Preface
There was a time when I soared freely; when I still had hope. Until the day Rey, the creator god of this world, spoke to me. He said:
“…There’s something missing: music.” I flew across the sky, passing close to him. “A sound that reaches deep into the soul and shapes people’s character. Not something that merely floats through the air, but that penetrates the darkest corners of their minds, molding their emotions and temperament…”
Feeling the weight of his words, I paused mid-flight.
“If I had the power to fill that void,” I replied, optimistic, naive, full of myself, not truly grasping the meaning of what I was saying, “the music I would create would be careful. It would guide people, inspiring courage, discipline, and moderation…”
“Not exactly,” Rey countered. “Though that’s precisely what we need now, a day will come when, with order already established, music will be needed to unleash chaos. A symphony that stirs the soul. A melody that releases the emotional power lying dormant inside every being.”
“Music that encourages disorder?” I asked, uneasy. “Wouldn’t that be dangerous?”
“No more than a civilization filled with empty hearts,” Rey assured me. “Music can guide people toward their best selves, but without chaos, they will never truly discover who they are.”
Those words stayed with me, echoing through the years. Although I understood them in that moment, their truth didn’t fully dawn on me until much later—until I discovered her existence: frail, fragile, vulnerable, coloring the world with her frequency.
My name is Pouakai Homas, the first Kaiho. But now, I prefer to be called what I’ve become: Phantom. The ghost of someone who once flew freely through the skies, filled with purpose, now lurking in the shadows. The first to speak with the creator god, the first to receive the mission of guiding music that would penetrate souls and unleash chaos. Yet, when she left me for another, everything I once was crumbled into pieces: misery, silence, tears.
I now wander aimlessly through the streets of the capital city, invisible to those who neither see nor hear me. Although I now have human form, unlike before, I remain incomplete: handless, voiceless, ugly. Once, I soared powerfully; now, my wings lie hidden beneath layers of cloth. I cannot sing or play music; I cannot direct a perfect frequency on my own. And what is a conductor without an orchestra? What is a bird without a song? A broken existence, like mine. Living and walking, searching to break a promise I once made.
They say love is like music: if you feel it, you cannot criticize it. But what I feel now is neither love nor music. What I hear is noise. The other Kaihos can still produce sound; even if they do not sing, they at least have the privilege of trumpets, guitars, violins, pianos... but for me, everything sounds empty, like a never-ending echo. The true music—the music that once held me steady, focused, guided, that connected me to her—no longer exists.
I lost Liza, and with her, I lost my direction.
She was my unfinished symphony, my muse. She was the reason I still sought perfection. She was my music, the only note that gave meaning to my mission. But now that she’s gone, all that’s left is emptiness.
I spend much time questioning whether I still have a purpose as a Kaiho. My mission of creating the perfect symphony feels like a cruel joke now—a burden too heavy, handed down by a god who has abandoned this world.
Among the chaotic sounds surrounding me, Liza was the perfect vibration. She represented freedom from the burden upon my shoulders. Her essence resonated with the purest notes, even if she herself never knew it. And I… I became her conductor, trying to guide her, shape the symphony that would change the world. But I failed.
How can one create perfection? What is perfection without her? The god once told me music has the power to build and destroy. Now I wonder if I’m destined only to destroy whatever I touch.
I still don’t know how to create that music. Perfection slips away from me like the wind. How do you create something perfect when your instrument has left, choosing instead to preserve her feelings? How can I conduct an orchestra without its key component? I search for perfection in every vibration, every note. I obsess over suffering, because only strings that weep when touched can produce something sublime. But even those strings have shattered in my hands.
My only consolation is knowing that, when my final scream comes, it won’t be recorded or preserved. Only those who hear it at that moment will remember it and pass it on to future generations. I—the broken bird who became human solely to sing in their tongue—I swear this. My music, though imperfect, will be eternal in the ears of those brave enough to listen and survive.
And then… wandering aimlessly, without direction or destination, what is this sound my ears perceive?! Could this be the answer I’ve sought for so long? A vibration… a perfect frequency. She is finally calling to me. Distant, but unmistakable. An echo of Liza, perhaps. No, definitely her. My body tenses, my heart pounds fiercely. This vibration, this music—it’s the answer that has eluded me for so long.
She’s calling me. I must waste no time; I must find her as quickly as possible—my Liza.
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Ortus Deorum
Author: Ramón H. Guiardinú
English first edition: March 2025, original book in Spanish: Birth of Gods
Copyright © 2024 Ramón H. Guiardinú. Edited by Lafirma Publishing.
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