6- PRINTS OF THE FIRST STEP

The world has always been so boundless and wide; it sleeps, wakes, and walks with us. The air breathes as we let it, the earth trails and feels as we wander, the waters weep; some in joy, others in sorrow. The trees stretch across forests and canopies, alive bystanders in every Kaladrin cycle. Some still bear the scars of storms, others whisper of spring’s laughter, and all remain—patient, silent, older than kingdoms and wars.

The Valestra Era gave people Gaia’s earth, Poseidon’s waters, and Prometheus’ fires. It gave individuals long lives that filled the infinite vessels made of skin and bone. It gave rise to civilisations built on prayer and ritual, on discipline and routine, on simplicity and permanence. Families buried generations beneath the same trees, their names carried on winds that never forgot them.

It was bountiful, giving, not taking back. A kindness without edge.

The Dravenn Era gave people monarchies. It gave art, music, and literature. It rose empires and felled them. Among those hazy, grey clouds were reflections of dried crimson. The songs of minstrels mixed with the screams of battlefields, and both were remembered equally by the soil. It was an age of brilliance and cruelty alike, where marble temples crumbled as swiftly as they were raised.

Hence, the Gods, growing discontent, faded into the Heavens, taking the gift of limitless mana with them, making life as transient as it is now. They turned their faces away, leaving mortals to scavenge among the remains of their abandoned altars.

The Ogirian Era gave people mana again, limited and rigid. With it came division, persecution, discrimination, and cruelty. Chandra, already blinded by Sanjana, was covered by the primordial Chaos. Until the vessel of the Titan of Time, Ogino, plugged the world into the next reset from her home in the Noverra star system. Mortals whispered her name as both curse and prayer, never sure which she intended.

Then the final Naraksha Era brought with it arcane weaponry, weaponised mana, and commercialised belief. The Gods hadn’t vanished, simply branding themselves spectators, waiting for when the vessel of the Time Titan issued the next Valestra. Mortals fought not for survival but for spectacle, spilling blood into arenas and temples alike, pretending the soil did not remember.

His eyes raised the curtains to one of several Ogirian Eras. The lands painted green and brown sang an ethereal song in the starlight that his amber eyes partially mirrored. His eyes stared at the twinkling lights he could once touch without burning. His ears registered the sounds of man and beast alike, monsters and nature alike, threat and harmless alike.

The winds whispered hymns from times lost amongst the pages of the Cycles. The grass smelt of aeons of stories of generations that the stars told through the constellations. The trees had witnessed several wanderers, some with a destination, some without, but all choosing to walk the path. To the world, he was but another passing figure, though his footsteps carried weight heavier than he wished to bear.

And him, as he took in the scent of flowers and musk, his mouth couldn’t open, too afraid of interrupting the silence. As he rose, sitting against the road painted brown with dirt, the frail transience of his mortal frame didn’t escape his perception. His breath came shallow, uneven, and he felt the tug of mortality where once there had been divinity. He sighed, as though the air itself shared in his weariness.

“So this is where I am… huh?”

He rubbed his tanned skin, throbbing from pain. Bruises mapped his body like forgotten constellations. But then, he felt a familiar hilt on his waist. As his fingers traced the decorated soil-coloured hilt etched with a familiar set of divine eyes and a garland of skulls, he could only smile.

“Even after all this, you still…”

The words broke off, unfinished, as so many of his thoughts did now. He huffed, sheathing the blade and dusting off his clothes. Dust clung stubbornly to him, as if the earth itself wished to keep him here, to root him down as one of its own.

“Well, I best be off, then.”

The road stretched ahead, endless, uncertain. The world waited—not welcoming, not hostile, simply watching. The dirl clung to his feet like lost devotees. He’d played among the stars; he was great friends with the likes of Rohini after all, despite hating Chandra. But those relations cooked by mortal hands didn’t matter when it came to the true nature of the God-vessel dynamics. Despite being an old friend, it was as if even she was powerless against his current state, where it was a perpetual struggle against gravity. His legs quivered as if the world wanted to reiterate: you are small again.

The path extended into a ribbon brown, partitioning wild trees. Their canopies whispered a prayer he remembered his mother, Aditi, had recited countless times centuries ago, where she’d spoken as if the forests breathed just like him. The trunks bore scars—cut marks, burned hollows—reminders that men had passed through long before. He wandered with heavy, deliberate steps through the loud world where streams rushed with childlike innocence. To the left, the rattle of wings. To the right, the melody of cicadas. His hands cupped a palmful of water and splashed it on his face. It was as indifferent as any of the sea gods made themselves out to be. Once, his flames sundered the same waters, yet now, they slid between his fingers without recognition. He drank regardless, letting the chill settle.

For a time, he thought of only survival: food, shelter, something to keep the night at bay, something for him to get by until he found some place stable. And yet, before the thought could settle, he noticed it: a breath out of place. The wind carried the faint creak of leather straps, the soft rasp of metal shifting in a sheath. He froze, amber eyes narrowing. A shadow moved along the treeline, then another.

Figures emerged—bandits, ragged and gaunt, their blades rusted but eager. One spat into the dirt.

“Look at him. Wanderer’s coin, easy pickings.”

Another sneered. “Strip him clean. Leave the bones for the wolves.”

They rushed him with the confidence of men who had done this before. He did not answer—his body moved before thought could through memories clouded by his mortal limits. A parry, a shove, the familiar bite of divine steel meeting flesh. The strength felt wrong, mortal muscles straining, yet… the rhythm of battle was still etched in him.

He struck one down, blade grazing the man’s chest. But instead of a clean collapse, the body twitched. Eyes widened, turning from black to burning yellow, veins bulging aquamarine. The skin cracked, jaw stretching wider than it should, wider than a snake’s, a growl ripping out of the throat that had once whispered a human tune.

Another lunged, claws tearing through glove and skin where a hand should’ve been. The stink of fur and blood filled the air.

They were not men. Not entirely.

The fight became chaos—shrieks that were neither beast nor human, blades clashing against claws and razor-sharp teeth, his breath ragged with disbelief. Why was mortality so tiring? When at last the forest fell still, bodies sprawled at his feet, half-formed—part corpse, part creature.

He stared, chest heaving. His hand trembled against the hilt.

“…Were they human?”

The words fell softly, swallowed by the trees. The corpses did not answer, their twisted faces caught between shapes, as though the world itself had abandoned them midway, slowly fading into ash, leaving not even a breath behind.

And Adithya, for the first time since his fall, felt a chill deeper than mortality. The world he had woken into was not one of gods and men, but something blurred, something wrong. He could only wash away the black, rusted scent from his hands. This time, the water felt colder. The ripples carried his reflection—a man’s face, but his eyes… they looked like they were searching for something that wasn’t there.

He lingered a long while before he moved on. The road stretched endlessly, patient, waiting. He pressed forward, but the thought stayed with him: that the world was not as he remembered. That humanity and monstrosity walked too close now, so close the seam between them had frayed. Those burning eyes reawakened memories of sleepless nights, when authoritative, harsh voices came from the living room. His sister held his curled form close, as if she were a turtle’s shell, not knowing that everything was futile.

That night, by a fire of twigs that gave little warmth, he whispered to himself:

“Perhaps I’ve woken into a world that doesn’t know where to draw its lines anymore.”

The stars flickered like old companions, silent witnesses to his wandering. He pulled his cloak tighter, listened to the forest breathe, and let the silence swallow the rest of his thoughts.