Ojadili was not meant to become a god.
The first time his bones broke, it was not in battle —
it was in silence.
A force beyond flesh twisted through him, tearing muscle from bone as though his body were clay in unseen hands. His scream never left his throat. The air burned, thick and suffocating, as if the world itself refused to witness what he was becoming.
This was not strength.
This was punishment.
His skin stretched. Cracked. Reformed.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Until pain lost meaning.
Then came the heat.
Not fire — something deeper. Older. It did not burn him.
It claimed him.
His body healed violently, every torn fiber knitting back stronger, harder… wrong. What should have killed him instead reshaped him, as though something beyond gods and men had decided he would not die.
Not yet.
Then the armor came.
It did not descend from the sky.
It grew.
Then, the armor began to form. Heavenly plates of silver and steel spiraled into place, weaving lightning and strength into a single, unstoppable force. At the center, a burning sun pulsed — a heart of fire, a symbol of the power bestowed upon him. The heat kissed his chest, yet it gave him clarity. He was ready.
He clenched his fists. The prophecy was not a promise — it was a challenge, a weight he must carry, and he would shape its fulfillment as he saw fit.
Ahead, darkness waited. It pressed against his mind before he even saw it, a shadow heavy enough to crush the world itself. The villain, cunning and unseen, had prepared traps, lies, and perhaps even allies of his own. Victory would not come from raw strength alone. It would demand every ounce of will, every flicker of insight, and a courage forged in fire.
Ojadili leapt. Flames of divine energy erupted from his body, scorching the ground, illuminating the haze of smoke and ash.
Dust rising.
A body falling.
A choice made in a heartbeat.
His breath trembled.
So this is what it costs…
The air shifted.
Something was watching
Something older.
The darkness ahead did not move, yet it pressed against his mind — vast, patient, certain. Whatever waited for him was not afraid.
It had been waiting.
For him.
Flames erupted beneath his feet as he moved, the ground cracking under the force of his leap. The sky itself seemed to recoil, ash and heat spiraling as though the world feared what had just been born.
Yet even now… even with power raging through his veins…
The question remained.
If this power was not given…
If it was taken…
Then what exactly was he becoming?
The answer did not come.
Only a whisper.
Low.
Unforgiving.
Ancient.
—
"The first time you chose mercy…
you chose this."