Many things passed through my mind as I lay there, dying in my own pool of blood.
I thought about how the city of Memphis, Tennessee, had some pretty interesting attractions. The Fire Museum of Memphis had those old-timey fire trucks you'd see in cartoons, and Eldwood's Shack made killer BBQ nachos—literally to die for, pun intended. But more than anything, I couldn't take my eyes off the rising full moon, especially beautiful against the cloudless, starry sky. It was like something out of a dream, glowing softly above, so peaceful.
A crowd had already gathered around me. I was impaled by a piece of loose rebar that had come from a speeding truck, which hit a speed bump and struck me, a newly graduated high school student who had, by some miracle, earned a scholarship to the University of Memphis.
I couldn't help but grumble, irritated by how most of the crowd just stood there filming me while others whispered in hushed tones. Damn people, I thought, my frustration growing like a fire in dry grass. They were treating me like a sideshow, like some tragic circus act for their entertainment.
As I simmered in my own frustration, feeling cold yet strangely warm at the same time, I noticed a faint taste of metal in my mouth—like pennies. Then, I heard the unmistakable sound of sirens in the distance.
My vision began to darken around the edges, like paper being consumed by a candle flame. Panicking, I tried to move my hand away from the wound that was stopping the bleeding, but I couldn't feel it anymore. The whispers of the crowd turned into muffled murmurs, like the sound of waves crashing against the shore. A figure in a black and green uniform seemed to be talking to me, but everything felt so far away.
I tried to open my mouth, to scream, to say something—anything—but all that came out was a sound akin to a rasp and a squeal.
Soon, everything went silent. All I could see was the full moon, glowing above, like the eye of a forgotten god. It stared down at me, unblinking, judging us all, like an Asian parent silently disapproving of our choices. And in that final moment, only one thought crossed my mind:
Is a hot dog a sandwich?
Then, darkness took over, and I was no more.
Deep within the cosmos, where whispers of forgotten times echo through the void, lies a figure. His body is made of white smoke, faintly humanoid and as fragile as breath on glass. Where his head should be is only a blot of pale light, its edges fraying into darkness. He floats, curled into himself, locked in a foetal embrace.
Then, slowly, he stirs. With halting movements, he rises and looks around. Endless dunes stretch before him, but these are not dunes of earth. The sand is pitch-black, devouring every trace of light, as though someone had ground the void itself into dust.
He tries to remember who he is—or perhaps who he was—but all that lingers is the faint memory of his final breath. Lost, he looks up. Above him, the sky is unlike any he has ever seen. A river of shattered diamonds spills across an obsidian dome. Some stars are no more than tiny pinpricks, while others are as large as ping pong balls, each glowing with its own colour and whispering secrets of distant worlds. He savours the sight for a heartbeat longer, then begins to walk.
Time loses its meaning in this place—though he would struggle to measure it even if it did. Eventually, he notices the dunes beginning to change. The black sand gradually lightens to charcoal, then to grey. Scattered pieces of rubble appear, half-buried beneath the surface.
Curious, he kneels and picks one up. On a slab of stone, crude drawings depict a beast of some kind. Another fragment features straight, rigid symbols, square in shape. Yet another is etched with a heptagram, its edges lined with strange characters that instinctively unsettle him.
He continues moving.
The sand transforms further—dark grey gives way to ash, and ash to white—until, finally, the dunes disappear completely. Ahead, a colossal, square-shaped mountain rises on the horizon. A mesa, he recalls distantly.
Beside it lies something else—something vast and ancient, though it is still too far to make out clearly.
As he draws closer, he begins to see it for what it truly is.
A temple.
Rectangular in shape, the structure rises solemnly from the barren earth. At its heart stands a towering doorway—three men tall and wide enough for three outstretched arms to span across. Although parts of the temple crumble in defiance of time, its white walls remain immaculate, untouched by dust, as if nature itself dares not trespass upon its sanctity. Above the doorway, a strange symbol catches his eye: a bronze circle embraced by sweeping wings, forming a crescent-like "U." Once polished, the metal has long since dulled to a greenish hue, weathered by centuries of oxidation. He advances slowly, each step heavier than the last. More details reveal themselves: the faint traces of ancient writing etched into the marble walls, the shattered remains of pillars—broken perhaps by cataclysmic forces or worn down by endless years. Now, standing before the grand entrance, he feels a strange mix of awe and unease. The weight of forgotten centuries presses upon him, yet something about this place beckons him forward. He pauses for a moment, turning to take in the breathtaking expanse behind him: the endless desert, the shifting sands, and the sky painted in hues of eternity. Then, with a steadying breath, he steps toward the ancient threshold and prepares to enter.
