The Epic of the Discarded Son-Chapter 58: Goddess

His head spun.

The pain was unbearable—like his skull was about to split open from the inside, like his mind was spiraling down into something it couldn’t climb out of, suffocating under the weight of memories he’d never had. Images he couldn’t place. Voices he’d never heard. Feelings that weren’t his, crashing into him faster than his body could process them.

He slammed his head against the ground, trying to knock it loose. Trying to make it stop.

But the dirt wouldn’t let him. It was too soft, too forgiving, cushioning every blow just enough to keep the pain from ending. He couldn’t break through. Couldn’t break out. Couldn’t make it stop.

He dropped to his knees, then rolled onto his side. His nails dug into his scalp, clawing at something he couldn’t reach.

’Please stop. Please. Please stop.’

He didn’t know who he was begging. The pain. The memories. The ground. Anyone who might be listening.

And then—slowly—it did.

Not because anyone answered.

Because something inside him broke.

The pain went numb. The memories stopped coming. Everything just... drained out of him, all at once, like someone had pulled a plug at the bottom of his soul and let it empty onto the ground.

And nothing came back to fill it.

He lay there, flat on his back, staring up at the afternoon sun.

He couldn’t remember his name.

He couldn’t remember where he was.

He couldn’t remember who he was.

And for reasons he didn’t understand, he started to laugh.

It wasn’t a real laugh. Not the kind that came from joy, or even from madness. It was the kind of laugh that only existed in a body that had nothing left inside it—empty and dry, each one a little more broken than the one before.

Until it didn’t sound like laughter at all anymore.

"Shiro. Shiro."

A voice he recognized—but couldn’t quite place. Couldn’t quite remember who she was, or why the sound of her should matter.

He turned toward it.

A blurred face loomed over him, pulling him up, shaking him hard.

"Snap out of it, Shiro. Please."

Behind her, more voices echoed somewhere in the distance. Familiar. Urgent. All of them calling his name.

But they were fading. Slowly. Like someone was turning down the volume on the world around him, one voice at a time.

He reached for her instinctively—but he was transported somewhere else.

The world around him shifted. The hand he was reaching with shrank. It was a baby’s hand. Small. Soft. Barely big enough to wrap around a single finger.

His eyes moved upward, toward the man who was carrying him. The face was blurred. Like someone had smudged it with a wet thumb.

But he could feel the arms around him.

And running alongside them—was a woman.

It was Nilha.

She looked scared. No—terrified. And tired.

They were running through the night. The wind was cold against his tiny face. Trees blurred past on either side. Someone was breathing too fast. Someone was whispering something over and over, too quiet for him to make out.

Then a voice—soft, faint, impossibly distant.

"Shiro... our precious baby boy."

He reached out again. The man caught his tiny hand, and Shiro remembered that warmth so clearly it hurt.

’Rei.’

His eyes snapped open.

He was being carried by the waist, running. And on the other side, Nora—struggling against his grip, fighting to get to others.

Just then, he heard it.

A sound he knew. A sound he would have recognized in his sleep.

He grabbed the hand holding him and broke free in one sharp movement. Then he turned toward the noise—and froze.

The ship was sailing.

Behind it, the dense forest was gone. Not cleared. Not cut through. Destroyed. A massive trail had been carved through the trees, like something too big to care about obstacles had come charging through from the other side.

And at the end of that trail—Darius. Already shifted into his monster form, massive and bulky, muscles twitching with every breath. Ana stood next to him, weapons drawn. Richard too, blade in hand, posture tight, jaw locked.

The ground around them was littered with bodies—countless beasts, lifeless and sprawled across the dirt. They looked like the bulls back on the island.

Just dead.

Above them was a woman.

She was tall. Taller than any woman he’d ever seen—taller than most men he’d ever fought.

Her skin was golden, sun-warmed and smooth, the kind of gold that looked carved instead of born. Her hair was black, long enough to reach past her waist, braided through with strands of gold and tiny bones that clicked softly when she moved. Her gown was crimson, cut sharp at the shoulders and slit high at the thigh. A circlet of polished bronze sat across her brow, shaped like a pair of curved horns.

Her eyes were red. Deep, impossible red—the kind of red that didn’t belong on anything mortal.

And somehow—he recognized her.

She raised one hand. The earth groaned. Trees began to tear themselves free from the ground, roots snapping, dirt falling away as they slowly rose into the air, twisting and grinding together until they formed a single massive spear—aimed straight at the three of them.

Nora reached for them one last time, shouting with everything she had left.

Then her body gave out, and she went limp.

He turned back to the others just in time to watch the massive tree come crashing down toward them.

He was already moving before the thought finished—closing the gap in a heartbeat, blade already swinging. One slash. That was all it took. The trees came apart in midair, splinters and bark raining down around him in a shower of broken wood.

He gave her one quick glance—just enough to make sure she saw the look of disgust on his face.

Then he turned to the others.

He drove the hilt of his blade into the back of Darius’s neck before the monster could finish taking him over. Sharp. Precise. Clean.

Darius dropped like a stone.

He turned to her.

And when their eyes met, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Unlike his, hers were even brighter red.

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment. Neither blinked. Neither looked away.

Then her expression broke. The cold mask peeled away in slow pieces. The dangerous stillness loosened. And in its place came a smile—soft, terrible, familiar.

She drifted down to him. Slow and weightless, the way mist moves across still water.

By the time she stopped, she was towering over him—staring at his face with the kind of focus people usually reserved for finding a missing puzzle piece. Like she was trying to make sure the shape was right before she let herself believe it.

She reached for him.

Shiro slapped her hand away before her fingers could touch his cheek.

"Don’t touch me, you perverted goddess."

That just made her smile widen.

"It is you, Gil."

Her voice was soft. Gentle. Almost soothing—in the worst possible way. The kind of soothing that made his skin crawl. The kind of soothing that, for some odd reason he couldn’t explain, made him want to rip his own ears off just to make it stop.