The Weight Of A Forgotten Name

Before he could take a steady breath, the jungle erupted with movement. The trees shuddered as dozens—no, hundreds—of goblins poured from the undergrowth, their beady eyes glinting with savage hunger.

The brothers cursed, stepping back, their blades raised. "This island is cursed!" the younger one shouted.

Stormbringer barely heard him. His chest ached, the weight of his weakened body unfamiliar. He tried to summon his power, to call upon the storms that once obeyed his command—nothing.

A goblin leaped at him.

Instinct took over.

Stormbringer's hand shot to his chest. His fingers wrapped around the jagged handle of the dagger still embedded in his flesh. With a growl of pain and fury, he ripped it free.

Golden blood splattered onto the stone.

The goblins hesitated, their nostrils flaring at the scent of something ancient, something divine. But it was too late.

Stormbringer moved.

Despite his weakened state, his body still remembered battle. He slashed the dagger through the air, the enchanted blade carving through flesh like paper. Goblins shrieked as they fell, dark blood spraying across the ruined tomb.

The elder brother stared in shock. "He fights like a demon…"

Stormbringer spun, driving the dagger into a goblin's throat before wrenching it free. Another lunged—he caught it by the skull, crushing bone with his grip.

His breath was ragged. His limbs were heavy. But with every strike, with every drop of enemy blood spilled, the fire in his eyes grew.

He was Stormbringer.

And even at his weakest, he was still a god of war

He stood amidst the carnage, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. Goblin corpses littered the ground, their dark blood soaking into the cracked stone. The dagger in his grip dripped with ichor, his own golden blood staining the handle.

He exhaled, instinctively lifting a hand toward the sky.

Summon the storm.

The heavens did not answer.

A flicker of something cold ran through him. He clenched his jaw, focusing harder—lightning, winds, the wrath of the storm itself.

Nothing.

Stormbringer's hand fell to his side. His power, his divinity… it was gone.

The elder brother approached cautiously, his sword still drawn. "You're bleeding," he said, motioning toward the wound where the dagger had once been.

Stormbringer barely acknowledged him. He was staring at his own hands, his fingers trembling. He had fought, he had killed—but the storm had not come.

The younger brother took a step forward, glancing between the dead goblins and the fallen warrior. "You really don't know what happened to you, do you?"

Stormbringer's golden eyes flickered toward them.

"No," he admitted, his voice rough. "I don't."

For the first time in his existence, the god of storms stood beneath an open sky… and felt powerless.

Stormbringer's breath was heavy as he wiped the dagger clean on a fallen goblin's tunic. The brothers stood a few paces away, watching him with wide eyes, their hands still gripping their swords—not in hostility, but in awe.

The younger brother swallowed hard, then spoke. "You… you're Stormbringer. The legendary hero from 200 years ago, aren't you?"

Stormbringer's fingers tightened around the hilt of the dagger. The name sounded distant, like an echo across time. Two hundred years?

His memories had returned, but the truth was only now sinking in. The battle, the betrayal, the cold steel of Malachai's blade piercing his chest… It had been centuries. The world had moved on. The angels, the heavens, everything he knew—gone or changed beyond recognition.

"I…" His voice faltered. He should have had an answer, but the weight of time crushed him. His golden eyes flickered toward the ruins, toward the shattered tomb that had been his prison.

Stormbringer was a name written in history books. A myth. A story.

And yet, here he stood.

He looked at his own trembling hands, hands that once summoned the wrath of the heavens but now held nothing but a stolen dagger.

"I don't know if I am him anymore," he admitted.

The brothers exchanged glances, uncertainty on their faces.

But the storm had returned. And even without his divinity, his war was not over.