As he stepped inside, the air shifted. The emptiness of the desert was replaced by something heavier—an unsettling sense of being watched. His breath slowed, his senses sharpened. Warily, he glanced around, only for awe to take hold.
The temple was impossibly vast—larger within than its exterior suggested. He found himself in a limestone corridor, the walls lined with towering columns, each twice the thickness of an average man. Between them stood colossal statues of masked figures draped in robes, frozen mid-swing with long, S-shaped blades clutched in both hands. Their surfaces were carved from deep black stone veined with rivers of gold, giving them an eerie, almost lifelike presence.
At the base of each statue lay small figurines, no taller than his shins. They were fashioned from diverse materials—clay, wood, precious metals, and even something resembling rare silver. Each bore intricate markings across its chest: some crude drawings, others strange characters that looked like fragments of a forgotten language.
But most unsettling of all—the heads of nearly every figurine had been shattered. It was deliberate, he realized, as if whoever desecrated them wanted the temple's memory preserved only to mock its long-dead guardians.
The deeper he walked, the heavier the air became. Unease gnawed at him until he entered the heart of the temple.
The central chamber, lacking a roof, was both familiar and alien. Perfectly circular, it was held aloft by eight massive columns, each carved with a different phase of the moon. At the room's centre loomed a throne of stone, far too large for any mortal to sit upon.
Then he heard them—faint murmurs slithering through the silence. Shadows stretched unnaturally along the walls, twisting, lengthening. Above, the ceiling faded into an endless void where something bright stirred within the eternal night sky.
A single star began to swell, growing larger, closer, more blinding with every heartbeat. The whispers multiplied, shifting from scattered gusts to a deafening chorus, as though an unseen crowd surrounded him. Voices clashed in unison—some weary, some furious, some joyous—but all uttered the same name:
"Khonshu."
The shadows kept stretching until they consumed everything, swallowing the temple whole—everything but the radiant light above. It was no star. It was the moon.
The moon continued to grow, and as it did, he experienced visions of empires and people flowing through his mind. Each vision began differently, but all ended in tragedy, often violently, driven by greed and overindulgence. He dropped to one knee, struggling to comprehend the visions while trying not to succumb to the madness swirling in his brain. Just as the pain became unbearable, the moon began to shrink, surrounded by a vortex of what could only be described as cosmic dust.
The dust slowly coalesced into a tall, lanky figure draped in a cloak that resembled the night sky itself. It sat lazily, one foot resting on its knee. The dust rose toward the moon, shaping itself into a birdlike skull—elongated like that of a predatory raven or hawk—supported by a bandaged hand. One side of the skull was shattered, jagged cracks revealing a swirling, starry void within, as though part of its essence leaked through the fracture. From the broken side, faint glimmers of moonlight and cosmic energy spilled forth, forming shifting, kaleidoscopic patterns that cast a haunting, asymmetrical aura. The moon served as its eye, cycling through its phases in eerie synchronization.
In the other hand, the figure held a sceptre made of a silvery substance, its head shaped like a crescent moon. The figure tilted its head, regarding him with apparent interest, and pointed its sceptre at him, speaking in a language he instinctively understood,
[ Intriguing. A mortal who hasn't succumbed to madness in my presence. Pray tell, what is your name, and what brings you to visit me in this confinement?]
The wispy figure jolted upright. Despite having no mouth, he somehow managed to speak.
"Uh… hello, Mr. Bird… guy? Lord? Uh, sorry for being here! I didn't mean to intrude or anything. I'll just—uh—go now. Yeah. I'll leave you to your… eldritch-y shenanigans, your holiness."
