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“Am I… dead?”
Had he paid more attention, he might have felt the broken asphalt under his hands, the pain searing through his body. Little telltale signs that he was still alive. But he was too awestruck, staring at the naked… being standing so calmly before him, looking in the direction of where the insect-like monster had gone - now no more than a splatter of blood on the wall.
“Oh. No?” the other turned to him, blinking slowly. His face betrayed nothing, a perfectly blank mask.
“What are you?”
“I’m Saitama.”
“Please… let me follow you!”
“Okay. Wait, what?”
---
He’d seen many odd beings. He’d had plenty of time to encounter all the strange things of this world, after all. Centuries upon centuries, passing by like a gentle breeze.
Most of them were once normal mortals, corrupted by hate or fear or obsession. They turned dangerous and they turned stupid. Those he obliterated without consideration whenever he encountered them. A single blow was all it took.
Others were more difficult, for they retained some of their knowledge, their memories. Their humanity. He tried to leave them if he could, but usually they left him with no choice, their corruption poisoning the soil they stepped on, the very air they breathed.
And they were drawn to ones like him. It was in their nature, like moths to a light, to seek out strength and power. Sad, in a way, how they could not help themselves, how they would approach him, follow him, attack him. Anything to try to gain from him. Fruitless, of course.
He destroyed those ones, too. They went down just as easily.
This time, he had been drawn by the sounds of a struggle, the distinct presence of yet another monstrous soul along with another other that was… confusing.
At first he had assumed it was but a mere mortal, about to die. A single soul, so small in the grand scale of things that he could barely sense its presence at all. But then the little being fought, fought with fire powered by fear, rage, passion, strongly enough to draw his interest - quite a feat. And he stopped to see how overpowered the little fire-man was.
He stayed long enough to step in and stop the mosquito monster, for just one little mortal’s sake. The others would have laughed at him, for this waste of time.
Then, he got a better look at the mortal and saw gold-on-black eyes so full of wonder and hunger that he realized that this was no ordinary mortal after all and that saving him was probably a mistake. But he was… strange. He looked corrupted at a glance and though he could feel his anger and pain influencing his thoughts and actions, his mind had not been clouded over with it. He seemed to be in control of himself still.
Perhaps he was a demon, Saitama had thought. That might explain how he could hide his true nature so well. Some of them were quite good at that. It would certainly explain how he was so drawn to Saitama. For over the next several days he felt him always near, always at the far edge of his vision.
“Go home,” he told him once. “We’re not related,” another time, though he was not sure where those words came from.
But the little demon was stubborn. Of course, you had to be, to be noticed by a god, even one that was almost never recognized by anyone any more.
Most of the others could barely tell one mortal from another, even if they tried and cried for their attention. They were simply too small, too insignificant, like telling one ant from another. But this one attached himself to Saitama’s conscience, always buzzing by his ear like a gnat in the night, trying to get his attention, and on the fifth day, he turned to him.
“What do you want?”
“I want to follow you. Learn your strength.”
“That’s monster talk. Go away, little demon.”
“Please! I need strength to avenge my family!”
“No.”
-
“I know what you are now, Saitama.”
He stopped in his tracks. He had been walking silently down an abandoned street, alone. Or so he’d thought. Somehow, he had managed to creep up on him.
That little demon was so stubborn.
“You’re a priest, aren’t you?”
He almost laughed.
“If I’m a priest, why are you following me, little demon?”
“And that’s the other thing. Why do you call me that?”
Saitama looked at him. Blond hair, wild and long enough to partially cover his dark eyes. A torn dark shirt with bare arms, with charred and burnt patches. He was not sure if they were from whatever had happened to him or the result of his corruption, the fire that fuelled him from within, keeping him alive more than air and food and water did now. His lower half had fared better, jeans appearing intact along with his worn shoes. If his outfit was any indication, he probably hadn't been this way for too long. A few years, maybe. Less than a second, in the grand scale of things.
Was he not aware of himself, of his state? That was sometimes the case of corrupted ones, but this one had still seemed intelligent, otherwise.
