Creating a human body was, in theory, simple.
Veltharion had done it before—thousands of years ago, when gods still walked among mortals freely. Back then, he could materialize in his full divine form, and humans would fall to their knees in worship without him lifting a finger.
Those days were gone.
The Absolute's laws had changed. Or perhaps they had always been this way, and he simply hadn't paid attention. Either way, the rules were clear: a god descending to the mortal realm must contain their power within a vessel. A human body. Fragile, limited, mortal.
The very thought exhausted him.
Veltharion stood at the boundary between realms, gazing down at the world below. It looked... different. Lights dotted the landscape in patterns he didn't recognize. Towers of glass and steel pierced the sky where temples once stood. The air itself felt wrong—heavier, denser, polluted with energies that hadn't existed in his time.
'Fifty thousand years.'
Perhaps he should have woken up sooner. Perhaps checked in once or twice per millennium. But hindsight required effort, and effort was something Veltharion had sworn off long ago.
He began the process of vessel creation.
First, the physical form. He shaped it from condensed divine essence, molding flesh and bone with the precision of an artist who found the entire exercise tedious.
Tall—he preferred height. Dark hair that fell slightly too long, because cutting it regularly seemed like unnecessary maintenance. Eyes the color of grey mist, carrying just enough of his true nature to unsettle anyone who looked too closely.
Age was trickier. Too young, and humans wouldn't take him seriously. Too old, and his body would lack the stamina for... whatever activities awaited him down there. He settled on twenty-four. Young enough to blend in, old enough to avoid questions.
Next came the limitations.
This was the part he hated most. Sealing away his own power felt like voluntarily cutting off his limbs. His full strength could shatter continents, freeze time across entire nations, reduce armies to dust with a thought.
In this vessel, he would be left with perhaps five percent of that. Maybe ten, if he pushed dangerously hard.
[Micro Stasis.] The ability to slow objects and movements in a small radius. Useful, but embarrassingly limited compared to his true time manipulation.
[Decay Touch.] A weakened version of Eternal Decay. Instead of aging mountains to dust, he could... rust metal faster. Wonderful.
[Divine Sense.] At least this remained mostly intact. He could still perceive supernatural beings, blessed humans, and threats beyond mortal comprehension.
[Authority Remnant.] The lingering pressure of his divine nature. Weak creatures would feel compelled to submit. Strong ones would simply feel uncomfortable around him.
And finally, [Emergency Release] a failsafe that would allow him to unleash up to thirty percent of his power for a brief moment. The cost? His vessel would shatter. Bones would break. Organs would rupture. Recovery would take weeks, possibly months.
He hoped he would never need it.
The vessel complete, Veltharion transferred his consciousness into the human form. The sensation was immediate and unpleasant—like being stuffed into a box several sizes too small. His divine awareness, once spanning galaxies, now compressed into a skull barely larger than a melon.
He flexed his fingers. Rolled his shoulders. Took a breath.
Air. He was breathing air. How inefficient.
"Disgusting," he muttered, and his voice came out human. Deeper than expected, with a roughness that suggested he'd been smoking for decades. Not entirely inaccurate, metaphorically speaking.
The descent itself was anticlimactic. One moment he stood at the boundary; the next, his feet touched solid ground.
Mountains surrounded him—lush, green, ancient. The air here was cleaner than what he'd sensed from above. Quieter, too. No glass towers. No strange lights. Just trees, rocks, and the distant sound of wind through leaves.
And a building.
Small. Wooden. Traditional in a style he vaguely recognized from his active years. A temple, though calling it that felt generous. More like a shrine that had seen better centuries.
This was where his followers lived. Or rather, where his remaining follower lived. Elder Kim Dong-suk—one of three humans in the entire world who still remembered his name.
Veltharion walked toward the temple. His human legs felt clumsy, inefficient, prone to stumbling over roots and stones. By the time he reached the entrance, he was already contemplating whether divine erasure might be preferable to a year of this.
The door slid open before he could knock.
An old man stood there. Very old—skin like crumpled paper, spine curved with age, eyes clouded by decades of mortal existence. Yet those eyes widened with recognition the moment they landed on Veltharion's face.
"You came."
Not a question. A statement of fact, delivered with absolute certainty.
Veltharion studied the man. Eighty-seven years old, if his divine sense was accurate. A lifetime spent in this remote temple, maintaining traditions that the world had forgotten, praying to a god who never answered.
"You knew I would?"
Elder Kim smiled—a gentle expression that crinkled his entire face.
