The One Who Faced God

Grampy Odd (his voice falling into a hush):

"When Skarveth raised a single finger… something divine ruptured."

[A slit opened between his celestial eyebrows like a wound.]

"From that hollow space… twelve drops of blood emerged."

"But his blood—oh, it wasn't red."

"It was lustrous gold. Not the gold of coins or kings… but a shimmering, hungry gold—alive, pulsing, like starlight liquified. And as the drops hovered in the air, spinning slowly like tiny suns, something ancient stirred in the hearts of men."

[The fanatics, once crazed by desperation, now trembled with a different hunger—a primal craving they didn't understand.]

Grampy Odd (softly):

"Skarveth's blood awakened something buried deep in their bones… not worship, not awe... but the thirst for dominion."

Theodor, the leader of the cult, dropped to his knees.

He extended twelve obsidian bowls, hands shaking but eyes wide with purpose.

One by one, the Golden Tears settled into the bowls, humming faintly like restrained thunder.

Then—with a blink—

Skarveth vanished.

Not in light. Not in sound.

He was simply gone—like he had never been there.

[Silence fell. Heavy. Almost unholy.]

The world stood still. The sun returned, hesitant and weak behind veils of ash. But the Golden Tears shone brighter than daylight.

Grampy Odd:

"Soon, the elites of what remained of human civilization gathered. A summit was held in the last standing city—deep beneath a mountain, away from the chaos above. They feared what the blood meant. They feared who controlled it. But more than anything… they feared each other."

After days of fire-eyed arguments and bloodless negotiations, a decision was made:

The Golden Tears—now revered as divine artifacts—would be planted in twelve sacred sites and places

Grampy Odd (voice lowering):

"Each place… soaked in history, death, and destiny. They believed if the Golden Tears were planted where blood had once changed the world, maybe they could change it again."

[And so they did.]

Ceremonies were held. The twelve bowls were carried like holy relics by armored processions, watched by survivors, cultists, and soldiers alike. The blood was planted—not poured, but buried. As soon as the last drop touched soil, the earth shivered.

Forests did not grow.

Not immediately.

Instead… they heard whispers.

In the wind. In the roots. In their sleep.

And from that day forward—something began watching.

Unnamed Kid 2 (huddled, whispering): "Whispers…?"

Grampy Odd (smiling coldly):

"Ah yes, child. You see, the world expected miracles. But when you use a god's blood… the god never really leaves."

Grampy Odd (low, steady voice):

"For two days, the earth shivered—just gently. A soft tremor beneath the soles of farmers and soldiers alike."

"Then, without warning… it happened."

[At every site where the Golden Tears had been buried , grasses began to rise. First thin, then thick. Then came vines, curling like serpents. And then… the trees. Not ordinary trees. These were towers of emerald , their bark shimmering like obsidian, their roots splitting stone.]

"They grew fast—too fast."

"By midnight, forests 500 meters tall blanketed the soils. Entire cities could hide within their shade. What was once ash… became wilderness."

[The world stared.]

Satellite footage couldn't explain it. Scientists failed. Religions panicked or claimed it. People named them: The Forests of Golden Tears.

Grampy Odd (smiling faintly):

"Some said it was salvation. Others said it was a warning dressed as a miracle."

One Year Later

The world had changed.

The air was cleaner. Crops grew twice as fast near the forest borders. But so did something else...

Faith.

The fanatics, once dismissed as madmen, were now revered. Their leader, Theodor, became The Mouth of Skarveth—a living prophet. Shrines were raised. Songs were sung.

They called him:

Skarveth, The Forest-Father

The One Who Bled Gold

The Lord of the Twelve Roots

But not all bowed.

Some still questioned.

Some called it sorcery. Trickery. Alien. Wrong.

A small group of these nonbelievers, scholars and survivalists, ventured into one of the forests—Forest Thermopylae, named after its sacred root. They carried maps. Blades. Tools. They said they wanted to "study" the Golden Tear... but some whispered their true intent: to steal it.

Grampy Odd (eyes narrowing):

"But there are things you do not touch… and gods you do not test."

Somewhere Deep in the Sea...

[In a trench older than time, buried beneath coral and bone… a body slept. Still, enormous, wrapped in flowing silver hair like kelp, glowing faintly with divine light. The ocean hushed around him. Skarveth… was dreaming.]

But then—

Something tugged at his blood. A ripple in the roots. A foreign touch. A wrongness.