“What happened to your family?” he asked instead, having heard about them often enough to remember that it was important to him.
And then the demon launched into a tale of a normal peaceful village attacked by a vengeful demon that had killed everyone, everyone but him. And now he had to avenge them, even if it cost him his own life.
The tale went on, but Saitama stopped listening. It was sad in its own way, but how much can you worry about one small village when you have seen the lives of thousands of villagers pass you by over the centuries? By comparison to himself they were so small, so short lived. So hard to care about.
“I know I’m inexperienced but I need incredible strength-”
“Enough!” he cried out, tired by the never ending string of words. Somehow, he was letting this little demon get under his skin. What a strange being, to be able to leave such a strong impression on him.
The demon only looked at him, fearless. Expectant, almost.
Eventually, he caved. Somehow, he caved to this stubborn little creature.
“There was a shrine, here, under this apartment complex. There were more, once, but this was the last one. And now it is gone too, buried under all this rubble.”
“Is that why you stay here, in this abandoned area? Is this where you used to do your priest work?”
The demon had shifted into a proper respectful position, on his knees with his hands carefully placed on his thighs. That was unusual. Demons did not normally do things like that. It must be a trick of some kind.
“I will find it.”
“You do that, little demon.”
---
It took a lot of digging and heavy lifting, but at least no one disturbed his work in this part of the city. There was no one else here to see what he was doing, anyway.
He threw aside beams, burnt away what materials he could, painstakingly carried the rest aside. And then he dug into the dry soil with his bare hands until he encountered polished stone, smooth and cold under his hands.
He’d show that priest. He’d do him proud - he’d prove himself and then he’d take him on as his disciple. He had, after all, promised that he eventually would, the very first time they met.
---
It felt like an itch, the mildest of tugs on his arm, a gnat trying to get his attention. It had been so long since he felt it that it took him a moment to realize what it was.
Once it had happened so commonly that it had been impossible to respond to them all, even if that had been within his power. But that was then, this was now.
When he arrived he was only mildly surprised to find the demon surrounded by concrete and burnt plastic and ashes. He looked so, so pleased as he pointed towards the small stone statue of a bald man, dug out from the soil and carefully placed on dry ground.
“I found it. This is what you worshipped, is it not, master? You can do your duty now, and show me how to grow stronger.”
This was strange… no, it was unnerving.
Demons could not touch a divine shrine.
---
The priest did not look pleased with his work. Most of the time he didn’t really look much of anything, but that was certainly a schooled part of his profession, he was certain.
But now he looked… frightened, almost. He walked up slowly to the statue, touching it with two fingertips before slowly running his open palm over the smooth skull, dirtying his fingers with wet soil.
“I will clean it up, master,” he assured. “I will restore this shrine to its former glory, so that you can work like you were meant to.”
“Like I was meant to,” he murmured, avoiding his eyes.
He continued to look around, deep in thought, before he finally spoke. “Who are you?”
“I am Genos, master!”
---
It was almost interesting to watch Genos work. He was determined and often impatient, using fire as often as his muscle strength to move an object.
Saitama offered no assistance and Genos did not ask for it. In fact, it was almost as if he longed to prove himself, his ability to work hard alone.
He did not know what he was doing, did not perform the proper rituals. But he cleaned the area and made a small wooden platform so that one could approach the statue without getting their feet muddy.
And then he brought a bucket and a rag he had found somewhere and he washed the statue until it was as clean as mere water could make it. There were still some blemishes on it, but it looked cleaner than it had in… centuries, probably.
It left a very strange feeling inside him. Despite himself, he felt drawn to the demon. Though he understood now that he was not a real demon he had no better description for him. He was corrupted, was he not? His eyes glowed like coals and his arms were burning and he was obsessed with revenge. But he was in control of himself, still. And, strangest of all, he did not seem even aware of how he had changed from being a normal mortal. As if he thought that was still living like one. As if his behaviour was completely normal. The only time he had asked about his state had been the first time they met. “Am I dead?”, he had asked, and Saitama had assured him that he was not. For he burnt with passion and determination, strong enough to be noticed even by a god. But what was he? What was he turning into?
