A Foreseen Doom

Years spent in the wilderness had sharpened Diyu’s senses. He had learned to read the land the way others read faces. A shift in birdsong, a change in the wind, the dampness of soil beneath his feet, the way animals moved before rain or danger—these things spoke to him. Most Kreegans heard only the world around them. Diyu listened to it.

That morning, while roaming near the Great Lake of Life, the land spoke in ways he did not like. The tide had pulled back farther than it should have. Wet stone lay exposed along the shore where water normally lapped against moss and roots. The feeding fields beyond the lake were worse. They should have been dark green and heavy with growth at this time of year, but the grass had gone dry and brown in wide patches. The soil cracked beneath the weight of the sun.

The lack of rain had begun to show itself everywhere. Even the Anoxe had changed. The massive creatures had moved on from the fields sooner than usual, searching for better grazing farther from the village. Those that remained were smaller than they should have been, their thick bodies leaner, their antlers less impressive than in seasons past. The dominant males still carried themselves with power, but something in them looked diminished.

The change troubled Diyu more than he wanted to admit. His village relied heavily on the Anoxe. Their meat fed families through harsh seasons. Their hides became shelters, bindings, and clothing. Their bones became tools. If the herds weakened, the village would feel it soon enough. If the herds were weakening, then the land itself was weakening first.

Diyu moved carefully through the underbrush, keeping low. The woods around the feeding fields were thick, but not quiet. Birds chattered above him, their calls overlapping in rings of warning, hunger, and habit. He listened to them, trusting their unrest to guide him. Then the ground began to tremble. At first, it was faint, little more than a pulse beneath his feet. Then it grew stronger, rhythmic, and heavy. Somewhere ahead, the Anoxe were moving.

The sound was awe-inspiring, even now. Each distant thump was a reminder of nature’s power and the Kreegans’ dependence on it. His people hunted, gathered, built, fought, and survived, but they did not stand above the world. They lived because the world allowed it.

And now the world was changing. The air grew thick with the musky scent of Anoxe. Mating season had begun, and the males were marking their territory heavily. Diyu crouched and brushed two fingers across the ground. Hoofprints pressed deep into the soil, large and distinct. The herd had passed recently.

He followed the tracks and soon spotted them through gaps in the brush. The herd grazed in a loose cluster near the edge of the field. Diyu took his time circling them, careful not to startle them. The Anoxe had an excellent sense of smell, aided by their elongated noses, and the wrong movement upwind could ruin the hunt before it began.

He stayed low and downwind. He nocked an arrow and drew the bowstring halfway, holding the bow sideways to keep his outline low. His back curved. His weight shifted to the outer edges of his feet. Each step matched the movement of the breeze, letting the wind cover what little sound he made.

There.

A dominant male stood near the edge of the herd. Long, coarse brown hair hung from its shoulders. Its antlers towered nearly three feet over its head, branching wide enough to mark it as one of the strongest still remaining. Even weakened by the dry season, it was a worthy kill.

Diyu steadied his breath, raised the bow, and waited. The Anoxe turned slightly, giving him the opening he needed.

Then the entire herd erupted.

The animals bolted as one, hooves pounding the earth in a thunder of panic. Diyu froze, confused. He had not moved. The wind had not shifted. Nothing in the brush had betrayed him.

A deafening crack split the sky, followed by a thunderous boom that shook the air hard enough to rattle his bones. Diyu looked up, expecting storm clouds. Instead, he saw fire.

A foreign object hurled across the sky, rigid and arrow-shaped, trailing smoke, flame, and a torn streak of cloud behind it. It moved too fast to be natural. Too straight. Too deliberate. For a breath, awe held him still. Then the craft angled toward the village, and wonder became dread.

Diyu broke into a run.

Branches tore at his arms as he pushed through the woods. His heart hammered with every stride. The strange object was heading toward his home, and every terrible possibility rushed through his mind. Fire. Death. Invaders. Some punishment from powers his people no longer understood. He ran harder.

By the time he reached the outskirts of the village, smoke already rose from the central field. Diyu slowed only when he saw the object.

