The pre-dawn air was cold. Mist lingered in the trees, but Guy was already swinging his heavy sword. Already sweating, his swings became heavier. There wasn't much form, Guy never had a teacher and physical strength was all he knew.
''What is your name'' he asks abruptly stopping his swings, the question felt strange hanging in the empty air.
"Curiosity got the better of you, did it?" the entity said, her tone lighthearted, almost playful. ''My name... it is ▇▇▇▇▇▇."
A violent, screeching static tore through Guy's ears, sharp as a needle. He winced, dropping the iron bar as he clutched the side of his head.
"What was that?" Guy rasped, his teeth gritted against the lingering ache.
"It seems being in the void for so long has diminished my existence," she said, a trace of melancholy tinging her words. "Even the world's memory of me is broken. You can call me Anissa."
"Anissa... why do I hear you in my head? The others... they have to look at their 'chat' to see what their gods want. You just... dwell."
"That is because we have a contract," she replied. "Like the old days, when gods and mortals were bound. It's a power forgotten through time, lost before it became this perversion they call the stream."
"Back then, mortals did the bidding of their contracted gods for power. It was a sacred bond made by the original gods who sat at the top. We had a hierarchy. There weren't many of us—a few thousand, perhaps."
"A few thousand?" Guy asked. "I've seen streamers with millions of viewers. Are you saying most of them are mortal?"
"Do you know what gods are?" Anissa's tone went dark. "When mortals first set foot upon the world, they were afraid of the forest. That fear created the gods of the forest. Do you get it? Mortals created us. As time passed, new gods were born and others were forgotten. As humanity grew, so did their beliefs. But many gods were not pleased. They weren't powerful; they had no voice, just an existence like a tree. So, they created the stream."
She paused, the weight of her words sinking in.
"Smaller gods finally had a voice. Mortals have a lifecycle, and gods once had their own, too. But suddenly, gods didn't fade—they multiplied. Now, every action, every sin, every word... it has its own god."
"The sky is cluttered, Guy. And one day, it will implode."
"So what do you suggest we do?" Guy asked, sheathing the iron bar.
"Like the old ways. You fight in my name, and together we will grow stronger. Make my name known again... so that perhaps, one day, you will finally hear my true name. Head past the Northern Gate. Even in the void, I hear the gods whispering about a goblin building an army. Kill him in my name—Anissa of the Void."
Guy walked toward the small cabin. Hobs was outside, the steady thwack of his axe echoing as he split wood, while his wife moved nearby, hanging damp clothes on a line to dry in the morning air.
"Healed up fast, ey?" Hobs said, wiping sweat from his brow and leaning on his axe. "Is it because of that goddess, or are you some damn superhuman? You sure you didn't fall into a witch's cauldron when you were a baby?"
"Perhaps. I wouldn't know," Guy replied, a slight smile actually reaching his face for the first time in a long time.
Hobs stuck the axe into the chopping block and looked him over. "What will you do now?"
Guy's expression flattened into something hard and determined. He looked at the horizon, then down at his own hands. "I am done hiding," he said, his knuckles turning white as he clenched them.
"You never talked about your past before, but I'm sure you have your reasons," Hobs said, his voice softening. "I'm just glad you're finally able to look forward again. I know what'll help."
Hobs turned and called his wife over, a twinkle of genuine kindness in his eyes. "How about that haircut I promised you?"
The wife brought out a stool and a pair of sharp, well-kept shears. Guy sat, the cold wind hitting his face as she began to work. Great clumps of dark, dusty hair—hair that had spent years caked in the grime of the mines fell to the dirt.
She worked in a comfortable silence, trimming away the wild, matted mess until Guy's face was clear. For the first time in years, there was nothing obscuring his vision. No shadows from his own bangs.
When she finished, she brushed the stray hairs from his shoulders with a motherly pat.
"There," Hobs said, handing Guy a small, polished piece of metal to act as a mirror. "You look like a man who's actually going somewhere."
Guy stood up. The weight was gone from his head, but the weight of the [1] remained, pulsing silently. He felt lighter, faster, and ready.
"Thank you," Guy said to both of them.
He grabbed the satchel Hobs had packed, the one filled with medicine and dried meat—and slung it over his shoulder. With a final nod to the only family he had left in this world, he turned his back on the cabin and began walking toward the Northern Gate.