Saitama did not know.
---
“Master,” he croaked, barely able to move, hurt almost beyond recognition, but still alive, somehow.
Saitama breathed a sigh of relief. “You should not have attacked him. Mere flames against the full force of the ocean. What were you thinking?”
Gingerly he lifted him into his arms to take him to the shrine. It was the place where it felt the most right to heal his wounds. Like coming home.
The yelling mortals that had collected to see the spectacle were easily ignored, even when they questioned who, or what, had defeated the monster calling itself the Sea King. It was not important to him. Their minds would try to rationalize, to find a solution, and it would all soon fade into misty memories.
Instead, he focused on the broken mortal in his arms, wondering at how strongly he cared for him, how well he could feel him. He could feel the burns of his arms against his skin as they moved, could hear his hitching breaths against his skin. Could sense his pain, not only at his current condition but constantly coursing through all of him, a large part of his identity at this point. He was fire, fire everywhere down to his heart, or what had once been a mortal’s beating heart. What remained of it now was hard to say.
Genos remained still in his arms and very, very quiet.
---
“You are spoiling me,” he complained once, but Genos knew it was but empty words. Saitama blossomed in his attentions, he had noticed that very early on. Though he wondered if the priest himself, for all his wisdom, did. He must have been very lonely for a long time, Genos thought, to appreciate human contact so much now.
“There is tea for you, and dinner.”
He had almost forgotten about food, before. About a lot of things, really. It was strange when he thought back - many of his memories from before he met Saitama were blurry and hard to decipher. When had been the last time he’d eaten since uncovering the shrine? Or even tasted cold water? Mostly he remembered the anger and fear, going from city to city in his search, fighting monsters and spirits that got in his way. Very little else, and it left him feeling oddly incomplete, as if he was only now realizing that half of him was gone.
Ever since he dug out the shrine he felt like he had been given a new purpose. Not that he had forgotten about his revenge… but it could wait for a bit. Right now, he must provide master Saitama with a shrine so that he could do his duties as a priest - so that he in return would teach Genos. Then Genos would get his revenge.
And after that… he didn’t know.
Many of master Saitama’s lessons were difficult. They often involved introspection and patience, things that did not come easily to him. But he learnt, he tried very hard and with the help of master's endless patience, he learnt.
He sat behind master Saitama when he meditated, thinking about his family. He prepared food for him, found him soft bedding to rest upon, tried to tell him how much he appreciated being allowed to study under him.
It was strange in a way - surely master Saitama could have found these things for himself, had he only tried. But he never did. Yet he seemed to appreciate even the smallest of kind gestures bestowed upon him.
The first time Genos had brought him food he had smiled, and it had felt like the clouds opened to bless him with the rays of the sun after a month of rain. It wasn’t even any special food - cabbage and a few other vegetables mostly, but Saitama had shown Genos how to prepare them into a proper meal. They’d eaten it, together, and it had been one of the best days he could remember in a long time.
After that day, Saitama seemed brighter, more alive somehow.
And Genos mirrored him.
---
“Why do you not care about them, master Saitama?”
“Who?”
“The people who yell at you. Who call you a fraud and an impostor.”
“Oh. They are not important. Their words mean nothing.”
“But...” Genos tried to protest. Saitama put a hand on his shoulder, calming the raging fire in his heart to calm embers.
“Do you worry about the birds singing in the trees around us? It is life or death to them. Defending a territory, finding a mate.”
“To them… yes, that is important. But their lives do not affect mine, and their struggles aren’t affected by my actions, either.”
“So, you understand. Let us get something to eat. Do you think the udon place is open yet?”
“Yes!”
---
“What is that stench that clings to you so?” she asked.
He stopped in his track, peering (to his satisfaction) down at her. “What?”
“You smell. Like smoke, something nasty and burnt.”
