Vast fields of golden wheat swayed gently in the breeze. A man in his thirties, with a thick beard, held a sickle and slowly cut the stalks. After walking several dozen meters, he straightened up and placed the tool on the ground. Then, carefully gathering the cut wheat, he loaded it into a wooden cart. Once the hard work was done, he climbed onto it, tugged the reins, and the horse slowly pulled the cart forward.
Reaching the mill, he unloaded the bundles and began threshing beating them with a stick to extract the grains. The dry stalks he set aside they would still be useful as livestock feed. When finished, he took a shovel, spread a cloth on the ground, and began tossing the grains onto it. The wind carried away the light chaff while the heavier grains fell down, cleansed of debris. He spread them out in the sun to dry thoroughly.
Sitting on a bench, he took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his brow. His wife came out of the mill carrying a jug of water. He accepted it with a grateful nod and drank it all. A faint but warm smile appeared on his weary face as he gazed into the distance, beyond the horizon.
Later, he rose again and returned to the field to gather a bit more of the harvest. By evening, he returned to the mill, took the well-dried grains, and poured them into the millstone. Turning the heavy stone, he slowly ground the grain into powder flour. When he finished, he collected the flour and brought it to a wooden table.
Scooping some flour into a clay bowl, he added water and began to knead the sourdough. Once it was ready, he covered it with cloth and left it overnight to ferment. In the morning, he would bake bread from that sourdough.
After a hard day's work, he entered a small house, where his wife fed him a hearty dinner. Together, they lay in bed and fell into a deep sleep, letting their fatigue carry them into a sweet slumber.
At dawn, with the first rays of sunlight, he rose and headed to the oven to light the fire.
Lifting a small pot covered with cloth, he peeked inside the sourdough was ready. He added flour and water and began kneading the dough. After letting it rest, he checked the oven the stone had heated well, and it was time to remove the coals. He scraped them aside and placed a clay vessel with the dough inside, then stepped out to feed the livestock.
Finishing his morning chores, he returned to the oven by that time, the bread was ready. Pulling out the loaf, he inhaled the aroma of freshly baked bread warm, light, with a crispy crust. He gently placed it on a wooden board.
"Turned out just right," he murmured, breaking off a piece of crust and tasting it.
"I never thought your greatest dream would be sitting by a mill baking bread," came a woman's voice behind him, sharp but good-humored.
"Who are you?" he tensed, turning around and, seeing no one in the room, grabbed a fire poker. A girl appeared out of thin air behind the table.
"Don't you remember?" she asked with a gentle smile, sitting at the table, taking a piece of bread and biting into it. "Truly excellent bread."
"Erinys…" the man whispered, setting the poker aside.
"So you do remember," she said, watching him.
"What do you want?" he asked grimly.
"They call you Atreus here, right? Clever way to create a new identity—to hide from the curse laid upon your soul by a titan and a goddess. Just erase Damocles' life and be reborn as someone new," Erinys said, raising her hands.
"I had no other choice," Atreus replied. "I couldn't fight at full strength. Each time, more of my body was lost."
"So, what should we call you now? A new god? Lord of magic and pathways?" her voice dripped with mockery.
"No. I just didn't allow what once existed to perish," he said calmly.
"And now what? You'll keep harvesting wheat and baking bread?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.
"That's none of your concern," interrupted Demeter as she entered the room, wearing a light greenish dress.
"Forgive me for intruding on your little love nest," Erinys sneered.
"You'll leave now—or disappear," Demeter said with icy firmness.
Atreus stood and took Demeter's hand, calming her fury.
"She's right," he said, quietly but firmly. "I've lived in illusions for too long. It's time to breathe in the fresh air—deep and true."
"I'll be waiting for you," said Erinys before vanishing into the air.
"Why did you keep me from waking up for so long?" Atreus asked, looking at Demeter.
"Isn't it beautiful here?" she replied with gentle sorrow. "Here, we were simply happy. No wars, no gods. Just you and me."
"Living in an illusion is beautiful... but it's still an illusion," Atreus said, stroking her hair. "No matter how harsh real life may be, it's the only thing that truly makes our hearts beat faster."
"Forgive my selfishness," whispered Demeter, resting her head against his chest. "When you disappeared, I didn't know what to do. I thought I'd never see you again. But the compass you left behind... one day, it suddenly pointed the way to you. These ten years were the best of my life."
She took out the compass and placed it in Atreus's hand.
The needle trembled, then steadily pointed forward through space, through reality. A path between worlds opened. Taking a deep breath, Atreus stepped into it and soon found himself elsewhere, standing on green grass and a small patch of yellow flowers.
In the middle of the flowers stood a stone, carved with a name: Damocles.
"Less time has passed here than in the other world," Atreus murmured. He knelt down and ran his hand across the grave's surface. Gently, he parted the earth, revealing a body.
There he lay the man who had endured countless trials. His helmet, shield, and spear were in perfect condition, as if freshly polished before battle.
"It feels like a lifetime ago…" Atreus whispered, lifting the spear.
He ran his hand along its darkened shaft over every notch, every mark, each one bearing the memory of a fight. Images flared in his mind like sparks: battles, strikes, falls, screams from the very beginning to the very end.
"So much blood I've spilled... and it seems I'll spill it again," he said, eyes still lowered.
He reached for the helmet and lifted it from the ground. The moment his fingers touched the metal, a dim yellow glow lit from within. It ran along the surface, as if a soul trapped in steel had responded to his touch. He placed the helmet on, and his eyes glowed golden the world twisting under his will.
"I was born a man, and I died one. Now I am something more… but my soul will always remain mortal," Atreus said. Then the spear in his hand began to glow crimson, and runes lit up on the shield.
"We must all find our place. Mine is being cast down, so I can rise once more!"