When gods grow hungry

The last thing Zhong Yue heard was the laughter of gods. "He actually thought he could hide." The woman's voice floated down from the platform's edge. She had silver eyes and hair like moonlight. "A scribe. In a dirt village. The last of the great Fuxi reduced to copying letters for farmers." A man in gold laughed. "Pathetic. Ten thousand years of hunting, and this is what remained." "He never even fought back," she said. "He just stood there while we carved the curse into his blood." "Because he knew it was over." The golden man leaned over the edge and watched him fall. "They all know, eventually. They are cattle. They have always been cattle." "Cattle don't dream of empires," she said. "But this one had the blood." "And now that blood is dust." "Should we watch him hit the ground?" she asked. "Why bother?" The golden man turned away. "It will be a stain on the grass and nothing more." Their voices faded as the wind screamed past his ears. The ground was still far below. The ruins of the old human capital spread out like a broken map. But inside his chest, something moved. A tiny ember, hidden so deep the gods had missed it. It flickered once. Twice. Then it began to spread. The pain was worse than dying. He opened his mouth to scream, but only blood came out. The ritual had already torn his soul apart. The curse had burned through his veins. He was dead. He should be dead. Then the fire spoke. "The path of humanity was never meant to be walked alone." The voice was not like the gods. It was older. Softer. Made of a thousand whispers. It wrapped around him like a blanket. "Mother," he tried to say. "Father." They were gone. The gods had taken them when he was a child. But a memory surfaced through the fire. A man with kind eyes and calloused hands knelt before him. "Remember, Yue. Remember what they took from us." A woman with grey hair drew symbols in the dirt. "Belief is the true fuel. Not for them. For us." He had never understood. Not until now. The fire spoke again. "That is the first law of the Human Dao. Belief is the true fuel." "I don't understand," he whispered into the wind. "You will." The ground rushed up. He saw the field of wild grass. The broken stones. The shadow of his own falling body. "Get up," the fire said. "You will get up." He hit the earth. Pain exploded through him. White and blinding. His left arm snapped. Three ribs cracked. He tasted dirt and blood. The world went dark. Then his eyes opened. He lay in the field. The sky was impossibly blue. The gods were gone. They had not even bothered to watch him land. He turned his head, the movement sending fresh agony through his body. A few feet away, half buried in the earth, lay a fragment of the execution platform. Carved into its surface was the symbol of the Sky-Rulers. A twisted knot of celestial script. And beneath it, barely visible, was another symbol. His symbol. The Fuxi. He stared at it for a long time. The wind moved through the grass. Somewhere, a bird called out. "I'm still here," he whispered. The words cracked. They hurt. But he said them again. "I'm still here." The flame in his chest pulsed, warm and gentle, like a mother's hand on a fevered child. "Who are you?" he asked the silence. "I am what was lost. I am what remains. I am the fire your people carried before the sky fell." Tears slid down his cheeks, cutting tracks through dirt and blood. "Why me? I am no warrior. I am no hero." "You are the last. Not because you are strong. Because you survived. Because you remembered." "Remembered what?" "That belief is the true fuel. That a single spark can become a flame. That the path of humanity was never meant to be walked alone." He lay there, crying. Not from the pain. From the weight of it all. From the memory of every human face that had ever looked up and begged for mercy that never came. "I don't know what to do," he said. "Then learn. Walk the ruins. Read what was left behind. Find the scattered clans. Teach them what you know." "I will die." "Then die trying. But do not let the flame die with you." He looked at the Fuxi symbol in the dirt. His fingers trembled as he reached out and touched it. "I will remember," he said. The flame pulsed. Steady. Alive. He pushed himself up with his one good arm. The world spun. He almost fell again. But he did not fall. He stood. The field stretched around him, empty and silent. In the distance, the old human capital loomed, broken and dead. "That is where you must go," the fire said. He took a step. Agony. Another. Each one felt like dying again. But he kept walking. The sun began to set as he reached the edge of the city. The shadows grew long. The buildings rose like the bones of a forgotten world. He stopped, breathing hard, trembling with exhaustion. The streets were empty. The silence absolute. But he could feel it. The history. The pain. The hope. It was all still here, waiting for someone to remember. He took one last look at the sky. The gods were up there, drinking wine and laughing at the death of a scribe. They had no idea what they had left behind. "One day," he whispered. "One day, you will see." He stepped into the ruins. Darkness swallowed him. Behind him, the broken fragment of the execution platform lay in the grass. The symbol of the Sky-Rulers glinted in the fading light. It would be found eventually. The gods would hear that their ritual had failed. But by then, the ghost would be gone. And the last thing he heard before the darkness took him was the whisper of the flame. "You are not alone." For the first time in his life, he believed it.