Among the Supremes, there existed one rule that stood untouched since the earliest eras—when a Supreme God dies, every remaining Supreme must offer respect, regardless of grudges, rivalries, or ancient wounds. None had opposed this rule when it was forged. Even the proudest among them understood that reaching the rank of Supreme God meant climbing through suffering, calamity, and years that mortals could not even imagine. It was a height only a handful could ever reach, and even fewer could maintain. Respect for the fallen was, in truth, respect for the path itself.
Zigeyr wandered through the mortal city with hands in his pockets, letting his gaze drift over the soft pulse of ordinary human life. Eventually, his steps carried him to a quiet public garden. Elderly people stretched carefully on the walking path, their movements slow but earnest. Children, in contrast, dashed around in bursts of laughter, chasing each other between patches of sunlit grass.
Zigeyr settled onto an empty bench, folding one leg over the other. The scene before him felt strangely soothing—mortals trying to preserve their fragile bodies, children unaware of the harshness waiting beyond their bright little world.
He watched in silence, observing how the elders winced yet continued their exercises, how the children giggled with absolute, unfiltered joy. Their problems were so distant, so small, so human.
A sudden cluster of excited voices interrupted his quiet. Several children ran toward him, faces flushed, eyes shining. They tugged insistently at his sleeves.
"Hello there, little ones," Zigeyr said with a faint smile, lowering himself slightly so his gaze met theirs. "What have you been up to today?"
They erupted into overlapping explanations—games they had invented, tiny victories, the thrill of new friendships formed only minutes ago. Zigeyr listened patiently, nodding as though each detail carried the weight of a great tale.
When their chatter slowed, he straightened and gently patted each head."You're all delightful," he said. "Would you like to play a game?"
Every child nodded at once, smiles blooming like flowers.
"In this game," Zigeyr said lightly, "we'll see whose fingers bend the most. The one who bends them the most will be the winner."
The children brightened at the simplicity of the challenge.They were mortals—so easy to guide, so eager to please.
"All right," Zigeyr said. "I'll count to three. When I finish, you all start bending your fingers. Ready? One… two… three."
At once, the garden filled with giggles as tiny hands curled, twisted, and bent. Some children bent only one finger, others tried to fold their hands into awkward shapes. They laughed at themselves and at each other, taking the "competition" far more seriously than he expected.
Zigeyr watched them with mild amusement—until his eyes fell on a boy near the back who struggled to keep up. The child frowned at his own limited flexibility, shoulders sinking.
Zigeyr walked to him, his tone gentle."Don't worry about winning or losing," he said. "Just try your best."
The boy looked up, lips trembling slightly."But… I want to win."
"Oh?" Zigeyr offered his hand. "Then let's see what we can do. Look into my eyes."
The child hesitated before taking his hand. As he lifted his gaze, his small face softened, his expression drifting into quiet fixation.
Zigeyr moved the boy's finger with feather-light pressure. It bent further—far beyond any of the other children's attempts. The boy's eyes sparkled with triumph.
But then, his fingers continued bending, smooth and painless, curling into shapes no human hand was meant to form. He did not notice anything unusual. He simply smiled wider, pleased with his "victory."
The other children, instead of reacting with concern or confusion, observed him with strangely calm expressions. Their eyes darkened, a glassy black sheen spreading subtly across their pupils. As though compelled by unseen instinct, they pushed their own fingers further, as if convinced that surpassing their friend was perfectly natural.
A faint uncanny quiet settled beneath their laughter—something shifted, misaligned, wrong in a way the children themselves did not perceive.
Zigeyr watched them with gentle, almost affectionate eyes.They kept bending their fingers, endlessly competing, unaware of their own oddness. Satisfied, Zigeyr stepped away from the garden and continued walking through the city.
Hours later, as the sun softened toward the horizon, parents arrived to gather their children.
"John! Come on, time to go," one mother called, speaking into her phone with the distracted tone of someone used to her child's stubbornness. "Say goodbye to your friends!"
She continued her conversation, expecting him to ignore her.
But then she felt a small tug at her clothes.
She turned, surprised to find John already beside her, smiling sweetly."Well, you're behaving nicely today. Why—"
Her sentence broke abruptly as her gaze fell on his hand.
His fingers were bent in unmistakably unnatural angles—yet he still smiled as though nothing was wrong.
Her voice cracked. "J–John… w-what happened to your fingers?!"
She knelt quickly, grasping his hand, panic rushing through her words."How did this happen? Who did this? John, answer me!"
But the child only tilted his head, expression calm and almost dreamy.
"Mother," he said, "your fingers are more bent than mine. You won the game, didn't you?"
The mother froze.
Slowly, shakily, she looked down at her own hands—and saw them twisted into unfamiliar shapes she hadn't even felt happening. Her breath fractured into a scream that tore through the garden.
Around her, other parents inspected their own children—and themselves. Confusion turned into fear, and fear into chaos. Distorted gestures, shocked cries, disbelief spreading like cold air over water.
By the time the moon rose and the sun fully surrendered its place, the city already whispered of a strange tale: a boy who bent fingers, a peculiar game that left everyone unsettled. The story was incomplete, fragmented, but enough to chill those who heard it.
Zigeyr returned to his apartment, stepping onto the balcony to observe the city's gradual quiet. Lights still glimmered, but the energy had dimmed.
He sighed softly and sat down."I really liked the bustling city," he murmured. "But… it won't stay bustling for long."