He took a cautious step backward, as if half-expecting the god to smite him—or correct his grammar.
To his surprise, it laughed, a deep, raucous laugh that sounded stuck between madness and happiness.
[Depart? ...Hah! Nay, mortal, such a feat lies beyond your capacity. This realm is my dominion — my confinement — for defying the dictates of the One-Who-Is. Though it serves as my prison, the right to grant egress remains solely mine. And even were I to bestow such mercy, His Angels would hound you with the fervour reserved for a rabid cur.]
Our wispy friend straightened up as if stung by an invisible bee.
"Say whut??? Just who even are you to be kept here?" he blurted out, his tone a strange mix of confusion and childish disbelief.
The figure exhaled a long, weary sigh and straightened upon its throne. Its gaze lifted toward the boundless void above, voice deepening into solemn gravity.
[My adversaries were legion, yet all who sought my end met their own. I have been known by many names — Humanity's Ultimatum, the Devourer Divine — but you may address me by my venerable name: Khonshu, Avatar of the Lunar Sphere, Propagation, and Restoration.]
It paused, the faint shimmer of moonlight dancing across the cracks of its skull.
[Pray tell, mortal — now that my identity stands revealed — what compels your presence in this hallowed place?]
The wispy figure folded his arms across his chest, his gaze drifting down to the cracked earth beneath his feet. He studied its worn surface for a moment before speaking softly.
"I don't know. All I remember was dying… thinking about weird things… and looking at the moon."
Khonshu tilted his birdlike head ever so slightly—then vanished from his throne. In the next instant, he stood behind the wispy figure, now matching his height.
[You observed the lunar orb, you profess. Therefore, one must surmise you sought my assistance—an improbability, I daresay. Such a request could only come from a scion of King Solomon's lineage… a lineage you clearly do not possess. Unless…]
Khonshu grasped the wispy figure's chin with his bandaged hand, studying him closely.
[You are either a trial or a boon from the Supreme Being. In all likelihood, a trial—for I have yet to encounter one so profoundly, yet so superficially, erudite.]
The wispy figure swatted Khonshu's hand away, his form flickering with agitation.
"What do you mean by ignorantly knowledgeable? I have an average intellect, okay?!"
Khonshu turned away, his cloak rippling like liquid starlight as he strode toward the hall of statues. He stopped before one and drew a sword from its marble grasp.
[To have perished and yet retain articulation and motion is a curiosity indeed. To traverse the corrupted sea unscathed and behold my true form without madness… that speaks volumes. Such feats belong to those of exceptional self-awareness—accomplishments that even a lifetime scholar of the soul could scarcely fathom.]
Without warning, Khonshu hurled the sword. The wispy figure reacted instinctively—striking the flat of the blade midair and catching it by the hilt as it spun.
[Reflexes akin to the demigods of the Golden Age…] Khonshu's tone deepened, a trace of amusement flickering through it. [It seems this encounter shall prove… entertaining.]
Still rattled, the wispy figure tightened his grip on the weapon. "And what if I don't want to?"
[Then you shall be consumed.]
Khonshu spun his sceptre once, its crescent head glinting like moonfire—then charged.
The wispy figure wearily pushed himself up onto his knees for what felt like the umpteenth time. Khonshu stood before him, his cracked skull angled ever so slightly, amusement radiating from his posture.
[You exhibit commendable combat prowess—]
Before he could finish, the wispy figure lunged forward, swinging a wild punch, then followed with a desperate downward slash. Khonshu deflected the blow with a lazy twist of his sceptre, the crescent head ringing softly like silver windchimes. In the same motion, he swept low, his leg hooking behind the mortal's heels.
The wispy figure hit the ground with a dull thud.
[-—for one so lowly.]
Khonshu then calmly seated himself atop the fallen figure as if perched upon a throne. The wispy one groaned beneath his weight, frustration and pain tangled in his voice.
"...Seriously? You're sitting on me now?"
Khonshu ignored him and continued speaking, his tone smooth and measured.
[Though your technique lacks finesse and your feints are artless, you managed to deflect many of my blows—and even land a strike, however insignificant, upon me. For that, mortal… You possess my esteem.]
