Alone, he stepped into the New World.

The fresh undergrowth of a world long destroyed was now a mossy carcass beneath his feet.

He wanted to feel the swell of pride that came with new discovery.

He wanted to run freely through this green carpet that sprung between his toes.

But all he felt was empty.

For so long he had been dreaming of this moment.

He wondered how it would feel to be reborn when the crypts finally opened.

Oh, how he had once ached for release such as this.

But this world was not the world he left behind.

The ones that came after him had spent the last of his blessings to the earth.

Now, this desolate husk was nothing but a poor reminder of how far they had fallen.

He didn’t want to begin from nothing again.

He didn’t want to be the maker who nursed new monsters at his chest.

His hands, the ones that had first sculpted clay all those years ago, fell limply to his side.

He didn’t want to make a new world, only to have it be destroyed all over again.

(He didn’t want to be disappointed again, by the very creatures he had nurtured.

(The agony of a second betrayal would split him in two.)

The old gods would understand.

It would take time, but they would eventually agree with his decision to decline their offer.

Perhaps if they molded this new word without the interventions of his gifts, all would be well.

Besides, it was better the creatures they created stayed dumb and docile.

Maybe then they would not destroy this prolific New World.

And so, Ambition turned his back and stepped off the face of the earth.

What he had once given so freely had broken the society that came before .

Perhaps the New Word would be better off without him.