Skarveth's eyes snapped open.

They glowed golden green, and the sea fled his gaze.

[In a blink—not a second later—he stood before the intruders.]

Forest of Thermopylae — Present

[The intruders had reached the glowing tear embedded in the heartwood of the tallest tree. They didn't get the chance to speak.]

A windless silence fell. Birds stopped singing. Leaves froze.

And then—he was there.

Skarveth appeared without sound, without flash—just was.

He stood between the men and the Golden Tear. His silver hair fell like rivers down his back. His green eyes shimmered. And around his neck, the ring of bite marks throbbed with a soft glow.

He looked down at them—not with rage…

…but with disappointment.

Skarveth (calmly):

"So. This… is what curiosity tastes like."

[The intruders staggered back. One dropped his tools. Another began to whisper a prayer—but not to Skarveth.]

Skarveth:

"Do you truly understand what you tried to touch?"

A pause.

"No... of course you don't."

[The tree behind him pulsed. The forest bent toward him—as if listening.]

Skarveth (softly, almost regretful):

"I bled not to be worshipped... but to be remembered."

"You touch my blood like thieves in a tomb. So now…"

[His voice dropped to a whisper colder than ice.]

"I shall remind you why gods… are feared."

Grampy Odd (his voice cold and distant, as though recalling something from centuries ago):

Skarveth did not scream. He did not rage. He simply glared.

A god does not beg. He reminds.

[With a single glare—his eyes glowing like dying suns—the intruders in the Forest of Thermopylae were reduced to ash. No fire. No screams. Just dust drifting on a god's breath.]

Then, Skarveth lifted into the air, rising like a dark sun through the twisted canopy. His silver hair flowed behind him like rivers of moonlight. The wind howled in reverence.

He flew toward the stone-crowned castle built by his followers—The Rooted Keep, where golden statues of his form lined the walls like prison bars of devotion.

And as he soared, he sang:

"I bled the sun to give you light—

You blink and curse my gift in spite.

I made you gods, you made me rot—

Now choke on love you all forgot."

[The sky darkened with every note. Clouds curled like smoke from a dying pyre. The air crackled with divine electricity.]

The believers, seeing their god descend, fell to their knees in awe and terror. Some cried. Others smiled with blind joy. And at the center of them stood Theodor, arms open, lips trembling.

Theodor (chanting):

"Skin tears, bones crack—

In hunger we are made whol—"

Skarveth (cutting him off, voice like thunder cracking bone):

"Do not chant my name from your rotten mouth.

I don't accept praises from creatures worse than termites..."

"You're insects. No—worse. You are the termites that devour their own hive."

[The crowd froze. Smiles turned to silence. Eyes widened in fear.]

Skarveth (calmly):

"You wanted this planet saved...

So now, I shall do exactly that."

"I will wipe out the insects—one by one—those rotting it from inside."

[Before a single word could be spoken—before a scream could rise—his hair began to move.]

The flowing strands of silver unraveled like sentient rivers. In an instant, they shot forward—snaking through the air and coiling around the necks of all forty seven followers standing in the courtyard.

[Theodor's scream never made it out of his throat.]

The hair lifted them into the air, dangling like puppets.

Then—it began to feed.

[Skarveth's hair turned crimson.]

The believers shivered violently, their faces twisted in agony as their blood was drained—not spilled, but siphoned through his hair like red wine up a straw.

[Their bodies shriveled—limbs thinning, eyes hollowing—until only withered husks remained. Bones wrapped in flesh, dried like leaves in flame.]

They weren't just dead.

They were erased.

Grampy Odd (his tone like ash falling):

"And in that moment, the god tasted the first blood he'd had in centuries. Not from beasts. Not from war. But from believers. The sweetest flavor of all..."

[Skarveth stood alone, floating among the corpses he once called worshippers.]

His body glowed with a dark crimson light. His silver hair now dripped with red like ink from forgotten scriptures.

Skarveth (quietly, to the air):

"You poisoned my gift with greed.

So now... the soil will drink you."

[Below, the forest roots shifted.]

The dead bodies fell—skin and bone—and were instantly consumed by the ground. Not buried. Absorbed.

Grampy Odd (softly):

"And thus, the first reckoning began."

The god who gave blood…

Took it back.

Unnamed Kid 1 (wide-eyed): "He killed his own believers?"

Grampy Odd (nodding solemnly):

"Worship means nothing if it comes from rot."