As Luca toyed with the system's functions, a new message appeared: his divine authority had been chosen. He would gain dominion over…
Crows.
That's right. The same black, obnoxious bird that haunted Earth had found its way here, on a planet millions of light years away.
Well, "crows" was what he called them, though these were far from ordinary. Their anatomy was sharper, sturdier, built for endurance, as if designed to traverse vast distances. Their intelligence, too, far surpassed their Earthly counterparts.
But the most striking difference? Their potential. These crows could evolve in multiple ways, most notably through crossbreeding. They were one of the rare species capable of mating with entirely different creatures, creating hybrids with unpredictable traits.
With that in mind, Luca shaped the design for his new body, along with a name to match.
Half an hour slipped by before he was satisfied. One last glance, one last breath, and he pressed OK.
The pod shuddered, light pulsing across its shell. It hummed, then split open with a hiss, expelling its creation.
What emerged was no longer Luca. His form was striking, godlike. A crow's visage, carved from the pages of history's plague doctors. Robes of red and grey swept around him, hood drawn low. Beside him stood a staff, serving no function but presence, a symbol of authority.
And with this new body came his chosen name.
"Welcome back, Exile," the mechanic voice intoned. "Just in time. The event begins in five minutes."
The wait passed in a blur.
Before he realized it, Exile was standing beneath flashing red lights. A low siren pulsed in the air as a countdown echoed all around him.
"Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Commence the contest."
Exile shut his eyes. When he opened them again, the world had changed.
He was suspended high above the ground, floating nearly two kilometers up. Below stretched a vast sea of crimson and gold. Leaves the color of fire crowned towering trees, swaying in waves that reminded him of autumn back on Earth.
This was Centrion.
And if the rules were as clear as they seemed, his first objective would be to find people, his followers.
But before that, Exile flexed his hands, let the air run through his feathers, and focused inward. He needed to know what this body could do. What power had been given to him.
He could see differently now. It was as if a third eye had opened. One that existed everywhere at once. A single glance showed him a tree not from one angle, but from all of them, as though the world had unfolded itself for his inspection.
He could see life. He could sense the breath of the air itself. Or perhaps it was not sight at all, but something deeper, something closer to knowing.
Still, his range of this Godly Sight was limited, stretching only so far before fading into uncertainty.
With no clear path before him, Exile drifted in a chosen direction, letting the forest's red canopy stretch endlessly beneath his flight. Somewhere out there, the Kramlins waited.
After half an hour of searching, Exile finally located a tribe. In that time, he had grown more accustomed to the peculiar fauna and flora of Centrion.
The Kramlins were hunting. Their prey was a strange hybrid of monkey and mantis, bounding with effortless agility from branch to branch.
A group of twenty Kramlins sheltered near a cave, while the ten strongest warriors pursued the hunt.
Exile had to admit, they were far more impressive in person. Their bodies were lean to the point of artistry, the kind of form humans would only compare to supermodels. Their low body fat revealed a harsher truth, though: food was scarce, and fat never had the chance to linger.
They wore whatever hides they could make, covering the bare minimum because of the warmth of the forest.
The Ranclin, as Exile soon learned the beast was called, didn't flee in panic. It leapt and twisted through the trees with a predator's confidence, as if daring the hunters to close the gap.
Exile decided to watch. He still did not know what his new form was capable of, and this hunt might provide an answer.
A few minutes was all it took for the hunters to give up. Their weapons, stone spears and crude bows, were too clumsy to pierce the Ranclin's defenses.
One by one, they retreated, heads bowed in defeat. Or at least, that was what the Ranclin believed.
In truth, they had only withdrawn to set the trap. All but one slipped away, leaving a lone figure behind: a strong, silent male, perhaps thirty years old. His presence was steady, dangerous, the kind that required no words.
The Ranclin, fooled by the retreat, slowed. Its movements lost their edge as it leapt between branches, no longer expecting death to be lurking nearby.
SHLICK.
The curved blade carved clean through its neck, severing head from body in one merciless stroke. The corpse tumbled from the canopy, crashing onto the forest floor with a dull thud. Blood seeped into the roots of the crimson trees.
The hunter revealed himself, blade glinting darkly in the dappled light. It was the only true weapon among the group, sharpened and cared for despite the tribe's lack of resources.
He let out a sharp whistle. Moments later, the others returned at a sprint, their tired faces breaking into wide grins when they saw the fallen beast. Their plan had worked. The hunt was won.
"Impressive," Exile mused. "They actually use their heads rather than relying on brute force."
The tribesmen gathered the slain Ranclin and began their trek back toward the cave, this time in earnest.
Then, a strange prompt flickered across Exile's awareness.
Bless this food with Divine power?
"What's this?" he murmured, more to himself than to the unseen voice. "Bless the food…"
Curiosity outweighed caution. He agreed.