A month had passed since the day Cain first truly awakened.
Recovery was slow, but not aimless. His limbs, once shriveled and bruised, now held weight again. Each day, he pushed himself further: first sitting up on his own, then walking with support, and finally taking steps alone. He was far from full strength, but compared to the shattered husk he had once been, Cain was a miracle.
A miracle that, to everyone else that is. For them he bore the fingerprints of the divine.
Today, he stood just outside the cottage. The wind carried the scent of burnt earth and wildflowers. The village of Glintmere was still silent.
Still broken.
The fields were barren, many of the homes reduced to piles of ash and charred wood. The Gem Master battle had scorched more than land.
Their flames had incinerated lives, and their winds severed fates of generations to come.
Cain's eyes swept the horizon.
There was no movement, no noise except the breeze and a single creaking rooster-shaped weather-vane that had somehow survived.
Angus stood nearby, watching him cautiously, as if worried the breeze might knock him over. His expression was a strange mix of pride and concern.
"You've done well, son," he said, arms crossed. "A month ago, I was almost preparing your burial rites."
Cain said nothing. He didn't trust himself to speak yet.
"You're lucky to be alive. Truly. A blessing from the gods."
Cain's jaw clenched.
He'd heard it too many times now.
Blessing.
Divine grace.
A miracle.
It left a bitter taste in his mouth every time.
The gods didn't give grace.
They only took!
Still, he remained silent, letting Angus believe it.
Let the man have his comfort. If Cain crushed it, what would he be left with?
Just another man mourning a son he thought he'd already lost once.
Later that evening, Angus brought out a wooden box. It was old, carved with simple geometric patterns. He placed it gently on the table, as though it held something sacred.
"I never told you… what I did that night," he said.
Cain looked up from the half-eaten bowl of stew, brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
Angus hesitated. Then, with a sigh, he sat.
"When I carried you back… your body was broken. Gods, Cain… your chest had collapsed. Your ribs had pierced through your lungs. One of your legs was flattened. And your head… there was a dent, like someone had caved it in with a hammer."
He took a shuddering breath. "I—I knew you wouldn't last the night. I could see it. So… I prayed."
Cain froze.
"To the gods?" he asked, voice quiet.
"Aye," Angus nodded. "To all of them. I begged. I brought every coin, every scrap of silver I had hidden away and laid it at the shrine. You know the one, behind the village square? Miraculously, it was untouched. Not a scorch mark, not a single crack, even though the storm of magic hit right next to it."
Cain knew that shrine. A small altar of stone, surrounded by flowerbeds and old offerings. He remembered passing it in Cain Vox's memories. It was the kind of place children would run past, tossing scratched up old coins and whispering wishes.
To Cain, it was just another symbol of chains.
"I stayed there all night," Angus continued, "offering prayers, promising anything. I would give up my home, my hands, my life—anything—if the gods would just save you."
Cain looked down.
He remembered the night vividly. Not from the outside, but from within. The slow knitting of bone and sinew. The mana within his own soul flaring to life. The ancient instincts of a battle-hardened mage responding in the only way they knew how.
His soul had forced the body to heal. There had been no divine hand. No miracle.
Just his will.
But Angus didn't know that.
"I came back the next morning," the man went on, "and… you were breathing again. I checked your chest. Your ribs were whole. The dent in your skull—gone. Just a bit of bruising left."
Cain looked at his own hands—scarred and pale, but whole. Stronger than they had any right to be.
"I thought it was a sign," Angus whispered. "That the gods had heard me. That they spared you."
Cain felt the lie like a weight on his shoulders.
He wanted to tell the truth.
He wanted to spit out the words—that the gods had done nothing. That they were the ones who had brought the destruction, who had played with lives like dice in a game. That he had survived in spite of them, not because of them.
But he didn't.
He looked into his father's eyes—tired, aged beyond their years, but filled with hope. With love.
And he swallowed the truth.
"Maybe they did," he said softly.
Angus smiled and reached over, patting his shoulder. "They did. I know they did."
That night, Cain sat alone outside, beneath the stars.
The wind had died. The sky was clear—cloudless and black, with a full spread of stars blanketing the heavens. They seemed closer here. Hung lower. Like the gods were watching.
Cain clenched his fists.
'Let them watch.'
He would not kneel.
Not now. Not ever again.
They had built this world in such a way that mortals could only reach for power through them. No more free mages. No more independent warriors. Just Gem Masters—tools who owed their might to relics gifted by divine hands.
It was elegant slavery.
Cain had known many forms of oppression, but this was the most insidious.
'Make power a gift, and people will worship you for it.'
But what happened when someone took power?
When they tore it from the divine and wielded it without permission?
Cain looked down at his chest. He couldn't see it, but he could feel the pulsing ember that now lived deep within him. It was slowly growing in power.
The fragment of the God Gem of Annihilus.
Not one of the current gods. Not even of the old gods.
A Primordial.
Before light.
Before worship.
Before rules.
He smiled faintly.
It wasn't the gods who had saved him.
It was something far older.