As Simon vanished into the jungle's edge, the river stilled. Not a ripple remained, not a whisper of wind. Even the insects quieted, as though the world itself had paused its breath.
High atop a cliff that overlooked the village, there stood a place long deemed forbidden, sacred even among the oldest songs a jagged outcropping wrapped in moss and memory. The children called it the Watching Rock. The elders knew it as the Shrine of Passing. And there, a man older than legend stood motionless, his silhouette framed against the darkening sky.
His hair was white as snow but dull as ash, and his eyes were glassy pools that had witnessed the rise and fall of centuries. In a village obsessed with ranks, with trials, and with bloodlines, no one questioned his presence. He had no title. He needed none. He simply was.
He turned toward the west, his cracked lips moving slowly, tasting a name that had once set the skies ablaze.
"He returns," the old man whispered.
A boy nearby, no older than twelve, paused as he carried a bucket of water up the shrine's steps. "What did you say, Elder?"
The old man did not respond right away. Instead, he sank to his knees with the deliberate motion of one who has buried too many dreams. From the folds of his tattered robe, he drew a scroll bound in leather older than any living soul.
"I saw him once," he said finally. "Long ago. Before this village bore its name. When the stars were still young. When the sky bled fire and the oceans boiled. I saw him Mike, the Beast-Walker. Back then, he was not yet a shepherd. No. He was something else. Something terrifying."
The scroll opened with a gust of unseen wind. Upon its surface was a painting rendered in ink older than memory. It showed a warrior cloaked in both ice and flame, standing atop a mound of twisted beasts, holding two glowing blades. A symbol burned on his back the sign of the First Shepherd but it was warped, primal, wild.
"The seal they placed upon him... it is thinning. And now that the three of them Mike, Gabriel, Luca have stirred, so too has…"
He stopped. The earth beneath the shrine trembled, so subtly that only those who remembered how the world once moved could feel it.
The boy dropped his water pail.
Far beneath the earth, deeper than the bones of the world, something ancient pulsed. Not with sound, but with intent. In a forgotten chamber wrapped in obsidian and veined in gold, a heartbeat echoed a single thump against the walls of time and stone.
In the center of that forgotten place, entombed within a lattice of divine crystal, a figure stirred. It did not breathe, but the cosmos around it seemed to shudder with every flicker of its awareness. The crystal that bound it a prison crafted by gods now dust quivered as though dreading what it held.
Three have awakened. Three seals waver.
The words did not pass through lips. They etched themselves into existence, as if reality itself were forced to remember them.
The child walks the path of beasts. The priest drinks the blood of divinity. The reaper recalls his name.
A single eye opened. Blacker than void. Ringed in gold, violet, and deep blue.
They who claim grace shall kneel before judgment.
The crystal cracked. Just once. A thin fracture. A whisper of release.
In the Seventh Heaven above, choirs silenced. Angels turned their gaze from song to fear. Trumpets faltered mid-note.
Back in the Shrine of Passing, the Elder clutched his chest. The scroll in his lap burst into flame and crumbled to ash. He fell backward, eyes wide, breath shallow.
The boy rushed to him. "Elder! Please!"
With blood leaking from the corners of his eyes, the old man spoke.
"He is waking. It begins again."
Simon walked alone to the sacred river. The sky above had swallowed the sun. Thick clouds churned, dark and heavy. No songs followed him. No prayers. His footsteps echoed like judgment down the empty path. This was no ordinary baptism. His trial had not been chosen by the Shepherds, nor drawn by rank. His fate had been whispered by the Old Spirits themselves.
He would not fight a beast. He would not face fire or blade. He had been chosen to tame the Golden Back Peacock, a divine creature said to dwell near the Falls of the Forgotten, where even the trees wept and stones whispered of war.
No Shepherd had ever returned from this trial. Few had even believed it to be real. That Simon had been selected was seen by many as a sentence, not an honour.
He arrived at dusk. Mist blanketed the ground, curling around twisted roots and broken totems. The waterfall before him thundered with the sound of ten thousand voices.
And there it stood.
The Golden Back Peacock.
Its feathers shimmered with impossible hues, each plume alive with light that seemed stolen from forgotten suns. A crown of radiant fire danced atop its head. Its eyes burned with understanding. With grief. With anticipation.
It did not flee. It waited.
Simon approached and fell to his knees. "I do not seek to break you," he said softly. "Only to walk beside you."
The peacock cried. The sound echoed like a bell struck across the firmament. Then it moved.
The trial was agony made manifest. The peacock's every movement was like wind with blades. Its feathers cut deeper than steel, its gaze seared truth into his soul. Simon fought not with fists, but with resolve. He bled. He broke. He stood again. And again. Until he could no longer move.
At last, the river ran red. Simon collapsed, his body battered and breathless. Silence followed.
The peacock stood over him, still as a statue. Then, with a sound like mourning incarnate, it plucked its own golden feathers. One by one.
Each feather laid across Simon's still chest. The peacock's radiant crown dimmed. Its light faded. It crumpled beside him.
Then the feathers ignited.
But the fire did not burn. It transformed.
Simon's body lifted into the air. Wings of spectral light unfurled from his back. His veins glowed with ancient language. A song hummed in the air, a melody older than speech.
He rose. Alive. Changed.
Not reborn as a boy, but as something the world had not seen in an age.
His shadow split into many. One bore a staff. Another, a sword. Another held a scroll. One carried a single seed.
He was the True Shepherd. The one spoken of in dead prophecies. The one the stars had warned never to awaken.
In the Seventh Heaven, thrones cracked under invisible pressure.
"Who broke the Seal of the Peacock?" a voice roared. "The beast was not meant to save. It was designed to test!"
"He was meant to die," said another. "The final flame should have consumed him!"
"They cannot see him," whispered a third. "He is veiled by the peacock's last gift. Its sacrifice cloaks him from the Watchers."
"Then where is he?" demanded another. "If he walks, we must prepare. We must bring war to the earth again."
"we do not know which earth he walks"
Beneath the world, in the silent chamber, the crystal shattered further. A second fracture. The being within curled its fingers for the first time in ages.
Four awakenings. The lamb becomes a lion. The lion becomes the shepherd. And the shepherd... walks alone.
Back in the Shrine of Passing, the Elder gasped. His breath rattled like wind through bones.
"Their leader has returned," he whispered. "The one who calls beasts to kneel. The one who dimmed the stars with his voice."
The boy sobbed. "Is he evil?"
"No," the Elder replied, blood on his lips. "Not evil. Just uncaged."
He rose, his body failing but his will sharp as ever. He turned his gaze east, toward the forbidden forest.
In a cave no map dared record, Simon opened his eyes for the second time.
But now, he remembered the voice of the peacock.
Not all Shepherds wear crowns. Some wear scars.
He stood—not with vengeance, not with confusion, but with clarity.
He could feel the heavens searching for him.
But he would move faster than heaven.