“That’s Genos” he said, continuing on at an easy pace, face calm. But inside he was surprised, and concerned. If the others were noticing him too, it could spell trouble. Many of his kind could be vengeful, spiteful, jealous… especially towards that which they did not know. They might consider him a pest to get rid of, or worse, a threat.
“You let yourself be marked by a demon?” she shrieked. “How low of you! But it is, I suppose, only fitting! You were always unworthy, insignificant, easily ignored-”
He continued on, paying little attention to her words until they faded completely. But that night at the temple, he studied Genos as he prepared them food, lighting a small fire with his hands, watching the meat carefully as it cooked. It came so easily to him, as if the fire was a natural part of himself, something he had been born with. In a sense, he had.
“Genos?” he called carefully, watching the other startle, coming out of his trance to watch him with bright eyes. Eager to listen.
“Master?”
“Why do you want to get revenge?”
Genos opened his mouth, surprised. Closed it again. Probably considering his words - Saitama had attempted to teach him to keep his explanations short.
“It murdered my family, master”
“What will killing it in return achieve?”
Genos stared at him for a long time. His eyes were dark, darker than he had ever seen them. He had expected the fire inside him to burn brighter at his questions but instead it seemed to falter to but a glow, as if he had been doused in water.
“Think about it” he urged. “Tell me in the morning.”
---
He had left early, before dawn, despite asking Genos to talk with him when the new day broke. Perhaps he was a coward, afraid to hear what he knew Genos would tell him. But he also hoped, deep within, that given enough time, Genos might come to a different conclusion.
They did not see each other until the evening. Again food was prepared for him, but he could see that Genos was subdued, his movements sluggish. He wished he could help him but this was something he must figure out himself. For his own sake.
“Master,” he finally said, after they had already eaten. “I do not remember much of my past. I cling to the few memories I have left of my family. Most everything else is just a blur of pain and fire. For a long time, I thought it would consume me. There were times when I… when I wanted it to. I thought that… if that happened, I could fulfil my quest without worries, without doubting myself.”
“But you did not let it consume you.”
“I lost everyone, everything. Without my quest, I had nothing. Until you found me. You’ve given me a home and a purpose, but I cannot so easily let go of everything else. Not when it fuelled me, gave me strength for so long. But I consider your words of wisdom, everything you’ve said to me and I’m… frightened.”
“Of what?”
“Of… myself, master. I had forgotten, I… the first time we met I asked you if I was dead. And you said no. But I look at myself and I realize that I’m not, this isn’t… what’s happened to me? What am I? Am I truly a demon, as you used to call me, one condemned for all eternity?”
To Saitama’s despair, large tears formed in those dark eyes, rolling down his face like trails of glistening obsidian.
He had never considered his words more carefully.
“At first, I thought you were a mortal whose soul had been corrupted-” he paused at a choked sob from the other, “but you are not. My kin are starting to notice you now.”
“Your… your kin?”
“I believe you might be something very, very rare Genos. We will know, soon enough.”
---
For a long time, he put it down to being so spoiled by him. In the olden days his attention would have been split between so many, none of them more important than the other, but now it was only him, vying for his attention, giving him gifts, praising him. Offering all he had and only getting empty words in return. It did not seem a fair bargain.
Genos was but a mortal, too small, too short-lived to worry about, to waste emotions upon.
And yet.
He found his thoughts near always straying to him, now. He always kept track of where he was, if he required assistance. Every day, their bond seemed to grow only stronger.
So close were they that he no longer knew what he would do when Genos would one day die, mortal as he was.
---
“You are not a priest” Genos said one night as he stirred the fire. His words were accusing, but his tone was not. He was calm. “Are you?”
“I never claimed to be.”
“If you are not a priest and I am not a demon, then what are we?”
“We? Are we the same?”
Genos seemed unwilling to say anything else on the topic, and Saitama let him be, though he wished he had had the courage to question him further.
---
He was following one of his favourite trails, the one that had once led through a great forest, though now it was only concrete and asphalt. Genos was by his side, as usual these days, when she stopped them. Her tone was chilly, like her aura. Like a snowstorm.
