The Eye of God cast its unblinking gaze upon Cyrus as he made his way to the water stream, his muscles already aching from the arduous task ahead. With grim determination, he lowered the heavy clay pots into the rushing water, wincing as his fingers grazed against the sharp rocks on the riverbed. The cool water flowed over his hands, bringing a momentary sense of relief before he hefted the pots back up, the weight straining his arms and back.

Cyrus knew that the other boys in the village would have jeered and taunted him if they saw him carrying the water pots, mocking him for doing what was traditionally seen as women's work. But he paid them no heed, for he knew that his mother's health was more important than any fragile notions of masculinity. He held his head high, his heart swelling with pride as he trudged along the path, knowing that every step he took was a testament to his devotion and his unwavering love for his mother.

In Cyrus's village, there was a communal approach to child-rearing, where all the women in the village were considered his mother, and all the men were considered his father. While some people had specific partners, sexual activity was open and not limited to a single partner. The concept of a biological father was not significant in the community, and the men moved to different villages every three years as ordered by the village elders to provide assistance where needed.

The practice of men in Cyrus's village moving to other villages every three years was not only a cultural tradition but also a practical way of sharing and transferring skills between communities. This allowed for the exchange of knowledge and expertise in various areas, such as hunting, farming, and craftsmanship, and ensured that these skills were not lost over time.

In contrast to modern society's focus on technology, Cyrus's people placed little importance on it and likely would not have understood it even if it were introduced to them. Instead, they valued and prioritized the passing down of practical skills and knowledge from one generation to the next through traditional means. This was another reason why the attitude of a village boy was a direct reflection of the village itself, and why they were taught from birth to respect and be respected.

Cyrus couldn't help but wonder what was happening with the hunting party at that moment. He knew that they were facing untold dangers in the wilderness, and his heart was heavy with worry for their safety. But as he gazed towards the mountain ridges, he saw something that made his blood run cold - a dark and ominous storm cloud, roiling and billowing like a living thing, racing towards the village with terrifying speed. It was like nothing he had ever seen before, a mass of blackness that blotted out the sky and sent a shiver down his spine.

He knew that it would be upon his people in moments, bringing with it a deluge of rain and wind that would wreak havoc upon the land. The village would be vulnerable, exposed to the fury of the storm, with no shelter or protection to shield them from its wrath. Cyrus knew that he had to act fast, to warn his fellow villagers of the impending danger and to help them prepare for the onslaught. He set down the water pots and ran towards the village, his heart pounding with fear and adrenaline, his mind racing with plans and strategies to keep his people safe. For the storm was coming.

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As he looked up at the sky, the clouds seemed to be closing in on him like a giant fist, the usual warmth of the Eye replaced by an icy chill that made his bones ache. He shivered as the wind picked up, whipping his clothes around his body and threatening to knock him off his feet. He could feel the tension building in the air, a sense of impending doom that made his heart race with fear.

With a sudden and deafening roar, the storm hit. Lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the world in brilliant flashes of light, while thunder boomed like the voice of an angry god. The rain came down in sheets, lashing against his skin like a thousand tiny needles, and the wind howled like a pack of wolves on the hunt. He struggled to stay on his feet, buffeted by the fury of the storm, as it raged on around him, a relentless force of nature that seemed determined to destroy everything in its path.

Then, without warning, the world exploded around him. A bolt of lightning, fierce and furious, struck the ground directly in front of him with a deafening crash, throwing him off his feet and ringing his ears with a thunderous roar. The heat of the strike was intense, scorching the air and setting his hair on end. He felt his body convulse with the impact, his muscles contorting and spasming in agony.

For a moment, he was certain that he was going to die, that the wrath of the heavens had been unleashed upon him. But then, as the ringing in his ears began to subside, he realized that he was still alive, that he had somehow survived the deadly strike. He lay there on the ground, his body wracked with pain and his mind in a daze, trying to make sense of what had just happened. He knew that he had been granted a second chance, that he had narrowly escaped the claws of death.

Cyrus struggled to his feet, his body shaking and his mind in a daze. His vision was blurry, but as he tried to clear his head, he realized that he was holding something in his hand - something that he had not been holding before. It was a small, glowing blue stone, pulsing with a strange and otherworldly energy. He stared at it in disbelief, his mind racing with questions and wonder. Where had it come from? What did it mean? And why had it chosen him? He felt a surge of curiosity and excitement, tempered by a sense of unease and caution. Had the god's chosen him with that strike?

He clutched the stone tightly in his hand, feeling its warmth seeping into his skin, its energy coursing through his veins. Cyrus stared down at the glowing blue stone in his hand, his mind racing with curiosity and wonder. But he knew that he had no time to examine it further, that he had to get back to the village and help his people through this storm. The lightning still crackled in the sky, illuminating the world with brief, jagged bursts of light.

The wind howled around him, tearing at his clothes and tugging at his hair. The rain was coming down in sheets, drenching him to the bone, making it difficult to see more than a few feet in front of him. He knew that he was in grave danger, that the storm was a formidable foe that would spare no one. But he was not afraid as he ran on towards the village.

As he sped his way through the storm, he couldn't help but think of the stone. He had never seen its like and it must be a sign, a gift from the gods of his people. His heart pounded with a mix of fear and excitement, he vowed to be ready for whatever lay ahead, to face the challenges that awaited him with courage and conviction. For he was Cyrus, son of the village, and he was not afraid to take on the storm.