For creatures who rely on daily sustenance to survive, food is life itself. For the upright apes in their primitive tribal era, with hunting as their sole source of nourishment, this truth held even greater weight.
Every ape instinctively believed that their offerings to the Sky Lord would yield no response, as had always been the case with past rituals.
Thus, they were generous in presenting their finest game from the month's hunts as offerings for the ritual, knowing full well that these same offerings would return to their hands after the ceremony and become the feast's centerpiece, filling their bellies.
But this time was different. An actual presence—a being whose nature closely aligned with their imagined Sky Lord—descended to answer their call.
To extend its stay, the majestic presence began absorbing the spiritual essence of the offerings piled around the altar, constructing a vessel to house its will.
The tens of thousands of upright apes kneeling around the altar could only watch as their carefully hoarded food, intended for celebration and even courtship, turned to ash before their eyes.
Anger and discontent grew within them. Living in a harsh and untamed land, even with their relatively safe geographic location, every ape had tasted hunger during their upbringing.
For these apes, rituals symbolized abundance—a rare chance to eat their fill. This joy was the most anticipated event for every member of the tribe, representing their greatest happiness.
Yet, the descended being had stolen that joy, reducing their precious food to nothingness. This not only meant the feast was canceled but also that they would go hungry for days to come.
Some more temperamental apes wanted to rise and demand answers from the shaman leading the ritual. Why hadn't he warned them of this unexpected outcome? If they had known, they would never have offered everything they had, opting instead for a symbolic sacrifice.
However, the overwhelming pressure accompanying the majestic presence pinned them to the ground, forcing them into the humblest posture.
Under this immense pressure, most of the apes' resentment vanished in an instant, replaced by trembling fear.
On the altar, the shaman who had been leading the ceremonial dance with a group of female apes was just as bewildered. He knelt on the ground, unable to comprehend the abrupt turn of events.
What had gone wrong? Was it his dance?
The shaman was well aware that the so-called "god dance" was an improvisation handed down and modified by each generation. While each shaman claimed their dance was unique, it was, in truth, entirely arbitrary.
Regardless of his confusion, the majestic will that descended in response to the apes' prayers had absorbed enough spiritual energy and began constructing its vessel.
The towering flames on the altar, reaching over a hundred meters high, turned golden, exuding a sacred aura. Slowly, they began to form an intricate spiritual structure.
With a resonant dragon's roar, a golden dragon emerged, unfurling its wings atop the altar. Its body, formed of flames, radiated not searing heat but a gentle warmth, like the sun on a winter's day.
"What is this?"
Muria, whose will had followed the apes' prayers and descended upon this world, gazed down at the primitive beings kneeling below. "Planet of the Apes?"
The golden dragon, perched above the altar, raised its head high, sensing the world's chaotic elemental flows and gathering information. Within moments, it understood the nature of this unfamiliar realm.
"A newly born, untamed world," Muria mused, observing the violent elements swirling around. "The age of primordial beasts, where only massive, physically resilient creatures can wield extraordinary power."
"But the era of beasts is nearing its end," he continued, his gaze falling on the thousands of upright apes below. "The fire of intelligence has already been kindled."
In his flaming, dragon-shaped eyes, interest gleamed. "Fascinating. These great apes will likely shed most of their fur, evolve greater intelligence, and become the dominant species of this world—its future humans."
For clarity, these "humans" would differ from those of other worlds. The term "human" broadly encompasses any humanoid, intelligent species. The "humans" of this world would be a distinct race, as separate as elves and dwarves are from Earth's humans.
The great apes, each standing over five meters tall, would retain their immense stature even as they evolved toward intelligence rather than brute strength. To most human-like species, these future beings would be giants.
"Why are you dissatisfied?"
Muria, the golden dragon, sensed the apes' discontent below and tilted his head in puzzlement. Ordinarily, those who witnessed a god's descent should rejoice. Why was the mood here so sour?
The shaman, kneeling atop the altar, trembled as the dragon's voice boomed directly into his mind. Startled, he scrambled to recall the tribal murals in his stone dwelling, hoping to find guidance from his ancestors.
But no matter how hard he racked his brain, he found no precedent. After all, their so-called Sky Lord was a figment of their forebears' imaginations.
"Great Sky Lord…" The shaman hesitated before stammering out a response.
To Muria, it sounded like guttural growls, but his connection on a soul level allowed him to understand. He soon grasped the source of the tribe's dissatisfaction. The shaman, surprisingly honest, did not attempt to cover up for his people.
"So, they're upset because they'll go hungry. A simple and straightforward reaction," Muria thought, suppressing a laugh.
Lowering his dragon head, he gazed at the shaman and declared, "You prayed to me and offered sacrifices. I have descended to accept your offerings. In return, I shall fulfill your desires."
The shaman, prepared for divine wrath, was stunned by the god's calm and gentle response.
"Your desire is simply not to go hungry, correct?"
"Yes." Still pained by the loss of food, the shaman nodded blankly.
"You don't even know how to pray properly," Muria chuckled inwardly at their naivety. "Praying to a god doesn't work like this."
As a self-proclaimed deity, Muria saw nothing wrong in playing the role. After all, in many ways, an epic being like him was akin to a god.
True gods, born of faith and wielding world laws, were gods of a single realm. Epic beings, mastering world laws and creating their own worlds, were gods of all realms.
Ancient gods, born at the dawn of creation, also qualified as gods of all realms—though they were innate, while epics achieved their status through effort.
"Since your wish is merely to avoid hunger, I will grant it," Muria said.
He felt it his duty to offer compensation. After all, he had drained the tribe's spiritual offerings, their accumulated faith, and even their food.
With a resonant dragon roar, golden flames enveloping Muria's form turned emerald green.
From his now verdant body emanated a fresh, vibrant life force.
Within a hundred-mile radius, all visible plant life began to grow with unprecedented vigor.
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