“What are you?” she asked in surprise, directed at Genos.
He glared at her, not intimidated in the least. Fire melts snow. “I am Genos.”
“Are you deaf? I didn’t ask for your name! I asked what you are! Why have I not seen you before? Where did you come from and why are you with him?”
Saitama stared and said nothing. Did she think he was… one of them?
...Was he?
No. There would be a sign, some way to tell, would there not?
He gripped Genos’ arm, feeling the burn under his skin, urging him to remain calm, and together they continued their walk down the street.
”Do not run away from me, Saitama!” she called after him, hail on his back, cutting deep in her rage. He could almost hear how it sizzled and turned into steam against Genos’ back.
When they came back to the shrine, he finally let go of the other, giving him a meaningful look.
”You’d best be careful, from here on. You have definitely been noticed, and word will spread.”
”What do they want from me?” Genos challenged, gaze aflame, hackles raised.
”They do not know you, and that frightens them.”
—
His kind were not the only ones that noticed Genos. The villagers did now, too.
Perhaps they had avoided him before, bothered by his dark eyes and burning marks. Taken him for a demon, just as Saitama had. Or perhaps they had not seen him at all. Perhaps he had been like a ghost, travelling unseen between the cities. The lines could be blurry sometimes.
But they were most definitely noticing him now.
”What do they want from me?” he asked his master one day. ”They never approached me before but now I find them flocking around the shrine, leaving offerings, singing and leaving letters while calling my name.”
”Do you listen to them?” he asked him back. ”Do you know what they ask of you?”
”No,” came the reply. ”I have ignored them, best as I can.”
”Maybe you should stop and listen, then. Often their requests are simple. A quick favour in return for a free meal is not a bad deal.”
Genos looked silently into the night for a long time, eyes dark and hard to read.
—-
And then, the day came.
In retrospect there had been signs, though he did not recognize them at the time. Not that he could be blamed, for it was one of the rarest of occurrences, spoken of as legend rather than truth. He had never witnessed it himself, before. And he had seen a lot.
Still, he should have considered it all more carefully. The way the others turned to look at him, both of them, frowning and muttering. The way the villagers had built walls around the shrine, to protect it against the elements. How there were candles lit around it at all hours of the day, the smoke intermingling with the scents of fruits and flowers. How it was surrounded by letters, from old and young alike.
His shrine had come alive.
Except, somehow, it was now their shrine.
When the day came they had been fighting a monster, one of great magnitude, with clacking jaws and an impossible number of feet. It had threatened thousands of citizens, wrecking havoc and feeding on the fear and terror.
Genos had found it first and fought it fiercely to defend their lands and their people, oblivious to the cheers from the people who saw and heard the commotion from afar.
He had almost defeated it on his own, an impressive feat even for one of his own rank - not much of a match for Saitama, of course, but he had recognized that it would have been a struggle for many of the others even. When he arrived at the scene he felt pride and affection, affection so deep he had no name for it, seeing how hard his little demon had fought to protect the villagers. Had he sensed the danger himself, the way he often sniffed out smaller and weaker monsters to obliterate them, or had he listened to the calls of the villagers?
He had fought well, but Saitama could tell that we had been grievously injured. Had he been a normal mortal, Genos would have died then and there. But of course, had Genos been a normal mortal he would have been dead a long time ago.
His body was healing as fast as it could, burning with determination and rage as he delivered every hit. He was more fire than man when Saitama found him and he wondered if the other would completely burn up in flames, turning into nothing but into ashes and soot, disappearing from this world forever. The thought filled him with despair.
”Genos!” he called as he destroyed the beast, almost as an afterthought, too distracted to pay it any mind, wincing at the state of the other. He could sense his spirit, his very soul, fluctuating, alternating between burning brightly and almost disappearing completely, like a candle threatened to go out in a sudden breeze. ”Don’t leave me! I’ll never forgive you if you leave me!”
And Genos turned to look at him, aflame and wild-haired and eyes so impossibly bright as he burned. ”Master?” he called, his voice full of wonder and confusion.