He rose effortlessly and vanished, reappearing upon his throne with a shimmer of starlight. Reclining regally, Khonshu extended one long, bandaged finger toward the weary figure. A beam of ethereal silver light shot forth, enveloping him.
The wispy figure gasped as vitality surged back through his form; his limbs steadied, the pain fading into nothing. He flexed his hands experimentally, the faint traces of moonlight pulsing under his translucent skin.
[I extend to you a proposition of irrefutable allure: Reincarnation, coupled with three bespoke desires to sculpt your renewed existence. In return, you shall become my Fist, an instrument of enforcement, and the aegis of all innocents who traverse the nocturnal landscapes.]
The wispy figure raised his hand like a student asking a question. Khonshu stared in silence before releasing a long, tired sigh.
[…What is it now?]
"First off," the figure began, "you said I couldn't leave—so either you lied, or you've gotta sacrifice something important for it to happen. Secondly, when you say any wish, can I wish to come back to life? And finally, if I wish for everyone to become lactose intolerant, will you allow it?"
Khonshu was still for a moment, then his voice echoed with the patience of an immortal being worn thin.
[In response to your initial inquiry: though there shall be a cost, the potential loss far outweighs any conceivable gain. Regarding your second question, I regret to inform you that such a feat lies beyond even my domain, for mortality is an irreversible transition. And lastly—] his tone darkened ever so slightly, [—in emphatic reply to your third proposition: no. My gifts extend solely toward your betterment, never to the detriment of the innocent.]
The wispy figure groaned. "Okaay… well, this just got less fun."
He looked around the vast, silent chamber, tapping his chin thoughtfully.
"Alright then. For my first wish, I want important scientific knowledge—the kind that could make or break entire civilizations. For my second wish, I want a loyal companion who's super useful. And for my final wish… I want a versatile, useful power."
Khonshu leaned back slightly on his throne, the faintest trace of amusement curling through his voice.
[Intriguing desires—ambitious, yet nebulous. Very well. Your entreaty shall be granted… though remember, mortal, every boon exacts a price.]
He reached toward the shattered side of his skull, fingers delicately extracting a small, shimmering splinter from the fractured bone.
[For your inaugural desire, I grant a boon far exceeding your request: a fragment of my accumulated wisdom. Within it lies knowledge spanning countless fields, the preserved memories of your predecessors, and the echoes of all who once dared defy me.]
He cupped the splinter between his palms, silvery light bleeding through his bandaged fingers.
[As for your second request… what companion could serve you better than one who embodies this very wisdom?]
When he opened his hands, a minuscule blue marble hovered above his palm, radiant and ethereal. It drifted toward the wispy figure, orbiting him like a tiny moon.
[Before my confinement, I faced a rival whose strength rivalled even the elder gods. It called itself the Darkness Devil. Yet to me, it was but a wailing child—snuffed out with but a gesture.]
A shadow flickered across Khonshu's moonlit eye. He lifted a hand, and spectral chains erupted from the ground, binding the wispy figure in a T-shaped hold.
"Wha—? Hey! What are you doing? I thought you said you weren't going to hurt me!"
[I made no such declaration.] Khonshu's tone grew almost indulgent. [And I am not harming you, mortal. Nay… I am merely bestowing upon you the final gift you requested—a power of great versatility.]
In one hand appeared a vial filled with a substance darker than the sands outside; in the other, his sceptre warped and elongated into a thin, gleaming dagger. The wispy figure struggled, panic rising.
"Wait—hold on—!"
Too late. With one smooth motion, Khonshu drew the blade down the center of the mortal's chest. The wispy figure tried to scream, but a spectral gag sealed his mouth. The vial was pressed against the wound, its contents seeping into him like living ink. His body convulsed, back arching as an unearthly pain spread through every vein.
The god watched in silence, the fractured half of his skull flickering with pale light.
Khonshu watched as the mortal writhed in agony—passing out, awakening, and passing out again—as the foreign essence clawed its way through his soul. He remained still throughout, his gaze unreadable, his expression hidden beneath the fractured skull. The wound on the mortal's chest began to close, the dark ichor pulsing faintly beneath the surface.
