Chapter 47: Not the God You Want

The battlefield was quiet.

Only moments ago, it had thundered with the roar of boots, the hiss of steel, the war-chant of zealots. Now, there was nothing—only ash drifting through the still air and a crater where Kieros' forward regiment used to stand.

Jalen stood at the center, breathing hard.

Smoke curled off his skin. The golden hue in his veins pulsed dimly beneath the surface, and his fists were still glowing faintly from the last strike.

Bodies surrounded him—not one of his own.

Lucio stood at a distance, rifle lowered, speechless. Nathan blinked twice, the timefield around him already deactivating, like he'd been preparing for a battle that never came. Kullen slowly lowered his hand, the spell on his tongue unused.

Jalen had ended it alone.

Not because he wanted to.

Because he had to.

Behind him, the survivors whispered.

Some dropped to their knees. Others cried out prayers. A woman held her child closer and murmured, "He walks with the stars. He is the flame…"

Jalen heard it all.

And hated every word.

His voice cut through the reverent quiet like a blade.

"Stop looking at me like that."

They froze.

"I didn't do this for you," he said, not facing them. "I didn't do this for faith. I did this because if I didn't, you'd all be dead. That's it."

A long pause.

"You want to worship someone? Pray to a god who actually listens. I'm not that."

He turned and walked away from the smoking battlefield, eyes forward, fists trembling—not from exhaustion.

From bitterness.

He was tired of being a symbol.

High above, perched along the smoldering ridge, Vexa watched in silence. She didn't kneel. She didn't whisper.

She just stared.

Not with awe.

With curiosity.

And something colder—disdain.

This wasn't the first time she'd seen a "god" destroy an army.

But it was the first time she saw one flinch at the praise.

Nightfall swept in, settling like a veil over the scorched horizon. Smoke from the battlefield still drifted through the hills, glowing faintly orange beneath a bruised sky.

The survivors followed in silence, their steps uncertain. Some looked back toward the ruins, others only forward—toward the man they now believed in, even if he didn't believe in himself.

Jalen trudged at the head of the group, knuckles scraped, coat torn and streaked with ash. His jaw was tight, his steps heavy. Every eye was on him.

He hated it.

"I liked it better when I wasn't a god," he muttered under his breath.

Lucio, walking beside him, raised an eyebrow. "You mean back when you had your regulator and we were almost dying in every fight we got into?"

"Yeah. That was nice," Jalen grumbled.

Nathan, a few paces behind, cracked a smirk. "You've always hated the attention."

"I don't hate the attention," Jalen snapped. "I hate what they think the attention means."

As they crested a hill overlooking a clearing between fractured hills, Jalen paused and let out a tired exhale. His hand lifted.

The air shimmered.

Dream Mold activated.

In seconds, a handful of tents blinked into existence—modest, weather-worn, but sturdy. A crackling campfire popped to life in the center. Bowls of hot stew appeared near blankets. Wooden benches, gently worn, sprouted from the ground like old roots. It wasn't glamorous.

But it was safe.

The refugees looked on in stunned silence. Some began weeping. Others collapsed to their knees.

Jalen turned away from them, irritated. "This is a pain in the ass."

Lucio clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Still did it."

Later that night, the camp had grown quiet.

Lucio sat cleaning his rifle near the fire, humming something tuneless. Nathan leaned against a rock, eyes half-lidded, hands flicking through small time loops just to stay sharp. Kullen had fallen asleep mid-sentence, his hand still resting on a half-drawn map.

Jalen sat alone, stirring the last embers with a stick, lost in thought.

"Still awake?"

A small voice broke the silence.

Jalen turned—and saw a little girl, maybe six years old, clutching a frayed doll missing its head. Her eyes were tired, her oversized tunic patched together with twine and luck.

"…You hungry?"

She nodded.

He handed her a steaming bowl of stew from beside the fire.

But she didn't take it. Her eyes were fixed on the rag in her arms. Jalen followed her gaze at the doll, little more than fabric and thread, falling apart in her arms.

Jalen sighed, brushing ash from his sleeve. "You want something better than that?"

She nodded again.

He reached into the space between thought and creation.

A pulse of golden light flickered from his hand. A new doll formed in his lap, stitched from memory and warmth. Crooked smile. Button eyes. A little cloak like his own.

He offered it to her.

The girl took it with both hands and hugged it to her chest.

And then, for the first time since they'd arrived in this cursed land, Jalen saw it

A smile.

"Thank you, Mister God."

Not a forced one. Not relief. Just… joy.

He blinked once, watched her skip off into the shadows of the camp, and said nothing.

But for the first time that day, he felt a little lighter.

Or at least… he did.

Until he heard a faint rustle behind him.

Jalen's body tensed. Slowly, he stood and turned.

Vexa was crouched near his gear, fingers in his bag, one hand loosely holding a small, black blade.

Jalen didn't flinch.

"If you're looking for my godhood," he said, "I left it in my other coat."

She glanced up without guilt, only mild surprise that she'd been caught. "You don't lock your gear."

"Didn't think I needed to."

"You've been giving everything else away lately," she said, rising to her full height.

They stood across from each other, a soft tension lingering between them like smoke over embers.

Jalen narrowed his eyes. "You always this charming, or am I just the lucky one tonight?"

Vexa smirked faintly. "I was hoping you had food stashed."

"Would've asked."

"I don't ask gods for favors."

He raised a brow. "Good thing I'm not a god then."

"Could've fooled me."

Her voice wasn't biting. Just tired.

"You hate gods," he said.

"I hate what they leave behind."

A pause.

"They show up. They promise peace. They leave. And people like me have to live in what's left."

She took a step forward, her tone softening.

"But you're not like the others. I've seen gods kill with joy. But you? You look like it hurts to be thanked."

Jalen scoffed. "That's because it does."

"I don't trust you," Vexa said, stepping back. "But for some reason… I don't feel the need to run when I look at you."

"…Then maybe you're crazier than I thought."

"Maybe." She sheathed her blade. "But I think you are too."

And just like that, she walked off into the shadows again.

When the fire died down and the camp slept, Jalen stayed behind.

Alone beneath the stars, he stared up at the broken sky and let the thoughts bleed out.

"Everyone's got this idea of me now. Like I'm some beacon. Some chosen flame that's supposed to lead people through the dark."

He exhaled, jaw tight.

"But they don't see the cracks."

He picked up a stone and rolled it between his fingers.

"They don't see how I break a little more each time. They think I'm fearless. Untouchable. Divine."

He threw the stone into the fire.

"But I'm not. I'm still just… me."

A long pause.

"And if we win—if we kill all the others—what happens then? Do I take their place? Do I become something worse?"

He looked down at his hands, the golden glow long faded.

"…Or do I die with them?"

No answer came.

Only wind through the trees.