"I dreamed of you. Three nights ago. A figure in grey mist, walking down from the mountain."
He stepped aside, gesturing for Veltharion to enter.
"I've prepared tea."
Tea. The old man had been waiting for his god to descend from the heavens, and his response was to prepare tea.
Veltharion found himself almost impressed.
The temple's interior was sparse but clean. A single room served as living space, meditation area, and shrine. In the corner, a small altar displayed his symbol—a circle bisected by a horizontal line. Stagnation. Stillness. The absence of change.
Candles burned before it. Fresh ones, recently lit.
"You've maintained this place alone?" Veltharion asked, settling onto a cushion with less grace than he would have liked. Human joints were absurd.
"For sixty-two years now." Elder Kim moved to a small stove, where a kettle already steamed.
"My master before me. His master before him. The lineage stretches back millennia."
Millennia of dedication. Generations of believers passing down faith like a family heirloom. And what had Veltharion given them in return?
Nothing. He had been asleep.
Something uncomfortable stirred in his chest. Not guilt—he was fairly certain gods couldn't feel guilt—but something adjacent to it. A mild awareness that perhaps, in this specific instance, he could have done better.
He pushed the feeling aside. Dwelling on past failures required emotional investment, and emotional investment was a form of effort.
"The world has changed," Elder Kim said, placing a cup before him.
"I assume you've noticed."
"Vaguely."
"Gates. Monsters. Hunters."
The old man settled across from him, cradling his own cup.
"Fifty years ago, the barriers between dimensions began to crack. Creatures from other realms poured through. Humanity adapted. Some of them gained powers—blessings, they call them, though most don't know where those blessings come from."
"From gods."
"Yes. From gods who were paying attention."
No accusation in the words, but Veltharion heard it anyway.
"The major deities moved quickly. They blessed humans, created Hunter lineages, established power bases in this new world. Those of us who followed quieter gods..."
Elder Kim shrugged.
"We were left behind."
The tea was good. Warm, soothing, with a complexity that suggested years of practice. Veltharion drank in silence, processing information he should have known decades ago.
"You need followers," Elder Kim said. It wasn't a guess.
"The dreams showed me that much. A trial. A deadline. The threat of erasure."
"One thousand," Veltharion admitted. "In one year."
The old man's eyebrows rose. "That's... ambitious."
"That's impossible."
"Perhaps." Elder Kim set down his cup.
"But not for lack of candidates. The world is full of Hunters now—humans who fight monsters, who seek power, who believe in things greater than themselves. They simply believe in the wrong gods."
Wrong gods. Veltharion considered this. Aethris, Solarius, Pyrros—his fellow deities had spent fifty years building empires in the mortal realm while he slept. Their blessings flowed through thousands of Hunters, their influence shaping nations.
And he had three followers. An elderly monk, a Japanese professor, and someone whose identity even he didn't know.
Starting from zero would have been easier. At least then he wouldn't feel the weight of squandered potential.
"There's a city," Elder Kim continued.
"Seoul. The highest concentration of Gates and Hunters in this region. If you want followers, that's where you'll find them."
Seoul. Veltharion vaguely remembered the area—a small settlement, unremarkable, destined for nothing special. Apparently, fifty thousand years could change things.
"You're suggesting I go there and... what? Perform miracles? Demand worship?"
"I'm suggesting you start small." Elder Kim's eyes twinkled with something that might have been amusement.
"Become a Hunter yourself. Meet people. Show them what you can offer."
Become a Hunter. Register with human authorities. Fill out paperwork. Follow rules.
Every fiber of Veltharion's being recoiled at the thought.
But the alternative was erasure. Complete nonexistence. An eternity of nothing—which, now that he considered it, sounded disturbingly similar to his preferred lifestyle, just without the option to wake up.
"Fine," he said, finishing his tea.
Elder Kim nodded, unsurprised. "You'll need a human name."
A name. Right. "Vel Theron" came to him immediately—close enough to his true name to feel natural, different enough to avoid suspicion.
"And money. Identification. A place to live."
Veltharion stared at him. "I'm a god."
"You're a god in a human body, in a human world, subject to human systems." Elder Kim rose, moving toward a cabinet in the corner. "Fortunately, our temple has prepared for this day. Not much, but enough to start."
He returned with an envelope. Inside: cash, cards, documents. A prepared identity, waiting for a god who had finally woken up.
Veltharion took it, feeling the strange weight of paper money in his human hands.
One thousand followers. One year. Starting with nothing but a fake ID and an elderly believer's savings.
This was going to be terrible.