Celestial Descendant

I was born in silence, and in silence, I weep.

From the outer realms, I look upon this godless world, a canvas painted with despair. Here lies a battlefield, once vibrant with life, now reduced to a desolate expanse of death and sorrow. The air hangs heavy with the scent of decay, a stark reminder of the lives lost in the name of conflict. Amidst the chaos, there blooms a single flower, its delicate petals trembling against the backdrop of destruction—a beacon of hope in a realm steeped in darkness.

As I gaze down, my heart aches with pity for the innocence that still roams this forsaken land. My eyes fall upon a young boy, no older than five, staggering through the wreckage. His feet, torn and bloodied from days of aimless wandering, barely hold him upright. His clothes hang in tatters, little more than rags clinging to his frail form. His lips, cracked and devoid of moisture, betray the days he has endured without water. Yet, even in his desperation, he musters the strength to call out a haunting cry that echoes through the silence.

“Brother! Where are you?” His voice trembles, cracking under the weight of his fear. “I’m so thirsty… My feet hurt so much… Why can’t you hear me?”

He takes a few more painful steps, his small, bloodied hands clutching his stomach as hunger gnaws at him. The boy’s mind is fading, struggling to grasp reality, yet a single thought keeps him moving, I must find my brother. He’ll know what to do. He’ll save me.

But hope is a cruel companion.

As he stumbles forward, the world seems to freeze. There, amidst the wreckage, he finds only the severed head of his brother, a sight that sears itself into his memory. The expression on the boy's face transforms in an instant—shock, trauma, and regret intertwining, each emotion a blade carving deeper into his young heart. He had come too late.

“No! No! No!” he cries, his voice rising to a wail. “Why did you leave me? I thought you’d come back! Please, wake up!”

He falls to his knees, trembling fingers reaching out to touch his brother's face. The boy clutches the head close, his body wracked with sobs. It is as if he hopes that by holding his brother, he can still feel some remnant of warmth, of life.

In the distance, I see a flicker of movement—an enemy search party, drawn by the boy’s desperate screams, eager to extinguish the last vestiges of life. Their voices carry over the battlefield.

“Did you hear that?” one soldier says, his eyes narrowing. “Sounds like we’ve got a survivor.”

“Let’s finish this quickly. I’m tired of chasing shadows,” another replies, adjusting his weapon with a cruel grin.

“Let the little brat scream. It’ll be easier to find him,” the third adds, laughing as they move closer.

My heart races. “Run, boy! Run!” I call out, but my voice is swallowed by the void, unheard and powerless. He remains transfixed, lost in the chaos of his mind, too overwhelmed by grief to comprehend the danger.

The boy clutches his brother’s severed head, trembling. His voice grows softer, weaker, as he whispers, “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”

In the distance, the soldiers close in. Among them, one archer pulls back his bowstring, his eyes narrowing as he gauges the distance—just far enough to feel detached from the act, yet close enough that he can see the boy's fragile form kneeling among corpses.

“Such a waste of life,” the archer mutters, almost to himself. He adjusts his grip, fingers brushing against the smooth string of his bow. “No point in letting the brat suffer any longer.”

His companions nod silently.

The tension in the air mirrors the strain of the bowstring, drawn tight with lethal precision. The archer's breath slows, his focus sharp as a blade. In this moment, time seems to stretch—an unspoken pause before the inevitable.

He’s just a child, I think, desperately trying to will my voice to reach the boy, but the void swallows my words whole.

The archer’s gaze hardens, his resolve unshaken. He exhales slowly, a calm indifference settling over him. "Sweet dreams, little one," he murmurs as he releases the arrow.

The twang of the bowstring slices through the air like a whisper of death, the arrow cutting across the battlefield. Its path is silent, unwavering, and sure.

In that fleeting second, as the arrow speeds toward its mark, the world holds its breath.

It strikes the boy in the forehead with a sickening thud, burying itself deep. His small body crumples to the ground, lifeless. Yet even in death, his fingers never release their grip on his brother’s severed head, clinging to the last remnants of love and loss.

I weep for him, for the world he will never know, for the brother he sought in vain. Oh, how it pains me to witness this! A universe devoid of hope, where innocence is extinguished by cruelty.

Hear my prayer, O heavens! Where is the justice in this? Where are the gods to protect the innocent? I cry out for a god to be born into this lonely existence, a deity to guide the lost and comfort the broken. Let there be a light in this darkness, a spark of life to remind the world that hope still exists!

In a moment that defies the order of the heavens, a god lowers His head. For the first time in a millennium, a prayer escapes divine lips. A taboo that shakes the foundations of the universe, for gods do not pray—gods do not plead.

To pray is to admit weakness. It is to acknowledge helplessness, a humility that gods, by their nature, do not possess. The heavens are built upon pride, power, and silence. And yet, on this day, in this forsaken world, I break that sacred law.

A prayer for the fallen, a cry for hope in a world that no longer deserves it.

Their pride binds them to power, to silence. They do not bow. They do not humble themselves before the chaos of the mortal realm. But on this day, in this forsaken world, I weep—a tear falling from the celestial heights.

The tear is no ordinary droplet. It is golden, shimmering with divine essence, imbued with the prayer of a god. The essence of hope, sorrow, and divine longing to birth salvation where none should be. It contains my anguish and my plea—a manifestation of my despair for this cursed land.