The Return of Zarathustra:

CHAPTER ONE: THE DEATH OF ZARATHUSTRA

The mountain was silent.

Far above the world, where clouds scrape like old rags against the jagged peaks, Zarathustra sat alone beneath a crooked tree. The winds howled and whispered as they always had—empty priests of an empty sky. His eyes, once fierce and full of storms, now stared deep into the abyss below.

He had returned here, to the solitude he once cherished, hoping to find peace in the cradle of the wilderness. But no peace came. Only the rustle of bones in the wind, only the echo of laughter from ages past.

Zarathustra’s body was growing weak. His hair, long and unkempt, trembled like brittle threads in the cold. His hands, once calloused from carving ideas into the world, now trembled slightly as he gripped the rough stone beneath him.

In the days that passed, visions returned—old images of men marching beneath banners drenched in blood, kings crowned upon thrones of skulls, priests whispering promises of salvation to trembling crowds, women silenced and bound in chains of myth. And always, above it all, the grotesque face of a god with no womb, fathering worlds from his mouth alone.

He chuckled bitterly. "Still they dream their nightmare."

His breath became shallow. The cold no longer bothered him. Zarathustra felt the veil thinning, the distance between waking and dream narrowing. He smiled faintly, thinking of the old serpent eating its own tail, the endless repetition of man’s self-deceit.

And then the world slipped from beneath him. His head tilted back against the gnarled bark of the tree. The skies above became an ocean of black. His heartbeat slowed. His eyes closed.

As death took him, the last thought that passed through his mind was not fear, nor regret—but anger.

“Let me try… just once more.”