1. The awakening

When K opened his eyes, the earth no longer sang his name.

Once, mountains would have groaned with reverence, rivers shivered at his breath. Now there was only silence.
His temples lay in ruin. Offerings turned to dust. Statues long since swallowed by moss.

Beside him, Fuma stirred — another ancient power blinking against the sun's harsh new light.

"They don't remember us," Fuma whispered, his voice less thunder than it once was.
"They've moved on."

K flexed his hands, felt power slip like water through his fingers.

"Then we'll remind them."

 2. The changed world

They wandered through villages that were once bound to their worship. Now people lit lamps with oil, not prayers. Called on doctors instead of healers. Looked to coins, not omens.

They came upon younger gods — shining, modern, worshipped.

EJ, a war god clad in midnight steel, led processions that sang his triumphs. Nicholas, draped in opalescent silk, governed beauty and revelry; his shrines overflowed with offerings of perfume and song.

They watched K and Fuma with polite smiles edged in pity.

"This is not your world anymore," Nicholas said softly.
"Find peace in the stories still whispered of you."

But K only clenched his jaw.

"I was not born to fade."

3. Forgotten magic

They nearly gave up. Until they stumbled on something small, hidden beneath broken stones: a wild tangle of offerings.

Tiny charms. A bowl of fruit gone soft. A candle guttering.

Harua, Maki, Jo, Yuma, and Taki — mortals who still believed in the old ways, even if they did not know who exactly they called to. Their voices tangled in uncertain chants, rough with hope.

"Please... anyone listening... help us bring back the rains."

Fuma crouched, fingers brushing the offerings. Sparks of power shivered through him, drawn to the fragile, desperate faith.

K met his eyes.

"It's small. But it's enough."

4. The new way

That night, the old gods did not demand shrines or sacrifice. They simply stood by the fields, guiding rainclouds with gentle hands, letting the earth drink.

When dawn broke, shoots of green pushed through dry soil. The villagers wept and laughed, dancing barefoot.

Harua left a wreath of fresh blossoms at the edge of the field. Maki muttered prayers under his breath. Jo pressed his palm to the dirt, tears shining. Yuma and Taki came later, leaving painted stones.

Each offering, each whispered thank you, stitched a little more power back into K and Fuma's weary bones.

Not the roaring devotion of old. But something quieter, truer.

A tiny moment: teaching rain

It happened on a quiet afternoon. Fuma was kneeling by the fields, checking tender shoots of green, when a small voice piped up behind him.

A young girl stood there, hair tied with scraps of ribbon, holding out a string of clumsy beads.

"Mama said you make the rain come. Can you teach me?"

Fuma blinked, surprised. Then slowly, he smiled.
He took the string of beads from her hands, turning it gently. Each bead was carved with shaky little marks — attempts at sigils.

"These are very good," he murmured, voice low like he might scare the moment off.
"Rain likes gentle songs. Try humming. Close your eyes."

The child squeezed her eyes shut, tiny shoulders tensing. She hummed — off-key, trembling.

Fuma reached out, resting his palm lightly atop her head. Magic stirred, curling soft and warm around them.

Above, clouds gathered — shy, rolling closer — and a fine mist began to fall.

When the girl opened her eyes and laughed, spinning in the drizzle, Fuma felt something in his old heart ease.

"Thank you!" she shouted, running back toward the village, the beads clutched tight.

Fuma stayed there a while longer, letting the rain wash over him, thinking how once he would have demanded temples for such power.

Now? A child's joy was worth more than any throne.

5. A shared future

Days turned to weeks. K and Fuma no longer sought golden altars. Instead they found themselves walking among the mortals — invisible to most, yet quietly tied by every humble act of belief.

One evening, EJ and Nicholas appeared again, watching them from a ridge.

Nicholas laughed, soft and pleased.

"So the forgotten gods find new ways. Clever."

EJ's eyes glinted.

"Perhaps even necessary. This world needs many hands."

K simply nodded, surprising them all.

"Then let us share it. In different ways."

Later still: the new gods learn

Years after that, Nicholas and EJ came to stand at the edge of those same fields. Their mantles of newer power gleamed faintly in the twilight.

"We've come to see what you've built," Nicholas admitted, voice more wonder than rivalry.
"Or maybe... to remember what we've lost."

K inclined his head, lips quirking faintly.

"It is slower, this way. More fragile. But it lasts."

EJ knelt, brushing his fingers through the growing wheat.

"Teach us," he said simply.

So under a gentle sky, the once-forgotten gods showed their younger kin how to mark the soil with patient runes. How to whisper encouragement to roots. How to thank rain properly, with open hands and unguarded hearts.

No thrones. No armies. Just shared power, kneeling in the dirt together.

6. The final glimpse

Years later, a festival bloomed in that little village — lanterns strung from tree to tree, songs rising into the dusk.

Children ran laughing with wreaths on their heads. Elders poured wine into the soil, smiling as if greeting old friends.

At the edge of it all, K stood with Fuma, hands lightly brushing, watching the mortals celebrate what they could not name: the slow, careful return of something divine.

"Not the power we once had," Fuma murmured.

"No," K agreed. Then he smiled, slow and rare.
"Something better."

And so the gods remained — not in grand temples or thunderous worship, but in small hands planting seeds, in grateful cups of water left by doorsteps, in laughter shared beneath the forgiving sky.

And in that soft moment, with old and new hands resting side by side over the living earth, even the wind seemed to sigh in relief.