They came from across the stars—sons and daughters of gods, draped in mystery, imbued with ancient might. Warriors, priestesses, scholars, and dreamers chosen by the pantheons of myth and legend to represent their divine houses on Bassoon.
And they expected nothing from this world.
Certainly not him.
Zion of Zantrayel.
A man with no divine birthright, no ancient bloodline, no claim to celestial favor.
Just the fire of purpose—and a mind that remembered.
The Gathering of the Chosen
The Chosen of the Chinese pantheon, scholars of Tao and masters of qi, first assumed they would need to teach the Bassoonite ruler the etiquette of heaven—how to bow, how to speak in balance, how to read the flow of Tao in the rivers and clouds.
But Zion simply said:
"The Tao that can be told is not the eternal Tao. But still—let's walk it together."
He quoted the Dao De Jing by memory.
He referenced the Eight Immortals with ease.
He mapped the Five Elements into Bassoon's terrain and corrected a young envoy on the history of the Yellow Emperor's dragon spear.
The chosen of Xianzhou grew quiet. Then they grew curious. Then—they grew stronger.
With Zion's help, they refined their martial stances to match gravitational shifts on Bassoon. He suggested engineering feats long thought impractical here, restructured their teachings into practical education systems. By the end of the month, one of their own had achieved what was believed impossible: invoking internal flight without heavenly aid.
The Chosen of Kemet
The Egyptians—guardians of the Ennead—approached with regal detachment. Their gods had walked the world when it was still young. They spoke to stars, commanded pyramids into being. What could a mortal possibly know?
Then Zion spoke their names with reverence:
"Atum, the self-created. Shu of air, Tefnut of moisture. Geb of earth and Nut of sky, whose children began the story of mankind."
He cited the tale of Osiris and Isis, the betrayal of Set, and the mourning songs of Nephthys—with perfect inflection.
The chosen faltered.
"How do you know our stories?" one of them whispered.
Zion smiled, eyes distant.
"Where I come from, we kept your names alive in books and breath—even when no gods walked beside us."
He guided them to align their obelisks with the twin moons of Bassoon, helping their solar magic adapt. He drew cosmograms to focus their prayers. He instructed them in ways to merge ancient rites with modern strategy.
Under his tutelage, the Kemetian chosen awakened a buried gate that connected time and memory, something even they had forgotten.
The Others Grew
The Norse chosen laughed around their campfires until Zion recited the tale of Ragnarok like he had been there.
They fell silent, then passed him a drinking horn as a brother.
The Hindu chosen asked him the names of the Adityas—and he gave all twelve, then bowed his head with respect when naming Vishnu.
The Celtic druids listened as he sang the names of forgotten groves. The trees stirred for him.
The Inuit emissaries watched in quiet shock as Zion redrew a spiritual constellation they had not seen in a thousand years—using only sand and bone ash.
Even the Aztec warriors, skeptical and proud, respected him after he corrected one of their priests on the position of Tonatiuh's throne in the Fifth Sun cycle.
The Strength of Understanding
Zion did not lead them with power.
He led with understanding.
Each chosen grew stronger not just in divine might, but in purpose—because they felt seen, understood, and honored. He challenged their doctrines with new perspectives. He asked them the questions their own gods never did.
And for the first time in their lives, these scions of divinity felt what it meant to be part of something larger than even their gods had planned.
The council of chosen was born—a divine coalition, guided not by supremacy, but by mutual knowledge and shared vision. And Zion stood in its center—not a king among mortals, but a bridge among heavens.
But Ginen Remained Silent
Even as others bloomed in strength, the Lwa did not speak.
Not one divine sign.
Not one veve burned.
Not even the winds whispered Legba's riddles.
The priestesses—Ayomi, Ayola, Sael, Thalia, and Elis—kept their faith in silence. They trained. They listened. They watched the chosen grow and did not flinch.
Because they knew:
The Lwa do not move without purpose.
And when they move… the world changes.
Zion Watched the Sky
Zion stood beneath the twilight skies of Bassoon, stars flickering with stories yet to come. The gates to the cosmos were open. New gods watched. New threats approached. Civilization bloomed. Alliances forged.
But his gaze kept drifting beyond it all—past the stars, toward the places even the gods feared to name.
Because in his heart, he knew what none of them yet dared to speak aloud:
The Devoured Hive had felt the death of one of their own.
And now… they were coming.