When I woke up, the first thing I did was look at the river.

  It was full.

  Wide. Heavy. Alive.

  The water flowed steady and sure, filling the canal, the harbor, the banks. It worked. It all worked.

  — That’s it, — I said quietly.

  Now we could start building houses, fields, roads. The city finally had a heart.

  I was about to leave when I noticed movement in the distance.

  Dust.

  First a thin line, then wider.

  A few minutes later it was clear: those weren’t wagons.

  A crowd was running.

  And behind it—a herd.

  Six minutes later I could see them clearly.

  Centaurs.

  People started gathering. Humans, elves, dwarves came out of the camp, exchanged looks, whispered. The air grew dense.

  The centaurs approached fast. They were angry.

  — Because of you our river has weakened, — one of them said, stepping forward. — You’re taking the life of our lands. The grass. The water. Everything.

  He spoke loud. Hard. The others stamped their hooves into the ground.

  I looked at the river behind my back. Twenty-five meters wide. Five meters deep. Ten kilometers of blasted rock. Millions of mana units. Golems. A sleepless night. Trembling hands.

  I built an ocean to water an ant.

  And something boiled up inside me.

  Not because of his words.

  Not because of the accusations.

  But because of a sudden, painful realization.

  Thoughts fell one after another, heavy as stones: Why? Why did I do this?

  I built a huge river. Wide. Deep. Monstrous in scale.

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  Spent power. Time. Land.

  When I could have…

  Just talked.

  With the centaurs.

  Directly.

  Without councils. Without plans. Without “grand projects.”

  I could have… just made a deal. Given them a sack of gold. A barrel of wine. Said: “Guys, we need water.” They would’ve agreed. They live here.

  I could have made a narrow channel—three, four meters wide.

  I could have traded. Negotiated. Been friends.

  And in the worst case… yeah.

  I could have just driven them off.

  That would’ve been simpler than everything I did.

  Anger hit me.

  Dull. Heavy. Not at them.

  At myself.

  I started laughing. The laughter was dry, scratching my throat. The centaur faltered. He stopped mid-sentence. He saw my face. I don’t know what he saw there. Madness. The abyss of exhaustion. Or maybe he saw what I saw—how small he was compared to what I’d done.

  He looked at me.

  I lifted my eyes.

  We met.

  He flinched.

  His hooves shook, and for a moment I thought he might fall. Then he snapped his head away, waved his hand—and the whole herd turned after him.

  They left.

  The dust settled.

  People were silent.

  I stood there and felt emptiness.

  — What were you thinking… — I whispered. — What were you thinking, Council of Branches?

  But the truth was different.

  I turned and went back to the hut.

  It wasn’t them.

  Not the centaurs.

  Not even the Council.

  It was my choice.

  I sat on the stone bench. Then lay down. Stared at the ceiling.

  So much effort.

  And I could have, with one movement of my hand, broken the old path and sent the water another way. Could have done it simpler. Smarter. More human.

  I closed my eyes.

  Even if the canal had been half as wide—

  everything would’ve been different.

  Sadness dropped over me like a heavy blanket. Hopeless. Blunt.

  What an idiot I am.

  I just lay there.

  Stared at the ceiling.

  And understood the absurdity of it all.

  Chapter: “Why”

  I lay there the whole day.

  Not sleeping.

  Not getting up.

  Light crawled across the ceiling, then left. I didn’t even track it—I just knew it existed. Somewhere beyond the walls people walked, talked, built. The city kept living.

  Without me.

  And that was the worst part.

  Why all this?

  Why did I even get up this morning?

  Why did I get up yesterday?

  Why do I keep waking up at all?

  I stared at the ceiling.

  Why have this kind of power?

  For what?

  To dig rivers?

  To scare centaurs?

  So people look with awe and then—with fear?

  I smirked, but even that came out weak.

  Well done, Zen.

  They kicked you out of the Academy.

  Told you you were dangerous.

  Uncontrollable.

  And what did you do?

  You went… to play with the earth.

  Gave yourself a big, loud distraction.

  Split half the valley and called it construction.

  How pathetic.

  Look at me,

  I can blow up mountains,

  I can move rivers.

  So what?

  I just get in everyone’s way.

  Wherever I go—

  there’s fear,

  there’s destruction,

  there are problems.

  Maybe they’re right?

  Maybe I really am useless?

  Not helpful.

  Not good.

  Just dirt.

  Underfoot.

  Dangerous dirt.

  I closed my eyes.

  Why am I doing any of this?

  Why build a city if I don’t even know why I’m alive?

  Why help if it always ends up worse?

  Why try if the result is just more questions?

  I lay there and felt everything inside grow heavy.

  Not painful.

  Not sharp.

  Just… empty.

  Maybe it’s better to do nothing at all?

  Not get up.

  Not interfere.

  Not exist.

  I didn’t cry.

  Didn’t rage.

  I didn’t care.

  And that was the scariest part.

  I lay there until evening.

  Not moving.

  Not thinking about the future.

  Just staring at the ceiling and understanding:

  If I don’t get up tomorrow—

  the world might get quieter.