The forest grew denser the deeper Aerin walked.
Light thinned, breaking into shards that danced across moss-covered roots and ancient stone. The air changed—older, heavier, saturated with mana so pure it bordered on intoxicating. Each step carried him farther from mortal paths and closer to places even spirits avoided.
This was where maps ended.
And where he chose to begin.
Aerin stopped beside a clear stream that cut through a natural clearing, its waters glowing faintly with ambient mana. The ground was fertile, shielded on all sides by towering trees and stone outcroppings shaped like natural walls.
Safe.
Hidden.
The forest held its breath.
"This will do," he said softly.
The divine tool emerged once more, responding to intent alone. It did not blaze or announce itself. It simply became—an axe, a shovel, a blade, each as needed, each dissolving back into light when its task was done.
Trees fell without sound.
Stone reshaped itself.
Shelter rose.
Not a fortress. Not a palace.
A home.
By nightfall, a simple wooden cabin stood in the clearing, smoke curling gently from its chimney. Aerin sat at its entrance, watching fireflies drift through the dark like fallen stars.
For the first time since his rebirth—
He was alone.
Aerin closed his eyes.
Mana flowed—not outward, but inward, folding upon itself until it vanished completely. His presence thinned, blurred, and then slipped beneath perception itself.
Even the forest strained to sense him.
Far above, in realms beyond sky and stars, something fractured.
A god stiffened.
Another turned sharply.
"…Where did he go?" one whispered.
The god who had reincarnated him watched in silence, expression unreadable.
"He chose," the god said quietly.
They searched.
Divine senses swept the world—over kingdoms, oceans, deserts, and war-torn lands.
They found nothing.
No prophecy ignited.
No fate-thread trembled.
No divine marker answered.
The being they had empowered—
Had disappeared.
For the first time in an age measured by eternity—
The gods felt uncertainty.
Seasons passed.
Aerin lived.
He farmed small plots, hunted only when needed, and studied the world patiently. Mythical beasts passed near his clearing and left unharmed. Spirits lingered at the edge of his domain, respectful and curious.
Sometimes Lysera visited, never stepping beyond the forest's permission.
Sometimes the dragon watched from afar.
No one ruled him.
No one commanded him.
At night, Aerin dreamed not of thrones—but of quiet mornings and unbroken skies.
He stood beneath the stars one evening, hands clasped behind his back.
"In my last life," he said softly, "I was a hero because I was forced to be."
The wind stirred.
"In this one," he continued, "I will be nothing—until I decide otherwise."
The forest accepted the vow.
The world turned.
And somewhere, far beyond mortal sight, fate hesitated—
because the man who should have shaken the world…
Chose instead to hide from it.