It lay half-buried in scorched earth, unlike anything he had ever seen. It was unmistakably a craft, though not of any world Diyu understood. Its surface was smooth in places and violently scarred in others, as if the sky had tried to tear it apart before letting it fall. Strange markings ran along its side. A doorway stood open in its body, spilling a pale blue-green light over the ground.

The glow seemed to burn whatever it touched. The craft hissed and popped. Debris sizzled around it. Thin trails of smoke twisted into the air, carrying a sharp metallic smell that stung Diyu’s nose.

Fear gripped him, but curiosity followed close behind it. He moved forward, cautious but determined. Whatever had landed in the middle of his village could threaten his people. He could not stand at the edge and wonder. He had to know.
Then he saw the being.

It stood near the open doorway, tall and still, wrapped in long, flowing robes made from a white fabric that shimmered as if lit from within. The material was unlike any cloth Diyu had ever seen. It did not hang like woven hide or plant fiber. It seemed almost weightless, shifting softly in the air though no wind touched it.

The being’s face was difficult to discern. There was no clear mouth. No nose. Only smooth, mysterious features and eyes that glowed with piercing white light. Other parts of its body shone faintly beneath the robes, suggesting a form both fragile and powerful. It stood nearly as tall as the Kreegans, yet its frame was thin where theirs were muscular and thick-skinned.

Kreegan youths carried large lower tusks, but those tusks were lost as they grew into adulthood and their jaws narrowed into harder angles. Adult males often stood eight to nine feet tall, their skin ranging from dark green to brown, sometimes nearly black. They grew hair across their heads and much of their bodies. Females were usually slightly smaller, often seven to eight feet tall, with paler shades of green, tan, or earth-toned skin.

This being looked nothing like them. Its hands remained hidden inside its glowing robes.
Diyu felt trepidation rise in him, but curiosity would not release its hold. What was this creature? Why had it come? What did it want from his village?
He stepped closer.

Near the center of the gathering, Elder Yow approached the glowing visitor. The villagers had gathered in frightened silence. Some held spears. Others clutched children close. No one knew whether to kneel, flee, or attack.

Elder Yow stood before the being and spoke. Diyu could not hear any answer. Still, the elder reacted as if a conversation had begun.

“You are Anunnaki?” Elder Yow asked.

The entity remained silent to Diyu’s ears. Then the elder’s expression changed. Curiosity became disbelief. Disbelief became anger.

“I do not believe you!” Elder Yow shouted. “No. Our gods would have warned us!”
Diyu stiffened. What had the being said? He wanted to step forward and ask for himself, but he held his tongue. Instead, he moved closer, carefully closing the distance. The tension between the elder and the glowing visitor thickened with each breath.
Then a voice echoed inside Diyu’s mind.

“Is there any among you who will listen to what we have to say?”

Diyu froze. The voice had not come through the air. It had sounded inside him, clear and calm, as if placed directly into his thoughts. He looked around, startled, but no one nearby had spoken.

The being had.

The Anunnaki had spoken to him without moving its mouth.
Diyu swallowed. “My name is Diyu.”

His own voice sounded too small after the one that had entered his mind. His heart raced. What could these beings have to say that was so important? More troubling still, could they be trusted?

Despite his fear, Diyu felt the eyes of his people around him. He was one of the strongest hunters in the village. If this visitor brought danger, he needed to understand it. If it brought a warning, someone had to listen.

Diyu stepped forward. A few other males from the village joined him, spears in hand.
“We are willing to listen to what you have to say,” Diyu said. He shifted his stance slightly, planting his feet. “But if you bring violence upon us, we will return that violence tenfold.”

The Anunnaki did not move. A soothing voice filled their minds.
“Release your hostility. We have not come to destroy. We have come to offer hope.”

The words settled over the gathered Kreegans like rain after fire. Diyu felt a strange peace wash through him, though suspicion remained beneath it. The Anunnaki explained that they had come to warn the Kreegans. The life cycle of Hadawon’s sun was nearing its end. Within a century, life on the planet would cease to exist.

Diyu felt the words strike deeper than any blade.

Hadawon would die.

Not someday in distant myth. Not in a tale told to frighten children into obedience. Within generations. Within the lives of children not yet born.

He looked around at the villagers and saw fear spreading across their faces. Some looked confused. Others shook their heads as if denial might undo what had been said. Elder Yow’s expression hardened, but even he could not fully hide the shadow of uncertainty in his eyes.