And then the flames grew even brighter and engulfed all of Genos and he burned, like a bonfire, wildfire, bright enough that even Saitama had to shield his eyes until all was dark around him.
---
”They like you” Saitama said, his tone light and teasing.
Genos tried to shoo them away, but they were as stubborn as he was and soon returned, now even closer than before.
The birds were impossibly beautiful, gleaming like molten copper, like jewellery in the sun. Saitama had only seen them from a distance before. Now they were so close that he could count each individual scale on their great feet, could hear the low tick-tick of their talons as they walked ever closer, bright eyes searching for his companion’s. They basked in his presence, turning to him like flowers to the sun.
”Do they bother you so?” he continued, carefully extending a hand and touching one of the birds along the snake-like neck. The feathers were soft under his fingers as he traced his fingers down to a strong feathered back.
Genos frowned and opened his mouth only to close it again as one of the birds fearlessly butted its head against his arm. The brief contact caused a bright spot of light against his skin, like lava rising to the surface, only to disappear a second later. Instead, he only sighed.
-
When Saitama had dared to open his eyes again that fateful day, after he burned up completely, Genos had stood before him, not broken and reeking of smoke but tall and proud and at once wild and calm. His eyes were bright, so bright, and where before there had been soot and burned marks his skin was now smooth. He still glowed and burned, but now the fire came from within, a fire not of death but of life.
”Oh” Saitama had said. ”Welcome.”
And Genos had looked around him in wonder, at the sun disappearing behind the horizon, at the blackened grass by his feet. At his own arms.
”Am I dead?” he asked, just like that first time, but this time his voice was low and uncertain, yet cutting right through Saitama. He had never sensed him, felt him, so clearly before. ”If I am dead, why do I feel so much life around me? What is this strange bond?”
Saitama did not have time to formulate a thought before he felt the others approach. They were surprised, angry, curious, interested, frightened, joyful, it all blended into a cacophony of emotions.
Genos sensed it too, of course he did now, and he turned to meet the others head-on as they arrived, not a trace of fear in him, instead poised and ready to challenge them.
And they looked at him, questioning him, demanding answers, wanting to know. How had this happened? Who did it? Was this Saitama’s doing?
He had assured that it was not. This was entirely Genos’ own doing.
Strange, for when asked, Genos would say just as confidently that it was thanks to Saitama that this had happened. That his guidance had shown him the right path.
In the end, it did not matter. He was here now and he would remain here as long as any of them did.
He was born in fire and fire was his spirit, bringing light to the deepest darkness, burning so fierce that it would never go out again.
Strong enough to awaken a forgotten god.
Enough to become a god himself.
-
”They are not too bad, but I wish they would leave me alone at least sometimes,” Genos muttered.
”They probably will, eventually. But their presence is bringing great joy to all the villagers. It is an omen of incredible luck.”
Genos huffed.
After they had returned home to the shrine the offerings had more than doubled, and the prayers too. Genos had found them bothersome at first, distracting him. This bond, the bond to all things alive, was a heavy burden to carry for one not used to it.
But with Saitama’s patient guidance, he learnt to accept it. And he learnt, after much time, to patiently listen to the villagers, to their many wishes and requests. Often, the mere act of listening was enough, allowing them to collect their thoughts, to solve their own problems. Other times, they needed a small nudge. Saitama tried to teach him that, too. That a feather’s touch would do more good than a raging wildfire.
Being gentle, being small did not come easily to Genos. But he tried. His heart burnt brightly, but it burnt with compassion. And the villagers understood this, praising their wild and untamed god, his bright spirit giving them courage. Cursing him as often as they praised him, but always with pride.
And others, they came to Saitama, asking for his wisdom, his patience. He was not flashy, not proud or loud, despite his incredible strength. But he was wise.
The two belonged together. Everyone knew that. Even when depicted, they were usually portrayed together. And they, too, knew it, knew that their bond was unlike that of other gods, sworn to stay together for as long as the universe allowed it.
Together, they were in harmony.