The change was immediate.
He felt it before he saw it—a sharp tightening in the air, like the forest had drawn a breath and forgotten how to let it out. Water he had settled earlier shuddered violently, splashing over its banks. Birds burst from the canopy all at once, not fleeing outward but scattering blindly.
He froze.
Someone had finished a sentence.
He turned without hesitation, moving uphill where sound carried less and sight carried farther. Every step was chosen. Every breath measured. Whatever had just been spoken was recent—minutes at most.
He reached the ridge and looked down.
The clearing below was wrong.
Trees leaned inward as if pulled by gravity that did not belong there. The ground sagged and rose in uneven waves, soil folding over itself like it couldn't decide what shape it was meant to be.
At the center stood a man.
The man's stance was wide, unsteady, arms half-raised as though daring the world to refuse him. His voice carried clearly now—loud, strained, reckless.
"And God said, Let there be light—"
The words completed.
The clearing exploded into brilliance.
Not illumination—exposure. The air rippled, heat surging outward in a pulse that scorched bark and split stone. The man staggered, coughing hard, blood spilling freely from his nose.
He laughed.
The sound scraped raw against the forest.
The MC did not move.
This wasn't patience. It was calculation.
The man spoke again almost immediately, forcing breath through clenched teeth.
"And God said, Let the waters—"
The sentence broke halfway.
The backlash hit him like a hammer. He dropped to one knee, gagging, hands clawing at the dirt as the ground beneath him buckled and then rebounded violently. Trees snapped. Roots tore free.
The forest shuddered.
That was the limit.
Another minute of this and the damage would ripple outward—visible, traceable. Hunters would notice. Travelers would talk. Someone would follow the scars back to their source.
He shifted position, sliding downwind, never breaking line of sight. As he moved, he spoke once, low and precise.
"And the waters were gathered together…"
He stopped.
The ground at the clearing's edge stiffened. The spreading collapse hesitated, then redirected inward, tightening the distortion instead of letting it bleed outward.
The man noticed.
He spun wildly, eyes bloodshot, breathing uneven. "Who's there?" he shouted. "Show yourself!"
The MC did not answer.
He moved again, faster now, circling wide. Another fragment, angled deliberately toward the far side of the clearing.
"Let the dry land appear…"
Only that.
The earth shifted—not violently, but decisively. A narrow path of stable ground formed, subtle enough to go unnoticed, guiding the man's footing toward a tighter, enclosed space between broken trees.
The rogue prophet followed it without realizing why.
He shouted again, voice cracking.
"And God said—"
The forest resisted.
The air thickened. Sound warped. The ground trembled but did not give. The strain rebounded inward, slamming into the man's body. He screamed this time—not in anger, but pain.
The MC stopped speaking entirely.
He waited.
If the man forced the words out again, the backlash would finish him.
If he didn't, the forest might still recover.
Either way, this could not be allowed to stretch longer than it already had.
He tightened the strap of his pack and stepped closer, silent as falling ash.
This would end now.
One way or the other.