The Last Ancestral Shaman

When I woke amid the ruins of civilization, I found myself branded the “bringer of disaster” and marked for sacrifice by the Blackstone Tribe. In this primeval world, where giant beasts roam and totems decide who lives or dies, humanity is little more than prey struggling to survive.

They laughed at me as a soulless shell, incapable of awakening the power of a totem. They abandoned me in the desolate wilderness of the Burial Grounds of the Gods, leaving me to fend for myself.

They had no idea that I brought with me the art of making fire with flint, the bow and arrow, fishing and hunting, cities and military strategy: the wisdom of humanity, long forgotten by history.

When the first pottery kiln was fired, we ended our days of eating raw meat and drinking blood.

When the first bronze sword was forged, we began hunting our hunters.

While other tribes still begged the totems for mercy, my people cried, “Human will can conquer fate!” and spread fire and civilization across the wilderness.

Then came the day when the tribe that had cast me out trembled beneath the claws of a giant beast. In terror, they watched the terrible wild beast that had torn apart their totem now lying obediently at my feet, like a house dog.

I stroked the beast's head and looked beyond them to the vast, desolate land I had once defended with my blood, but which now regarded me as a heretic.

“Now, I am the last Ancestral Shaman. Will you kneel... or perish?”