The Echoes of a Forgotten World

The forge of Limnos burned as bright as ever, filling the chamber with an orange glow. Sparks danced through the air as molten metal sizzled against cool stone. The rhythmic sound of hammer striking steel echoed across the floating city.

Hephaestus worked as he always had—silent, methodical, and focused.

Yet, something stirred within him.

A memory.

No, not a vision, nor a dream. Just… a flicker.

It was as if a distant fire had been reignited at the edges of his soul, its warmth barely noticeable.

But Hephaestus did not falter. He did not stop working.

For a god of the forge, memories were like iron—malleable, useful, but ultimately, just another material to shape.

The world had changed.

The fragments that fell from beyond the stars were reshaping reality itself.

Hephaestus had sensed them the moment they descended—their essence, their power.

But it was the dragon fragment that lingered with him the most.

It was familiar, though he could not say why.

And then, the memories came—not as an overwhelming flood, but as an ember rekindled.

He remembered a world before this one.

A world where he had been a man, not a god.

A world where he had been an adventurer, traveling across vast continents, battling nightmarish creatures from the abyss.

A world where he had fought, where he had loved.

A world where he had a wife.

A dragon.

She had been unlike any other—a being of both fire and wisdom, fierce yet kind, powerful yet gentle.

They had walked together, fought together, built a life together.

But when the war began—when the Undead King rose from the depths and twisted the world into chaos—she did not hesitate.

She fought, as she always had.

She burned through legions of the dead, her wings blotting out the sun, her flames turning night into day.

But even she could not stand against the endless tide.

In the final battle, as the world began to crumble, she made a choice.

She sacrificed herself.

Not just to stop the enemy, but to ensure something of their world remained.

And as she perished, her children, eggs born from Hephaestus's past life with her—was preserved in the dying world's final breath.

Her body became one of the fragments—the very same that had fallen into this world and birthed a new race of dragons.

She had become the foundation for a new beginning.

Yet, her sacrifice was useless in saving their world.

The Greatest Evil that cause the war who was born from bones and death, an undead unlike any before it that rose from the abyss. It continued gathering his armies—behemoths from the deepest trenches, nightmarish leviathans that eclipsed the sun, and spirits of the elements twisted into horrors of corruption.

The adventurer fought alone after the dead of his wife.

He fought for his home, for his people, for the love he had found in this world.

He led warriors, mages, and kings into battle.

Until he alone stood at the end.

His blade pierced the Undead King's heart, and the abomination crumbled to dust.

But the victory was hollow.

The world had already begun to shatter.

The battle had been so cataclysmic, the very foundation of reality had cracked.

Continents split apart. The sky burned. The seas boiled.

The world, once whole, shattered into fragments, pieces flung across the endless void of the multiverse.

Only the central landmass remained—dying, crumbling.

And there he stood, the last man of a dying world, watching its final breath.

The memory faded.

Hephaestus did not tremble. He did not weep. He did not lose himself in grief.

Instead, he continued his work, shaping metal with steady hands.

Because that was who he was.

He was not the man from before.

He was Hephaestus, the god of the forge.

The past was a material to be forged into something new—nothing more, nothing less.

But still… he could not deny what he had seen.

The world was evolving.

The fragments were not mere accidents; they were echoes of something greater.

And somewhere out there, the dragons of this new world—the descendants of his past life—were taking their first breath.

Perhaps, in another life, he would have sought them out.

Perhaps, in another life, he would have mourned.

But he was Hephaestus.

He would not dwell on ghosts.

Instead, he would do what he had always done.

He would build.

He would forge.

And he would shape the world as it came.