Diyu thought of the Great Lake of Life, the receding tide, the dry fields, and the thinning Anoxe herds. He had seen the signs before the Anunnaki ever spoke. A terrible responsibility settled on him. If the Anunnaki told the truth, then the fate of his people rested not in preserving the old ways unchanged, but in learning how to survive beyond them.

Diyu turned toward the villagers. His heart felt heavy with the knowledge he had been given. It was a truth difficult to bear, but if they hoped to survive, they had to confront it.

“Listen to me,” Diyu said. “Brothers, sisters, elders alike—listen.”

The crowd murmured, but he raised his voice over them.
“I have seen the changes beyond our village. Changes many of you have not yet seen. The shorelines are receding. The fields are drying. Our mighty Anoxe are withering. These visitors speak the truth. Please, listen.”

Murmurs moved through the crowd. Some nodded. Others remained unconvinced. Then three hunters stepped forward.

“I have seen what Diyu speaks of in the northern fields,” one said.
Another nodded. “In the western waters and along the shores, the fish numbers have dropped.”

A third stepped forward more slowly. It was Emo, a hunter who had grown up beside Diyu.
“I did not want to believe it,” Emo said. “But I have seen it too, in the eastern mountains at the edge of our territory.”

Their words gave weight to Diyu’s warning. He could feel doubt beginning to give way to fear. He stepped into the center of the gathering and stood tall so all could see him.
“The Anunnaki have come to warn us that our sun will become our doom in future generations. We must use what little time we have to learn from them, to unite our world, and to move beyond Hadawon before Hadawon can no longer keep us alive. Their knowledge may be our saving grace. It may spare our children from starvation, thirst, and the slow death of our world.”

Silence followed. Then the village stirred with anxious voices. Diyu saw fear on their faces, but he saw something else, too.

A glimmer of hope.

“It is time to take up new traditions and a new way of life,” he said, “as our people once did after the Great Moot. We changed then to end the endless war. Now we must change again to survive.”

The words were difficult for him to speak. Hadawon was not merely land beneath their feet. It was home. It was memory, bone, blood, and story. The idea of leaving it felt like cutting a part of himself away. But if the Anunnaki spoke truly, then love for the land could not become an excuse to let their children die with it.

Elder Yow stepped forward. His voice carried the weight of years.
“This planet is more than our home,” he said. “This planet is who we are, and we are this planet. There can be no Hadawon without Kreegan, and there can be no Kreegan without Hadawon. Our fates will always be the same.”

His words settled heavily over the people. Diyu understood them. Part of him even agreed. But he could not shake the signs he had seen. He could not ignore the dying fields, the receding waters, the weakening herds. He could not accept that tradition required surrender.

He drew a deep breath and faced the elder.
“I understand the deep connection we have with this land,” Diyu said. “But we must also consider the signs of a dying world. We cannot ignore them. We must find a way to preserve who we are while learning new ways to live. The Anunnaki offer knowledge. They offer a chance to survive. We cannot turn away from that. We must come together and save our people.”

The elder’s face remained hard.
Diyu felt his temper stir. He tried to hold it down, but the thought of unborn generations being condemned by fear and pride burned inside him. He stepped closer to Elder Yow, disgust tightening his features. When he spoke again, he lowered his voice so only the elder could hear.

“So you would doom your great-grandchildren?” Diyu said. “You would sit back and do nothing because you lose nothing, old man. It is the future generations you will condemn.”

The elder’s eyes narrowed. “Just how do you plan to accomplish such a task? Do you think you are going to unite the clans? A young, foolish hunter from our village who cannot even master his own temper?”

Anger flared in Diyu’s chest, but he forced it down.
“I know it will not be easy,” Diyu replied. “But I refuse to stand by while our world crumbles around us. We must unite for the sake of our children and their children.”

The elder’s expression softened, though only slightly. “There is peace because we stay out of other clans’ lands, and they do the same. Every attempt to unite the clans has brought more bloodshed. More of those young, innocent lives you spoke of so fondly a moment ago.”

Diyu could hear the truth in the elder’s words. But truth did not always mean surrender.
“That does not mean we should not try,” Diyu said. “We can learn from the mistakes of the past. We can do better this time.”

