Chapter 3
1111 Words
There was no labor. No running. No fear. I wasn’t afraid anymore. In fact—I was enjoying it.
Yes, it sounds strange, maybe even foolish. But I was captivated. Enthralled. It was no longer terror I felt—it was thrill. I watched the struggle of the gods the way others watched wrestling matches, leaning in with every motion, gasping at every turn.
It reminded me of those epic matches—John Cena vs Roman Reigns in Wrestlemania. The tension. The drama. The spectacle. Only, this wasn’t staged. This wasn’t entertainment. This was real. Divine forces—light and dark, day and night, order and chaos—locked in an ancient, sacred duel, and I had the front seat. The only seat. A child caught in the eye of a myth being written in real time. And yet, even as I marveled at the scene, my heart ached. Somewhere behind me, people who loved me were walking through hell to find me.
I couldn’t turn. I couldn’t call out. But I hoped they would reach me soon. Before the final blow was struck. Before the sky chose a winner.
It felt like a dream. A strange, delicate dream—when the moon began to vomit what it had swallowed. Slowly, it released the sun, inch by inch, light by light. The darkness peeled away like skin, torn gently from the world’s surface. A golden ray broke through—first weak, then bold—piercing through the thick night that had wrapped itself around the earth like a death shroud.
The light did not just return. It sang. It was not just illumination, it was resurrection. The ray shimmered with a soft, echoing hum—like the sound of bells beneath water, like whispers from heaven. It was amazing.
The moon—so mighty, so monstrous just moments ago—began to shrink away. Like a defeated beast. Like a scolded child. Like a weakling reptile crawling backward into the shadows it had come from. And then it vanished—completely—into the thin, silver line of space. No smoke. No crackle. Just silence. Everything stilled.
The grasses stopped moving. The sea, which had boiled like a cauldron of fury, softened into ripples. The sky returned to its endless blue. The world had turned back to normal—or so it seemed.
But something wasn't right.
The voices—those voices that had called me—were no longer few. They multiplied. They crowded my ears. Whispering, shouting, chanting, weeping... I couldn’t tell. It was as though every spirit from every corner of the world had found a mouth near me and was trying to speak through it. The sounds became unbearable—too many to understand, too thick to escape.
So, I turned. Just for a moment. I took my face away from the resurrected sun, stole a glance at the world around me. And that was when I saw them.
Two figures. Two things.
Should I call them humans? Ghosts? Spirits? Ghomids? Beings from the land beneath time? I had no words. I still don’t. I had never seen anything like them—not in my dreams, not in nightmares, not even in the wildest stories whispered by firelight.
They stood a few feet away, silent but burning into existence. One thing was immediately clear to me: they were not human. No. They could not be. Each had a head—elongated, bald, glistening like polished bone. And at the center of that head, where a forehead should be, was a single, large eye—round, glowing faintly, unblinking. Beneath that eye, instead of a pair of nostrils, was a small, delicate slit, like a carved opening just below the ridge of bone. Then came the mouth—round, impossibly round, like a small ball pressed into the flesh and sunken inward, pulsing as though breathing from the inside out. Their necks were thin. So thin, it looked like they would snap if turned too quickly. Like brittle stems holding up watermelons.
They had arms—two each—but each hand bore only three fingers. Long, knobby, like dry roots from a sacred tree, fingers that seemed to twitch independently, as if they heard music I could not.
And the legs… Each had two, yes, but one leg faced the north and the other—the south. Not crossed, not turned. Completely opposite. Opposing directions, as if their bodies refused symmetry. I wondered—how could anything walk like that? Yet—they did.
They moved gracefully, fluidly, without pain or struggle. As though gravity bent to their will. As though time and space made exceptions for their kind. They glided toward me—not fast, not slow. Not threatening. But not friendly either. I could not look away. I wanted to move. To scream. To run. To cry. But I did nothing. I stood—once again—frozen. Not by fear this time, but by the quiet, devastating knowing that something greater than man had arrived.
I wondered in my heart as I stared at them—those two strange beings—as though I were watching the climax of a great film. My eyes remained wide, unblinking, my breath shallow, caught somewhere between awe and uncertainty. My mind had already wandered far from the celestial battle I'd just witnessed. The scuffle between the sun and moon—the gods of light and dark—now felt like a distant memory, like something half-remembered from a fading dream.
In that swift moment my eyes fell upon the two figures, the wrestling match in the heavens—the most extraordinary spectacle a mortal could ever witness—vanished from my thoughts. I had forgotten the fight that had left the sky trembling and the world breathless. My attention, my very soul, was now locked onto them. They were mesmerizing.
For a moment, I watched them not in fear, but in admiration. There was something magnetic about them. Something regal, even beautiful, in their strange symmetry and broken design. They were not human—I knew that—but their presence pulled at something deep inside me. Something primal. Something spiritual. Something ancient.
But then—everything changed. In a blink, I realized they were not just wandering. They were coming for me. Not the people behind me. Not the others calling my name. But me.
They moved with terrifying speed. Not rushed, not frantic—but impossibly fast. The kind of fast that made time itself feel slow. Their bodies didn’t blur or bounce. They simply—glided. Effortlessly. Powerfully. Smoothly. Like shadows thrown across wind.
- Writer
