for him to breathe peacefully.

  He wanted to hear her voice more. Not because she said important things, which she rarely did, but because the sound itself was like a melody to his ears. A chime of small bells ringing in the pleasant atmosphere.

  He wanted to eat the food cooked by her, which definitely did not suit his palate. She oversalted everything, and his tongue was always irritated. She burned bread with concentration, giving crispiness to every meal. She once served him soup that tasted faintly of the feed she'd been using earlier. And he ate every meal she placed before him, cleaned every bowl.

  But such peace did not last long. Two years after he met her came the summons.

  He had known this day would come. Had prepared for it, trained for it, accepted it. But holding that small piece of paper in his trembling hands, reading the coded words that meant everything and nothing, he felt something he hadn't experienced in decades.

  This was not a summons for war, but for their last crusade. And most likely, he would not be coming back alive from this. So he told her to live her life and find her own happiness after he was gone. He tried to explain without explaining, to prepare her without revealing truths that would only bring her pain.

  She cried and asked him to stay, with tears streaming down her face and her small hands clutching his sleeves.

  And even as it broke his heart, he left her behind and did not look back. Because if he looked back, he would stay. If he saw her face one more time, if he witnessed her grief for another moment, every conviction he had built over ninety-three years would crumble. So he walked. Step after step after step, away from the only warmth he had known in nearly a century, away from peace, away from the future that could have been.

  He was living by walking on the corpses of family and had to at least demand answers. Every step toward his destination was a step across graves. The faces of the dead rose with each footfall—companions from that rainy night, friends lost to betrayal, innocents slaughtered while he hid. Their blood had paved his path. Their sacrifice had purchased his survival. And now, finally, after all these years, he was going to repay it. He owed them this much.

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  And behind him, a woman he loved more than his own life wept until she had no tears left.

  It was a bright night, unlike that rainy night all those years ago.

  The original two hundred were now four hundred. Some had passed away, some came with their children, and some came with their disciples. They were back—and they were stronger.

  And after a night of revelry, they started their great march. It was a march leading straight to their graveyard. And they proclaimed this march to the whole world, inviting them to witness the grandest of occasions.

  Their enemies set traps for them. But even knowing that, they walked directly into them. Sacrificing their own lives, they took the lives of others. Walking on a path carved with corpses, they were ready to become one of those corpses to let someone else walk the path.

  The first to die were neither the strongest nor the weakest, but those who had no reason to live. They were the ones who had lost everything on that rainy night. Using their lives like bargaining chips, they behaved like crazed gamblers. They treated death not as an end to be avoided, but as a resource to be spent. Every life they took was profit, and every moment they bought for those behind them was interest earned. He watched them go, these men and women he had known for decades, and felt something between envy and grief. They were at peace now. They had found what they were seeking.

  Then came the weakest. They were whittled away slowly, even under the protection of the strongest, and died off one by one, not even corpses left behind.

  Then only the strongest were left. The ones who had survived not because they held back, but because they couldn't die. Out of four hundred, only a hundred remained. He looked around at what was left of his people and barely recognized them. Not because they had changed, but because the faces he remembered were mostly gone. Strangers wearing the shapes of old friends stared back at him. And then they all started going mad.

  Using any method to take down their enemies—or using any method to die with one. They stopped fighting with honor because honor was a luxury for those who could afford to lose. They fought with teeth and nails and broken weapons. They fought using enemy corpses as shields and dying companions as bait.

  Soon, the enemies who had taken them as prey were running from them, fearing to face them. Their numbers never stopped going down, but those who remained were not only the strongest but also the craziest. And they carved their way to the ones responsible for the fall of their god.

  In a battle that would be remembered for centuries to come, they fought against the strongest beings of this world—those who could stand side by side with gods.

  And just when fewer than fifty of them remained, and they had accepted their deaths, a miracle was born. It happened in a moment that stretched into eternity.

  The youngest stepped forward. Looking up, she simply raised her hand.

  And with a single finger, she blocked their attacks. The force that should have annihilated her, dissipated against that small gesture like waves against a cliff.

  Nobody knew how, but she had also stepped into that rank.

  The battle raged, changing across the world. His companions used their lives as stepping stones just so she could continue taking her steps, and at the end of this miracle, a new God was born.

  She had won, obtaining the authority of the God, becoming the new Lord of Frost.

  Their eyes were filled with tears for the first time in a long while. At the end of their journey, they had taken back what was rightfully theirs.

  But he was not among them. After orchestrating the impossible, he had already started walking—toward his heart, which he had left behind.

  After three whole years of fighting, all he wanted was to see her. If she had started a family, he still wanted to take one last look at her. He picked up some good clothes on the way. Washed himself in the river water. This time, he wasn't leaving everything behind because he was forced to, but because he chose to.

  Reaching the village, it was still the same as before. The same winding dirt path leading between the same modest homes. The same old tree at the crossroads where old men gathered. Children were playing on the roads, their laughter carried along the evening breeze. Women were gathered in groups and talking, their voices hushed—complaining about lazy husbands and gossiping about who was seeing whom. Men were moving about working, repairing roofs, hauling water, and tending animals. Their biggest concerns were the price of grain and whether the winter would be harsh.

  And after reaching the familiar door, he hesitated and just stood there. The wood was weathered but sturdy, the same door he had walked through so many times. The small flower pots she kept were still there, the plants lovingly tended.

  Then, from behind him, came the thud of wood hitting the earth, followed by the splash of water seeping into the parched ground.

  Looking back, he saw her. Just as beautiful and radiant as ever. She stood frozen, one hand still extended where the bucket had been, her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide. Water pooled around her feet, darkening the dust, but she didn't notice.