Elder Yow regarded him with a mixture of skepticism and reluctant admiration. Diyu knew then that his words had struck something in the old Kreegan, whether the elder wished to admit it or not. Whether Diyu would succeed in uniting the clans remained unknown, but he was determined to try.

No matter the cost.

Then another message echoed through his mind. The Anunnaki spoke again. They promised to teach Diyu and anyone who would listen how to survive beyond Hadawon. They claimed they could read the Kreegans’ thoughts and knew the desperation hidden beneath their fear. They understood the desire to save the people from the destruction approaching them.
The invitation was clear. Come when they were ready, and the Anunnaki would teach them what they needed to survive.

The anger inside Diyu eased, replaced by a dangerous spark of hope. This was a chance. Perhaps the only one. He turned away from Elder Yow and began walking back toward the wilderness. As he passed the Anunnaki, he gave a slight nod, accepting the offer.
He could feel the elder watching him with suspicion. Diyu did not care. He had to do what was best for his people.

He found Emo near the edge of the gathering and leaned close. “Meet me on the outskirts of the village at sunset,” Diyu whispered. “Bring anyone you know who will listen to the Anunnaki.”

Emo searched his face, then nodded.

Over the next several days, Diyu learned with a hunger that surprised even him. The Anunnaki’s teachings revealed the true scale of the danger Hadawon faced. They spoke of worlds beyond the sky, of realms beyond ordinary sight, of survival outside the world that had birthed the Kreegans. They taught of advanced technologies, healing methods, strange tools, and ways of thinking that seemed impossible to comprehend at first.
Yet the knowledge came to Diyu differently than it came to the others. The Anunnaki did not teach as Kreegans taught. They did not lecture beside fires or demonstrate with hand and tool. Instead, they seemed to place knowledge directly into the mind. Complex ideas unfolded inside Diyu as though they had always been there, buried deep and waiting to be awakened.

Concepts that left others confused became clear to him. Space. Distance. Energy. The behavior of worlds. The movement of stars. The possibility of survival beyond Hadawon.
The more Diyu learned, the more his sense of purpose deepened. The Anunnaki had chosen to speak to him for a reason. His people would need leadership, and if no one else would step forward, he would.

Yet that purpose came with weight. As Diyu went about his daily tasks, he felt the future pressing against his shoulders. The fate of his village, and perhaps all Kreegans, depended on whether he could learn quickly enough, lead strongly enough, and convince others before fear hardened into refusal.

One evening, after a long day of lessons, Diyu and Emo sat beneath the stars. The fire between them burned low. Beyond its circle of light, the wilderness whispered with nocturnal life. The sky above stretched wide and full of distant mysteries. Diyu now knew that they were not merely lights, but places. Worlds. Possibilities.

Emo broke the silence first. “You know, it is not fair that you understand this so easily.”

His tone was light, but admiration rested beneath it. Diyu glanced at him.
Emo smiled faintly. “Your dedication honors our people. It will not be long before their fate rests firmly on your shoulders.”

Diyu looked back into the fire. The pressure inside him tightened.
“Your words are kind, Emo, and well-received,” Diyu said. He placed one hand over his heart in gratitude. “I will do everything in my power to save our people.”

“I know,” Emo said. “That is what worries me.”

Diyu frowned, but before he could ask what Emo meant, the conversation drifted as the night deepened.

The lessons continued over the following days. Diyu’s mind remained consumed with leadership and the impossible task ahead. He needed to be prepared for whatever the future demanded, whether that future led to unity, exile, or war.

During one lesson, Diyu turned his attention to the Anunnaki. “Are there other beings in space like you?” he asked. “Are they as welcoming as you?”

A soft voice answered in his mind. “Young Diyu, we are pleased with your progress and your ability to learn so quickly. Listen carefully.”

Diyu focused on the voice. “The worlds you may encounter in the vast universe are as different in nature as you are from Elder Yow. Some inhabitants may welcome you with open arms. Others may greet you with weapons drawn and violence ready. We do not recommend associating with the second.”

