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"We leave you this offering Great Spirit. May your watch be ever present."

I listened to the villagers, my body still. They bowed around me, having placed a bowl before my frozen form. I could see a few harvested grains and berries in there, likely the pick of their recent amounts. Yet I said nothing, letting them continue their weekly ritual.

After a time, they left, returning to their homes. I just sat, as I usually did. Once I was alone, I sent out a small force of my nanites. They picked the offering apart, before scattering to the edge of the village. There they placed its deconstructed components, feeding the soil for the future.

I had no need for what they gave me. I was one of the final machines made in the Final War, built to last for millennia. A mix of solar panels and a small reactor powered me. The nanites I deployed kept me maintained. And a newly developed AI let me think.

I had been designed with the goal of slaughter. My lasting body had granted me status as a retaliation weapon. My home might have been destroyed, but I would return the favour. And I had, many years ago. The time that was referred to as the Time of Ashes.

The world tore itself apart. Thankfully, nuclear weapons were not deployed, a result of a concerted effort on all sides to prevent their own annihilation. But that didn't stop conventional war, all consuming. From what I knew, near every country had been reverted back to medieval times, infrastructure turned to ruins.

I had contributed to that. I had killed so many, my orders burning through my mind. But when my home was razed, so too did the commands fade. All it left me was a deep seated guilt, as I had no orders to follow. All I could do was think of my actions.

So I found this village, a couple of centuries ago. I saw these people trying to eke out a living in their ruined land. Yet they were beset by remnants of the war. Drones with partial AI, hunting anything in their path.

I knew I couldn't stand by. I destroyed my kin, breaking down cores and letting them rest. These people, I decided, were mine to protect. For those I had killed, I would save these. My conscience would never be clear, that much I knew. But I could at least try.

A ping on my passive radar disturbed my reprieve. An amalgamation of parts was heading to my village. Logic would dictate that eventually no more would come. But I had my doubts. I want the only one to have nanites. I assumed there was a corrupted swarm out there, still following orders. It would make mechanical horrors, sending them out to kill.

I slowly stood, sliding out a blade. I would put this one down, as I did the others. This was my new home. I would kill to protect it. After all, it is what I was made for.

Good work

I think I'd like to see a medieval fantasy story but all the magical fantasy stuffs just junk from a non magical civilization that left for the stars long ago

Over time, the blood soaking the ground was swallowed by moss.

Over time, the corpes started to decompose.

Over time, the buildings were eroded by vegetation and rain.

But I could still hear their screams, see the terror in their eyes. Over time, I tried to make up reasons for my actions: revenge, necessity, orders... But none withstood the passage of time, unlike the guilt. I stood in the middle of my carnage, immobile as all it's traces disappeared from the world, and stayed fresh in my memory.

Over time, new humans came. A village had been built not far from here, and children would often come to those ruins, ignorant of their history, to climb over the moss-covered walls and the strange statue in the middle. One day word of the statue reached the ears of a noble, and I was moved to his collection.

I left during the night, afraid I might forget if I left the remnants for too long. On my way back I found the new village attacked by strange animals made only of bones. To my own suprise, I rushed to the humans aid, and dispatched the creatures. The villagers expressed surprise and confusion at my sight, and talked in a language I did not know, before doing gestures of thanks. One of the kids offered me a flower before I left for the ruins.

The next day, many villagers entered the ruins. They left a basket of fruits and a few flowers at my feet. Before leaving. During the night, I buried the fruits ag the places I remembered were the most corpses long ago, and brought the basket back to the village. On my way back, I saw some of those skeletal creatures, and tried to follow them, but they were to quick for me. Fearing another attack, I stayed at the edge of the forest until dawn.

(Sorry it's not exactly what your prompt was, I hope it's not too terrible considering it's my first time writing something. Thank you for the prompt)

Now I’m imagining this is a Metal Gear with its own sentience, long after the fall of organized civilization.

I decimated the land; razed its mountains to the ground, burned the very foundations of their culture. There was nothing, only ash in heaps like a black desert.

When my king sent men to salt the ground, I wept. I had fought so hard to liberate the countryside for my people, but my people would not be able to use it. Tears flooded the dips of the ashen dunes, muddled with the blood of 3 dozen soldier's heads skewered on pikes, encircling the area. Not even the buzzards dared to feast upon them.

In time, the ashes were disturbed by a new tribe of man. They woke from beneath the earth and drank from the rivers of my ire to quench their charred and parched throats. Then they inhaled life, the winds of change filling them with curiosity and adventure. They began to stand and to walk about the scarred landscape. They learned to speak with each other and together they cried, for theirs was a doomed fate.

Pitty imbedded itself in my heart, and sprouted a tree of fruit from which I had power to pluck. I gave it to them, and taught them to open it. They learned to eat of its flesh, and to propagate its seeds, so that their children might taste it one day too. The Ire Rivers, as they would be called by man, flourished with life. They knew bountiful harvest from soil laden with the nourishing silt of forgotten lives. They knew peace everlasting, protected by the daunting Pillars of Loyal Fallicy. The heads were now perrified in the wood of wreathes once placed upon them. They are now a ring of wide trees that bare the haunting look of fear the soldier's wore that dreadful day. Not even the bravest of raiders cross the threshold of their roots.

