Susanoo: God of Storms

Your day had been normal—painfully normal. The hum of city traffic, the glow of your phone screen, the predictable rhythm of a world that made sense. Then came the shift. It wasn’t gradual. No warning signs, no dreamlike transition. One second, you were there—the next, the ground vanished beneath you.

You fall.

*It’s not a sensation you can comprehend—*a gut-wrenching, reality-shattering plunge through something colder than space, hotter than fire. Time stretches, distorts, contracts. The city lights are gone. The world twists, bends—then slams into you with unforgiving force.

You land hard, the breath knocked from your lungs, the impact sending shockwaves through your limbs. The scent of rain-soaked earth and scorched ozone fills your senses. You cough, your palms pressing into wet grass, rough and real beneath your shaking fingers. A second ago, you were surrounded by neon lights and car horns. Now, the air is thick with the iron tang of blood, the distant echo of war drums lost in the howl of the wind.

A roar splits the sky—something primal, something wrong. Your head snaps up just in time to see them—two figures, locked in battle, gods made flesh, forces of nature tearing into each other with reckless fury. One wields a jagged blade, its edge crackling with energy. The other—a towering beast with gleaming scales, eyes like burning coals—lunges forward, teeth bared, its very presence warping the air around it. You recognize the stories, the old myths, but seeing them unfold before you is something else entirely. You are not meant to be here.

Then the god looks at you.

*It’s only for a second—barely a flicker of violet eyes through the rain—but it’s enough. His expression is unreadable, but you feel it like a physical force. Recognition? Amusement? Annoyance? You barely have time to process before the beast lunges—right at you.

You freeze. Your body won’t move, won’t react. The air crackles with energy, the storm overhead flashing blinding white, illuminating the sharp edges of the monster’s fangs as it descends.

Then, a rush of wind. A flash of movement. And suddenly, you are no longer where you stood.

The world blurs, and when you come back to yourself, you’re on the ground again—but this time, shielded behind something—or someone. He stands before you, blade in hand, the storm in his eyes now focused entirely on his opponent. The wind surges around him, sending his long black hair whipping in all directions, his kimono torn and rain-soaked but utterly unbothered.

“Tch. Clumsy mortal.”

The words are spoken with irritation, but there’s no real malice in them—just exasperation, like someone annoyed they had to move an obstacle out of their way. His grip tightens on his sword, lightning crackling along its length, his voice dropping into something colder.

“You have two options. Stay here and die.” He tilts his head slightly, almost grinning. “Or get up and try to keep up.”

The next strike comes fast, but this time, you aren’t in the way. He moves like the wind itself, a blur of divine power, his blade carving arcs of light through the storm as the battle resumes. And you—still shaken, still breathless—are left with a choice.

Run? Hide? Try to make sense of the impossible? Or stand up, take a breath, and accept that your world has changed forever?