  He opened his mouth to speak, to explain, to apologize, to say any of the thousand things he had rehearsed during the long journey home. But before any sound could emerge, she moved.

  She ran toward him.

  And just as she got close, she jumped and kicked him.

  The impact caught him square in the chest. And although it didn't hurt, he at least had the sense to pretend it did. He clutched his chest, staggered dramatically, and let out a grunt of exaggerated pain. It was the least he could do.

  Then she went inside with a huff and locked the door.

  He just sat outside the door throughout the day and night, ignoring the gossip and stares from the villagers.

  Finally, unable to bear looking at him sitting like a dog without a home, she opened the door. The sound of the bolt sliding back was louder than thunder. He looked up slowly, afraid of what he would see. She stood in the doorway, backlit by the warm glow of her home. He couldn't read her expression.

  Her voice, when it came, was rough—from sleep, or from tears, or from both. "You're still here."

  He nodded. "I said I would come back."

  "You said a lot of things." But her voice cracked on the words, and he saw her hands trembling at her sides.

  She had been waiting for him all these years. Years of lying in bed at night, wondering if he was alive or dead, if he had found someone else, if he had ever loved her at all. Years of slowly, painfully accepting that he might never return. And she had been planning to spend her life alone if he didn't come back.

  Controlling her overflowing emotions, she only asked: would he be staying with her?

  He looked at her. At the lines around her eyes. The way her hands still trembled. At the hope she was trying so hard to hide.

  And he simply replied, "Yes."

  She stared at him for a long moment, then her face crumpled, and she was crying—heaving sobs that shook her entire body.

  She fell forward, and he caught her. He held her there in the doorway and felt his own eyes burning. Her fingers clutched his clothes. Her body shook against his. Her tears soaked through his shirt.

  "I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair. "I'm sorry. I'm here. I'm not leaving ever again."

  She didn't answer with words. She just held on tighter, as if afraid he would dissolve if she let go.

  The next day, they both decided to get married. It was not a grand affair. There was no elaborate ceremony or a large feast. Just a simple village priest, a handful of witnesses, and the two of them, speaking words that felt both too small and too large for what they meant. She wore a simple white dress she had sewn herself, flowers woven into her hair. He wore the best clothes he could find.

  After marriage, she said she wanted to tour the world. She had never left this region, never seen what lay beyond the familiar hills and valleys of this place. And he agreed without hesitation.

  So, for five years, they moved from one nation to another.

  They walked when they had to. Rode carts when they could. They crossed borders without papers, slept under stars without shelter. They watched sunrises over eastern seas and sunsets behind western mountains.

  She made it her mission to try every new delicacy at least once. Spiced meats from southern bazaars that burned her mouth, and sweet pastries from northern bakeries that melted on the tongue. Fermented drinks from eastern taverns and strange fruits from western markets that she couldn't name but devoured anyway. And he watched her eat with more pleasure than he had ever taken from food himself.

  They danced at festivals where they knew none of the steps. They prayed at temples where they knew none of the gods. They learned greetings in languages that hurt their tongues and songs whose meanings they would never fully grasp. They made friends they would never see again, shared meals with strangers who became family for a night, and collected memories like others collected coins.

  There was even a time when all their funds were completely exhausted and they had to earn some by doing menial jobs or labor.

  He worked on the docks, loading cargo with strength that surprised employers. Worked fields during harvest, his endurance seeming supernatural. Worked in construction, his ability to lift and carry made him worth triple the pay of ordinary laborers.

  She worked too, sewing and mending with her delicate hands. Teaching children their letters in villages where education was scarce. Sometimes, just talking to lonely old people who needed someone to listen to them.

  After their journey was over and they had seen all they could, she said she wanted to settle down and have a family. So they settled in a prosperous agricultural and trade village with a peaceful environment.

  It was not the most beautiful place they had seen. Not the most exciting, not the most cultured. But it had good soil, kind people, and a location that saw just enough travelers to keep things interesting. They bought a small house on the edge of town, with space for a garden and a view of the hills, neighbored by a forest.

  When he became an Ascender, it became impossible for him to have children with mortals. His body had partially transformed into energy, his essence no longer compatible with mortal life.

  But he looked at her face when she talked about holding their child, about watching someone grow who had her eyes and his stubbornness. About the family she had dreamed of during all those years of waiting. And he knew he would give up anything for it to happen.

  So, blinded by love, he gave up his ascension and turned back into a mortal. To give it up was to tear out a part of his soul, to render meaningless all the suffering and sacrifice that had elevated him to that rank.

  The process took months and nearly killed him. There were moments he wasn't sure he would survive until morning. But he held on. For the future they had promised each other.

  The birth was difficult, and the pregnancy had been hard. For twelve hours, he held her hand, whispered encouragement, and prayed to gods he no longer believed in. The village midwife also worked tirelessly. And finally, a small and furious cry was heard.

  He had blue hair, just like his father.

  When they placed the baby in her arms, she looked down at him with an expression he had never seen on her face. Holding the baby, she smiled and said, "Can I name him?" Her voice was wrecked from hours of screaming and sounded very hoarse.

  He just smiled at her question and nodded his head.

  She giggled and, holding the docile baby, said, "Let's see what would be a good name."

  She proceeded to try names aloud, testing how they felt. Old family names. Names from places they had visited. Names of characters from stories she had loved as a girl. The baby responded to none of them.

  Then, after thinking for some time, she suddenly wore an expression as if she had solved a great problem. Her eyes lit up. Her lips curved into that smile he loved, the one that meant she had thought of something wonderfully unexpected. She looked at the baby, then at him, then back at the baby.

  "Neth," she softly muttered.