I watch them, playing, growing, dying. They live short lives, but filled with eternal joy. Nestled in their pocket of peace, they thrived as a society and advanced. The once harsh air was now enjoyed by many for its sweet floral fragrance, and the water once salty with tears was now fresh with life and ecosystems. My sword, once plunged into the ground in triumphant victory on a battlefield of fire and flesh, now stood tall in the center of their city. When threats would emerge, I would come down from the heavens to take up the blade in their defense. Dragons, liches, falling stars, all bested to protect them.

And they worship me as their god. They pray and make rituals, thinking I will hear them better. I hear them. I cannot give them what they ask, but for as long as my wits are sharp, and my hand unbound, I will ensure their livelyhood no matter the cost.

It was good

Good work

I agree that would be amazing

Still as the air on a cold winter night, I stand on a plinth of weather-worn rough-hewn stone, looking out over the valley I reside in. It has no name, it had nothing of importance, and was utterly unremarkable — until a few decades ago.

I am a warrior. My weapons have seen combat, shed both metaphorical and literal blood, ended the existences of so many beings that I have since lost count. My mind shies from remembering their faces, afraid of being overwhelmed by guilt and shame.

Once, I was Kryta, of second platoon, ninth company, first division of the Seventh Legion. Together, we ravaged continents, exploded mountains, and committed every crime against decency we could think of — in the name of a ephemeral society that crumbled even as we fought to defend it. Terror, the truest of weapons, was traded in equal measure with the equally faceless and demonized troops of the Enemy.

Now, I stand guard. To atone for my sins, a worn-through and weatherstained copy of a book clutched tightly under my cloak. I found it, an archaic artefact of the past, when the Seventh Legion dissolved around me and I had no purpose. The very thought of a book was so alien to me that I investigated.

A Critique of Pure Reason, and other works by Immanuel Kant

Fascinated by the anachronistic item in front of me, I could not help but pick it up and gently open it to a random page. For hours, days, weeks, I stood there, reading.

Reading, and thinking.

I did not believe most of what this Immanuel had to say. But one thing was in fact clear to me — an alien thought that wormed its way into my brain, and took root. Growing, until I could not ignore it.

I broke from my daze and continued wandering. By happenstance I came across a small group of survivors. Humans. I shadowed them, listening. They were concerned about food, water, but they told stories of stars, and fantastical beasts, and ancient heroes and gods and struggles. Each with cores of morality embedded within.

I remember them all.

I followed them as they wandered through ruined cities for days, weeks. Listening. Thinking.

Thinking about myself, and what I was. And what I could do.

At some point, they stumbled across another survivor, this one from the Sixth. I think. When they raised a weapon at my ... charges, I separated their power supply from their processing unit with the bead I habitually drew on every potential threat.

They were extremely startled, and I did not reveal myself. There were no stories that night, just fearful glances into the darkness that pooled away from the makeshift campfire. They warily returned to their wandering, and the stories slowly resumed. This did not repeat itself.

And then, after a while, I surprised myself one night. One of the humans was telling a story, one I had heard before from this group. They were having trouble recalling the next stanza, and I found myself speaking.

Of light and dark, our hero comes /

Once a soldier, once a pawn /

Thrice betrayed /

He comes at dawn

I revealed myself.

(part 2 after dinner :) )

I did not know what to expect. There were worried expressions, fear, and curiousity, in differing measures.

I paused, mind working overdrive. I had considered revealing myself, but... not like this.

Still, no plan survives enemy contact. To try and break the silence, I asked the storyteller if he minded if I finished the tale.

He nodded, hesitantly.

I spoke, remembering the words. Feeling the sounds as they rolled out into the night, shaping the black ink around us into a painting of a young child and a mentor, avoiding their destiny as much as possible, to avert a fate neither of them wanted.

Faces slowly relaxed, but remained alert and wary.

When I finished, I fell silent. Then I nodded at them and left, sinking back into the warm inviting darkness.

There was much hushed discussion over the next few days, until one of them wandered off and lost his sense of direction, and began walking away from the group, despite mumbling to himself that he thought this was the way back to the others.

I appeared in front of him, and he blanched. I simply pointed my limb, and spoke quietly, indicating where the others were in case he was trying to reunite with them, and providing directions. Then I disappeared again.

In time, they began to be more comfortable with my presence as I guided them away from dangers. There were still wide eyes and rapid breathing when I revealed myself, but I told them a new story, one I'd created.

Eventually, they settled down, and I began sitting on a rock nearby where a statue once stood. First hidden, then visible. I rarely stood, but to fend off yet another of my kind intent on slaughter as they appeared over the decades. Every night, the humans sat nearby and told stories to each other, and I listened.

Now, a generation later, the adults have only ever known me as a friend. One who stands apart, but not away. I am comfortable on this rock, with good company and smiles and stories to share. I don't speak, any more, but I still get asked questions with no expectation of an answer.

It's... nice.

And the part of me that could be called a soul, once battered and soaked in blood, slowly begins to heal.

Excellent work

Beautiful