The rise of Kings

The sands stretched endlessly before him, golden waves shifting beneath the weight of the wind. The immortal walked alone, his feet leaving no lasting imprint, his presence unnoticed by the world around him. He had left the boy behind, knowing the child had learned all he could from him—without words, without lessons, simply through the act of watching.

Now, his path led him elsewhere.

Akkad was not the only city reaching for greatness. Far to the south, another power was stirring, one that would shape the world for millennia. The immortal had seen kingdoms rise and crumble before, their rulers convinced of their own permanence, only to be swallowed by the sands of time. But this… this was different.

He arrived at the banks of the great river, where men toiled beneath the unforgiving sun, their bodies slick with sweat, their hands caked with mud. They raised stones higher than any he had seen before, constructing something that defied nature itself—a monument to the gods, to eternity.

A pyramid.

The immortal stood at the edge of the labor camp, watching as hundreds of workers moved in perfect rhythm, a tide of human effort bending to the will of a single man. Their overseers cracked whips, barking commands, their eyes sharp for any sign of weakness. Yet it was not cruelty that drove them, but something far greater.

A vision.

The man responsible for this vision stood atop a platform of stone, gazing down at his people with an expression of quiet certainty. His robes were pristine despite the dust in the air, his head adorned with the symbols of divine rule. He was no mere leader, no warlord claiming temporary power.

He was a god in the eyes of his people.

Djoser, Pharaoh of Kemet.

The immortal watched as the pharaoh descended, speaking softly to his advisors, to his architect—a man whose name would outlive even kings.

Imhotep.

The architect was unlike the rulers and generals the immortal had known before. He did not command through strength or fear, but through knowledge. He spoke of measurements, of angles and weight distribution, of ensuring that the great monument would stand long after they were all gone. He saw further than anyone else, further than even the pharaoh himself.

The immortal felt something stir within him.

This was what he had been waiting for. Not war, not conquest, but creation. A structure meant to outlast its makers, a testament to the will of man.

And yet, he knew the truth.

Nothing was eternal.

Not kings. Not dynasties. Not even the stones they stacked so carefully beneath the burning sun.

He moved unseen through the camp, watching the builders, the slaves, the planners. He traced his fingers along the unfinished walls, feeling the heat trapped within the limestone. He listened to the whispered doubts of the workers, the fear of collapse, the uncertainty of those who followed orders they did not understand.

For the first time in centuries, the immortal considered speaking. Interfering. Changing the course of history with a single word.

But he did not.

He was not here to shape the world. He was here to witness it.

So he walked among them like a shadow, unseen and unheard, as the first great pyramid rose against the sky. He watched as Pharaoh Djoser stood before his people, declaring his name would live forever. He watched as Imhotep sketched plans for even grander structures, dreaming of stone reaching toward the heavens.

He watched as the world moved forward without him.

And when the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the half-finished monument into darkness, the immortal turned and walked away.

There was nothing more for him here.

Somewhere, in another city, another time, a boy was becoming a man. And when their paths crossed again, the world would know his name.