The King of the Simurians had awoken.

And he was lost.

Embedded in his forehead like a carved gemstone, Dabura’s third eye fluttered open first—its silver glow flickering like a star struggling to reignite. His other two eyes followed, chilling ice-blue slits sliding into consciousness. A low, guttural sound rumbled from deep within his chest—the growl of a ruler confused, yet tempered by the cold, instinctive calm of someone born to command.

Unfamiliar sunlight spilled across his silvery, pale skin. It took him a moment—several, in fact—to adjust. His mind worked in fractured pieces, shards of memory drifting like broken constellations. He sifted through them, trying to make sense of his surroundings.

The soft field of grass embracing his body. The damp earth pressed beneath his large, inhuman palms. Tiny animals darting around him without fear—passing through the shadow of a monster as if he were nothing more than a fallen tree.

His brows pulled together sharply.

This world was not his own. Its nature… too gentle, too quiet. Nothing like the volatile, primal landscapes of the planet he once ruled.

He rose with ease, towering to his full height. Wildlife shrank beneath his silhouette; even the trees bowed under the sheer scale of him. Dabura cast one last glance at the peaceful meadow, then began to move—forward, though he had no destination to claim.

The alien king walked for what felt like a lifetime. His heavy steps were slow, controlled, each one filled with the quiet intensity of an ancient being who held more power than he knew what to do with in this fragile world.

Then—movement.

Deer.

A small herd grazed nearby, some nibbling berries while others lifted their heads to stare at him. Their wide, dark eyes held a cautious blend of curiosity and instinctive fear—the lingering memory of predators and hunters long before him.

Dabura stopped. Tilted his head. Something unspoken rippled across him.

He approached.

Lowering himself to their level, the titan extended a hand—slowly, tentatively—then paused, as though asking permission. The doe before him only blinked, unflinching.

He brushed its coat.

The King of the Simurians absorbed the moment in silence. He had no memories of who he was. No echo of what he was meant to be. And for the first time since jolting back into consciousness, he felt no urgency to search for answers.

Not until his gaze drifted upward.

Between the trees, half-hidden behind the brush, stood a small wooden cottage. The young doe stepped aside, revealing it fully—fragile, weather-worn, impossibly human.

Before he knew it, he was standing again. Towering. He gave the deer one last, gentle pat, then turned toward the cottage and began walking.

He stopped at the door—frail wood compared to his immense form. He studied it like an opponent before battle, calculating every angle, every weakness.

The hinges creaked.

The door pulled open.

A girl stood on the other side.

They froze together.

She had to tilt her head up— up— up— just to meet his gaze. Her breath hitched, face draining of color as her eyes widened. Shock tore through her expression, followed quickly by a primal spike of fear.

And then—

She slammed the door shut.

Right in the face of the King of the Simurians.