The village was small enough that everyone knew the sound of each other's footsteps.
Stone alleys twisted like dried river channels, houses built of sun-baked clay leaned against one another like old men sharing secrets. Stray cats ruled the rooftops. The smell of bread and olive oil drifted through mornings, and children's laughter carried across the courtyards long before the sun cleared the eastern dunes.
To them, I was simply Arman — quiet, observant, often staring at the sky instead of the ball rolling at my feet.
I wasn't unfriendly. Just… distant. A soul too old for his age.
But even gods-in-waiting must live among mortals.
So I played.
I learned to run through crowded streets, sandals slapping dusty ground. My palms scraped against rough walls as I chased other kids. We wrestled, we argued, we shared pomegranates stolen from a neighbor's garden. Laughter came easier with time — natural, not forced, as if mortal joy seeped into the cracks of my divine potential.
One boy stood out — Haidar, son of the village baker. Two years older, loud where I was silent, reckless where I was careful. His grin was missing a tooth; his temper could ignite like dry straw. And yet, he defended me when older kids mocked my habit of staring at clouds.
"Don't provoke him," he used to say, sticking out his chest."He hears things we don't."
No one believed that, not even him — but Haidar spoke with conviction enough to silence others. Maybe he saw something in my eyes. Something ancient.
Or maybe he was just a boy who disliked seeing the quiet ones bullied.
We became inseparable — fire and still water.
School was a single building, walls cracked like old parchment. Our teacher, Mr. Samir, smelled of ink and dust, beard streaked with grey though he couldn't have been more than fifty. He loved history the way starving men loved bread — fiercely, reverently.
He told stories of Uruk, of the Tigris and Euphrates, of gods with lion heads and wings of sunlight. His voice held the weight of deserts and centuries.
Most children fidgeted. I listened with breathless stillness.
Through him, I learned every name my future mask could wear — Enlil, Ninurta, Shamash. But one name resonated deeper than the rest, like a remembered dream:
Marduk.
God of storms.Dragon-slayer.King of gods.
A title far less dangerous than Zeus to cosmic ears, yet close enough that its meaning tasted like destiny.
Mr. Samir noticed my focus.
"Arman," he said one afternoon, brow raised, "do you like our old legends?"
I hesitated. Children my age loved heroes of modern cinema, not clay tablet myths from millennia past.
But I nodded with honesty.
He smiled, faint and knowing — like a man recognizing a reflection in another soul.
"Good," he said. "Those who remember the past will not tremble before the future."
If only he knew how literal his words were.
The first incident happened the summer I turned eleven.
We were playing near the riverbank — Haidar and I, along with three other boys. The water shimmered like hammered bronze beneath the noon sun. The heat was brutal, pressing on skin like hot stones, and sweat stung my eyes.
Haidar suggested a race across the rocks.
The stones were slick, unstable.I knew it was foolish — children fell there every year.But laughter pulled me forward.
Halfway across, one of the younger boys — Tariq — slipped.
His foot vanished into the rushing water.His scream sliced the air.
Haidar froze.The others shouted.My body moved before thought.
I leaped across the stones, arms pinwheeling for balance. The world blurred, heartbeat pounding like war-drums in my ears. I reached him — fingers brushing his wrist — but the river dragged his body further, deeper.
Something inside me snapped.
Not panic.Not fear.Instinct.
Like a locked door finally opening.
The sky, cloudless moments before, darkened as if ink spilled across the heavens. Wind howled down the river, whipping sand into spirals. Hair stood on every child's skin. The air smelled sharp — like metal and rain.
Lightning did not strike.Thunder did not roar.But power — raw, invisible — pressed against my bones, coiling like a serpent made of storm.
I pulled.
Not his arm.His life.
The river's force slackened around him for a heartbeat — water bending, just slightly, unnaturally calm around the drowning boy. It reminded me of circuits re-routing — a machine god altering flow.
I dragged Tariq onto the rocks.He coughed, sobbed, shivered.
The storm that had gathered without clouds faded just as suddenly. The wind stopped as if someone cut its throat. Sun returned, merciless and bright.
Children stared at me — mouths open, fear and wonder tangled in their eyes.
Haidar, breathing heavily, whispered:
"Arman… how did you do that?"
My own heart hammered like a trapped bird. I barely understood what I'd done. Not lightning. Not divine spectacle. Just influence — manipulation of flow, authority over motion. A machine god's logic, subtle and controlled.
I forced a weak smile.
"Tariq grabbed my hand. I just… pulled."
A lie that tasted like sand.
Haidar didn't believe me, not fully.But he didn't push.He clapped my shoulder, forcing humor into his voice.
"You're crazy," he said. "But… thank you."
Tariq hugged me with trembling arms. His tears soaked my shirt. In that moment, I realized something dangerous:
Power was no longer theoretical.It was awakening — slowly, quietly — like dawn blooming on the horizon.
And I was still only a child.
Rumors spread.
Some said I was blessed.Others whispered I was strange.
Old women crossed themselves when I passed; younger ones smiled kindly, offering sweets as if appeasing a minor spirit. Boys dared me to race storms. Girls asked if I could hear prayers.
I denied everything.
Better to be unnoticed.Better to grow in peace.
But inside — I felt change.
When I held a metal cup, it warmed under my fingers.When I stood barefoot on the earth, I felt tiny pulses beneath the soil — electric, rhythmic, like a heart.And when storms brewed in the distance, my veins hummed in resonance.
I was becoming something more.
Not Zeus.Not yet.
A seed.A god in adolescence.
Despite power flickering beneath my skin, my daily life remained painfully human.
I still woke to my mother shaking my shoulder, urging me to fetch water before school.I still argued with Haidar over who cheated in yesterday's game.I still burned my tongue on soup and tripped over loose stones.
Divinity didn't remove clumsiness.It only sat behind it — patient, amused.
Sometimes at night, while the village slept and stars burned like holes in the fabric of heaven, I climbed to the rooftop and watched the sky.
Far above the mortal world, galaxies swirled, unseen dangers lurked — Celestials, Eternals, cosmic judges who would notice if a new Zeus rose without restraint.
So I traced my path carefully.
Silent growth.Hidden power.Future masked in another name.
Marduk.
The title rolled through me like thunder contained in a fist.
If I became Zeus openly, the cosmos would stir.But Marduk — old, forgotten — could move unseen.
As the warm wind brushed my face, carrying sand and secrets across ancient earth, I whispered to myself:
"One day, I will stand between gods and mortals.Not as Zeus.But as something new."
The stars answered with silence — but not denial.
The world slept, unaware.
And I, still only eleven, prepared for a future loud enough to shake heaven itself.