God's Tree-Chapter 209: The Forgotten Hero & The Life That Could Have Been
He awoke to fire and screaming.
Not distant. Not imagined.
Real.
Close.
The ground shook beneath him—cracked and bleeding molten light. The sky churned with smoke, thick with ash and ruin. Massive towers fell in slow collapse, their ancient runes flaring one last time before crumbling to dust.
The world was dying.
And he was already running.
He didn't know his name—none of them did. But in this life, he was strong. His body moved like instinct. His hands wove runes into the air without thinking. His voice, when he spoke, made the shattered stone pause.
He had been born into war.
Into the last breath of a crumbling realm.
And somehow…
They believed in him.
He became their champion.
They called him The Flamebound.
They gave him armor spun from dragonhide and gold-threaded bone. They gave him a sword forged from the last meteor that struck their world.
But what they gave him most…
Was hope.
He led armies through storms of madness. Closed rifts that bled stars into their soil. Faced a god-thing that had slumbered beneath the world for a thousand years—and sealed it with his own blood.
He fought.
And fought.
And won.
Piece by piece, he stitched the world back together with fire and resolve.
And they loved him for it.
Until they didn't.
The wars ended.
The skies cleared.
Children were born into peace.
And the people began to fear the man who had once carried their salvation.
"He holds too much power."
"He commands forces none of us understand."
"He is not like us anymore."
He saw it in their eyes.
The unease.
The whispers.
The way hands no longer clapped his shoulder, but hovered near the hilts of daggers.
He smiled through it.
Even as his name was left out of the songs.
Even as statues were replaced with new heroes—clean, young, safe.
Even as the council met in secret to "discuss the Flamebound problem."
He knew.
The betrayal came at dawn.
In a temple he had rebuilt with his own hands.
No trial.
No ceremony.
Just steel through his back.
And a whisper:
"I'm sorry. You were never supposed to outlive the war."
He did not fight back.
Not because he couldn't.
But because he understood.
Sometimes… people fear what reminds them of their own weakness.
And a savior, left alive too long, becomes a threat.
As his blood spread across the marble floor, he looked to the high windows.
And saw the sun rising over a world he had saved.
And even in betrayal…
He was glad.
Because they would live.
Even if they forgot him.
Even if they erased him.
He had given them the chance to begin again.
And that… was enough.
The light returned.
And he stepped onto the next stair.
But this time, he was slower.
He paused.
Placed a hand to his chest where the blade had passed.
And whispered—not in anger, but in reflection:
"It is not enough to be needed."
"You must also be allowed to go."
And then he climbed.
He was born in a village so small it didn't appear on any map.
There were no temples.
No towers.
No kingdoms.
Only winding dirt paths, wheat fields that swayed like gold under the morning sun, and laughter carried on the wind from open windows.
He was given a name—Thalen.
And this time, for the first time…
He was happy from the start.
He didn't know who he had been before.
Didn't feel the weight of destiny or the burn of forgotten battles.
There was no ache in his bones, no questions whispered by stars.
Just sunlight.
Soil.
And her.
Her name was Maera.
She had hair the color of riverstone and eyes that saw through clouds. She worked the apiary near the edge of the village and often came home with honey on her fingers and tiny stings on her wrists.
They met by accident.
Or perhaps… by the kind of fate that doesn't come from gods, but from gardens.
She smiled when he tripped over a root near her fence.
He smiled back, covered in dust and embarrassment.
And that was the start.
They didn't marry quickly.
They met in the market.
Talked under trees.
Sat in silence beside the stream.
There was no grand confession.
No drama.
No war.
Just a deepening.
Like roots beneath soil—unseen, but certain.
He made her tea from leaves she didn't know he had been gathering for weeks.
She carved his name into the leg of his stool when she thought he wouldn't notice.
But he did.
And he loved her for it.
The seasons passed.
Winters were kind.
Springs were wet and sweet.
They laughed too much. Argued too little.
Planted a garden they never quite finished.
They talked, sometimes, of children.
Not urgently.
Just softly.
Like it was a song meant to be sung later.
But fate does not always wait for harvest.
The sickness came quietly.
A fever that clung to her bones. A trembling that wouldn't stop.
She tried to hide it.
But he saw.
He sat beside her bed, holding her hand with both of his, whispering stories she had already heard—but loved anyway.
And when her eyes finally dimmed, she said only:
"I'll wait by the stream."
Then she was gone.
He lived many years after.
Never remarried.
Never left the village.
He kept the garden.
Finished the bench.
Tended the bees.
Every spring, he planted something new—not to sell, but to remember.
And on his last day, when the weight in his chest could no longer be ignored, he walked to the stream—
And sat.
And waited.
And smiled.
When the light came again—
He didn't step forward right away.
He turned his head.
As if part of him remembered something… sweet.
Something small.
Not grand.
But real.
He placed a hand over his heart.
And thanked it.
Then, quietly…
He took the next step.
He was born during a storm.
Not the kind that brought rain, but the kind that turned the air to knives and the sky to iron.
His mother died in labor.
His father never came forward.
And so, from the moment he breathed his first, the whispers began.
"Cursed."
"Born of ruin."
"Bad omen."
No name was given to him that day.
Only a glance—and a turning of backs.
They called him Scrap.
Not because he fought, but because he was treated like rubble—unwanted leftovers in a world that worshipped order, bloodlines, and light.
The city was made of marble and mist. Floating above the cliffs on sacred glyphs, it was a place of learning, elegance, and legacy.
And he… was none of those.
He grew in shadows.
Swept streets.
Lived beneath a stairwell in the old southern district.
Ate from behind bakeries.
Breathed in soot.
But he watched. fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm
Always watched.
He studied the runes etched into stone pillars.
He copied the gestures of the spell-tongues spoken by the skypriests, though he couldn't cast a single spell.
And when others slept, he listened to the wind—because no one else ever spoke to him.
He didn't hate them.
He wanted to.
But it was hard to hate when you were so desperate to be seen.
He helped quietly.
Put out fires.
Repaired broken stones.
Left food for children who had homes—but not enough to eat.
And yet no one asked who had helped.
Because no one looked for him.
Until the night the tower fell.
The sacred Hall of Judgment—home to the ruling council—collapsed in a midnight quake. The glyphs cracked. The spells buckled. Screams echoed through the sky like torn fabric.
People fled.
Leaders trapped.
And no one acted.
Except Scrap.
He climbed.
Through fire.
Through smoke.
Through stone that glowed hot with failing magic.
He pulled them out. One by one.
No spells.
No sword.
Just hands.
Burned. Broken. Bloodied.
But unshaking.
He collapsed outside the rubble as dawn rose.
And for the first time, someone said his name.
Not "Scrap."
But his true name—one he didn't know he'd ever had:
"You're the one who saved us."
"Who are you?"
He didn't know how to answer.
So he said nothing.
And smiled.
The council gave him robes. A home. Praise.
But it was too late.
He never wanted their gold.
He just wanted to be seen before he bled.
A year later, his lungs failed from smoke still caught in them.
He died quietly, alone again.
But this time, with peace.
Because he had lived a life that proved one thing:
Worth is not given.
It is chosen.
The light returned.
And he stood again.
Hands burned no longer.
Heart wiser still.
He stepped onto the next stair.
Not because someone asked him to.
But because he knew he could.
