Coward or A god

The wind whispered along the shore of Lakewood, carrying the scent of salt, decay, and something older than either. Axir walked in silence, his footsteps firm and steady on the crumbling path of sand and shattered shells. Beside him, Damián trudged with less certainty, his gaze flickering between the horizon and the old man who seemed to walk like he had seen it all, and survived more than most should.

Trying to slice the silence in half, Damián forced a chuckle. "So… what now? Are we going fishing?" he asked, his voice laced with false amusement. The water lapped against the shore with a hollow rhythm, like a heart slowing its beat.

Axir let out a long sigh, the kind that wasn't born from tiredness but from the weight of too many memories. "We're headed to Clockspire," he said flatly, his eyes focused far beyond the lake, far beyond the present.

"Clockspire?" Damián asked, confusion lining his voice. "That's a kingdom on the third continent, right?"

"Yes," Axir answered simply.

"But why are we going there?" Damián pressed, his brow furrowing.

Axir didn't answer immediately. Instead, he paused and raised a finger toward a rust-covered speedboat tethered to a decaying post, waves slapping its sides like it was being punished for still existing. The boat looked like it had survived storms, wars, and maybe even time itself. Its hull was chipped, its engine half-exposed, and its colors were long faded into rust and gray.

"That's our ride," Axir said with quiet certainty.

Damián stared at it, dumbfounded. "That thing? How far can it even take us?"

Axir's lips curled into the ghost of a smile. "As far as the journey to divinity."

The words sent a chill down Damián's spine. There was something unsettling in the way Axir said them—like the phrase wasn't a metaphor, but a measurement. Damián let out an awkward laugh, masking the way his nerves twisted inside him. Without further argument, he climbed into the boat, and Axir followed. Together, they untied it and set off into the unknown.

The engine coughed like a sick dog but came alive. The boat cut through the water, pushing them across the lake like a forgotten prophecy trying to find its final chapter. The smell of the ocean was thick—salt, fish, rot, and something darker. The kind of scent that clings to your soul, not just your clothes.

For hours they traveled under the changing sky. Eventually, the boat approached a small island, barely more than a lump of land in the water, fringed with trees and wrapped in silence. It wasn't on any map Damián remembered. They decided to rest there for a few days. The island was still and strange, untouched and quietly watching.

They built a small camp as dusk bled into night. Damián helped with the firewood, his hands still unfamiliar with work, and Axir set up a perimeter with the casual experience of a man who had camped in places far less kind. The fire flickered to life, casting orange shadows that danced across their faces.

And then — rustling.

A soft, sharp shiver cut through the bushes behind them. Damián turned, spine stiffening. His heart skipped a beat. It was too dark. Too quiet. He swallowed hard.

"What was that?" he asked, eyes wide, voice thin.

Axir didn't look up from the fire. "Probably rats."

And indeed, rats burst from the bushes, squealing as they scattered. But something was wrong.

They were running away from something.

Then it stepped out.

First came the stench — wet meat, rusted iron, ocean slime, and death. And then the thing followed: a beast torn from the pages of madness. It towered above the bushes, its skin leathery and dark, glinting with patches of fish-like scales. Three snarling mouths opened and closed across its torso like doors to different hells. Its feet slapped the earth with a wet squelch, each toe ending in claws like chipped obsidian. But what struck Damián still — what froze every thought in his head — was the beast's head.

Or rather, its eye.

There was no skull, no mouth, no features. Just a massive, pulsing eyeball, protruding and lidless, twitching, gazing, knowing. The pupil narrowed, then widened, then fixed itself on Damián.

He couldn't breathe. Couldn't scream. The air became iron in his lungs.

And then—he ran.

He didn't look back. He didn't want to see that monstrous gaze again. His feet tore through the underbrush, snapping twigs, tripping over roots. His heart pounded, not like a rhythm of life, but like a clock counting down to death.

Behind him, he heard Axir's voice, calm as ever: "That's a Joua."

Damián didn't care. He didn't want names. He wanted distance.

Gunshots echoed — crack, crack, crack — but they were swallowed by the forest. Ineffective.

Still running, Damián shouted, "I can't fight that thing! I don't even know how to fight!"

Axir's voice chased him like a ghost: "You never know if you can fight… until you're forced to find out."

Damián didn't turn back. He didn't believe in last stands. Not today. Not with a beast like that. Not with a single eyeball large enough to stare into his every regret.

He stumbled.

The world tilted.

He crashed to the ground, arms scraping over stone and thorn. Dirt filled his mouth. His palms bled. He groaned, tried to rise—

And then a shadow fell across him.

Damián looked up.

The Joua loomed above him like a forgotten god, silent and still. Its massive pupil dilated, focused—locked—on him.

It blinked once.

And Damián knew he would never be the same again.