[Mortals ever mistake ascension for mercy...] Khonshu murmured, his voice a low echo that rolled through the vast chamber. [Yet it is not compassion that grants power—it is necessity.]
The darkness surged within the mortal's soul, a furious storm battling for dominance against the essence of his being. Then, after a time that felt like eternity, the struggle ceased. The darkness stilled—contained, if only for now.
The spectral chains crumbled into dust, and the figure fell forward, landing face-first with a dull thud that echoed faintly. A tired groan escaped him. Above, the small blue orb wavered in the air before descending, dissolving into his form and vanishing through the crown of his head.
Freed from his bindings, the newly changed being slumped to his knees, gasping.
Khonshu lifted one bandaged hand. The celestial dust of his cloak rippled, pulsing in rhythm with the faint heartbeat of the moonlight streaming through the cracks in his skull. When he spoke again, his voice carried the resonance of both judgment and benediction.
[Rise, bearer of the lunar burden. The ichor of creation now courses within your form. You are neither mortal nor divine, but bound by the weight of both. From this night forward, you are my Fist—executor of my will, guardian beneath the pale glow. Having received your benefactions, steel yourself... for resurrection is at hand.]
The newly empowered figure stirred, consciousness flickering back just in time to see Khonshu's form begin to swell. The god's silhouette expanded, vast and terrible, until his presence filled the entire chamber.
"Wait—what are you—" the mortal began weakly, but the sound of cracking bone swallowed his words.
A seam split down Khonshu's skull, widening into a monstrous maw that gaped open with the sound of grinding stone. In one swift motion, the god reached down, seized the mortal in his colossal grasp—
—and swallowed him whole.
(Wispy Figure's POV)
I was standing in a place that could only be described as a blank canvas. Everywhere I looked, endless white stretched outward, reflecting itself into infinity. There was no sound, no air, no horizon—just stillness.
Then I heard it.
A voice that was neither old nor young, neither male nor female—rather, it was everything, everywhere, all at once. It whispered, muttered, wailed, and as it did, the world began to shift.
The canvas dissolved.
I stood now in a golden wheat field beneath a sky that looked as though someone had tried to paint a rainbow with watercolors—messy, bleeding hues blending into impossible shades. The voice became clearer, more deliberate, its tone calm yet boundless.
"Before the first word was spoken, before the first sin touched creation… there was Khonshu. And he was hunger."
A moon rose above the horizon—but not one I had ever known. Its edges glowed red, cracks running along its surface like open veins from which blood seemed to flow.
The ground quaked beneath me, and suddenly I was no longer in the field.
I stood in a clearing surrounded by primitive men. Cavemen, by their appearance—kneeling, heads bowed to the bleeding moon above. All but one. He stood tall, a pale crescent tattooed across his chest, glowing faintly with reflected light.
The world shifted again.
Now I was in a valley, watching a figure in a crude mask and loincloth swing an incense burner by a rope, the smoke rising like ghosts. The scent of burnt herbs filled the air, and my head felt heavy.
Another shift—brighter this time. I found myself in a city of gleaming white marble, unmistakably ancient. Egypt, perhaps. Around me, priests carried baskets overflowing with offerings. One priest held a newborn aloft, placing it gently upon an altar as the moon blazed above, red and radiant. The crowd erupted in cheers.
The vision fractured again.
A battlefield now—bodies impaled, smoke thick and suffocating. I walked beside a crusader knight toward the carnage. At the center stood a horned figure, motionless, shadowed against the light of the moon.
The visions came faster after that—fleeting and fevered. Cities drowned in shadow. Warriors kneeling beneath lunar altars. Countless ages flashing before my eyes, their prayers and oaths murmured through me rather than to me.
Then the world began to shrink.
Everything folded inward until all I could see was a single marble suspended in the void, filled with stars and swirling colours. I realized, distantly, that I could no longer remember who—or what—I was. Somehow, that didn't bother me.
And then the lights went out.
In the darkness, one final vision came to me: a broken, mutilated creature glaring at me with hatred, its form barely holding together. Around it floated bisected astronauts—bodies torn in half, their hands clasped in a desperate, solemn prayer.
Only then did I understand.
That was the gift Khonshu had given me.