Diyu committed the warning to memory. Someday, this knowledge might save lives.
That evening, as the sun sank toward the horizon, the sky turned orange, pink, and purple. Cool air moved through the wilderness, carrying the distant sounds of night creatures. Diyu sat on a log beside the fire with Emo near him, taking in the beauty of Hadawon. For a moment, peace touched him. Then the weight returned.

The responsibility to his people never left for long.
Emo studied him through the firelight. “I can see the weight of the world on your shoulders. You are carrying a burden no one else wants or knows how to carry.”

Diyu did not answer.
Emo leaned forward. “But you are not alone, my friend. I am here with you. So are others who believe in you.”

Diyu felt gratitude rise in him. “Thank you, Emo. It means more than you know.”
Emo reached into a pouch and removed a small pinch of dried herbs. “These will help clear your mind,” he said. “They help with focus. Add them to your tea.”

Diyu accepted the herbs and inhaled their scent. Earthy, with a faint mint sharpness beneath it.
“Thank you,” he said. “Is there a reason for this?”

Emo looked into the fire. “You know this will come to blows between the clans.”
The words settled between them.

Diyu looked out over the darkening countryside. Elder Yow’s warning returned to him. The Anunnaki’s arrival had happened weeks earlier, yet no other village or clan had come to investigate. No chief had crossed borders in curiosity. No elder had sent word. The silence was ominous.

Something was brewing.

“How can you be so sure?” Diyu asked.

Emo sighed. “Because no elder would willingly submit to the rule of another village or clan. It has been that way since the beginning of time. Crossing a border, even in the name of curiosity, would bring war. The Great Moot decided that fate long ago.”
War.

The thought struck Diyu like a fist. He had spoken of saving the Kreegan race. He had imagined unity, learning, survival, and the stars. But if Emo was right, the path to saving his people might require him to fight the very Kreegans he intended to save.
The idea made his blood run cold. Killing them would feel like moving away from salvation. Yet if they refused to act, if they clung to borders while Hadawon died around them, then their refusal could doom everyone.

Diyu stared into the fire. Did he have the fortitude for that?
Emo’s voice softened. “Are you ready for that?”

Diyu took a deep breath and stood. He extended his spear arm toward Emo, palm open and facing inward.
“Will you stand with me to unite our people?”

Emo rose to meet him eye to eye. “For the good of our people.”

Their hands struck together with a loud clap. Their arms locked, biceps flexing as each tested the other’s strength in an old, familiar gesture. For a moment, the challenge held. Then Emo yielded with a faint grin, forfeiting their friendly contest.
Both of them paused, feeling the weight of what they had just agreed to. Then Emo broke the tension with a smile.

“Besides,” he said with a chuckle, “one day our people will look back on us as heroes.”
Diyu laughed despite himself. For a moment, the burden felt lighter. The road ahead would be long, but with Emo at his side, Diyu believed he could face what was coming.
The night passed quickly. Diyu woke with urgency in his bones. He knew what needed to be done, and waiting would only strengthen fear in those who opposed him. He left camp and made his way to Elder Yow’s hut, determined to persuade him one more time. As Diyu approached, he heard a woman’s voice inside.

“I understand your position, Elder Yow,” she pleaded. “But what about my unborn child? What future will they have if we do nothing?”

Diyu stopped outside the entrance. The woman’s words struck him deeply. An unborn child. A future life already threatened by decisions made before it ever saw the light of Hadawon’s sun.

Diyu stepped inside. He gave a slight cough to announce himself.
“Elder Yow,” he said, “please. We must work with the Anunnaki to secure a future for our people. For this woman’s child.”

Elder Yow’s expression hardened immediately. “I will not abandon our gods. Nor will I speak of this matter any longer. Now, if you do not mind, Diyu, I have important matters to attend to.”

The dismissal was sharp. The woman lowered her gaze. Diyu felt frustration surge through him. How could Elder Yow ignore the future of their people with an unborn child in the room? How could he cling to refusal and call it wisdom? Diyu walked past the woman, struggling to contain his anger. He stopped at the doorway and looked back.

“Do not worry,” he told her. “Some of us are looking out for your unborn child and the generations after, so they do not die of starvation.”

His tone carried more bitterness than comfort. Then he left the hut, determination burning hotter than before. Elder Yow would not move. So Diyu would. If the old ways refused to bend, then he would find those willing to build something new.