He was alone. But this was nothing new. By now, he'd gotten used to it. After the Shaman Fight was over, everyone assumed he was dead. They celebrated and rejoiced what they thought to be his death. His former followers never bothered to look for him, and as so, he never bothered to look for them. He knew they cared nothing for him or what he wanted in the first place. He knew this from the start -- their minds were all screaming the same hateful thoughts when he met them. He could still hear them, despite them being so far away. All they wanted was to be under his protection so that they might have had been spared or offered mercy when facing off, for they knew the day would come. It did not. They had craved his power, not his presence. This did not disturb him too much -- he only kept them around beforehand because he hated being alone. Now, this was his only choice.
His old "followers" thought he was gone for another 500 years till the next Grand Shaman Tournament kicked back up again. They felt it pointless to continue his dream without him. But he didn't care about his past dream anymore. All he wanted, wandering through the darkened forest that seemed endless, was to return home. But what home? He belonged nowhere. Everyone hated him, and because of this, he hated them in return. He belonged to no one. And worst of all, his most trusted companion had fled from him, while his guardian was nowhere in site, big as it was. He was fixed straight to the very spot in dejection.
However, he was jerked free from the stiffness throughout his legs in alarm as a voice rang out to him, calling him, by his very name.
"Hao... come to me..."