The sky in this new world had no gods.
There were no divine battles raging in its heavens, no chants of oracles echoing from mountaintops, no sense of sacred oppression pressing down from above. Just clouds. Pale, wind-scattered clouds drifting over hills inked with pine and old stone.
Jin stood at the edge of a ravine, the collar of his weathered coat rustling against his jaw. A narrow suspension bridge swayed gently before him, leading to the crumbling remains of a forgotten monastery. The winds carried only silence, not judgment. No one here called him a god, a destroyer, or a pawn.
In this world, he was simply Jin. A traveler. A mythologist.
His fingers were stained with charcoal from the sketches he'd drawn that morning—glyphs carved into temple ruins, symbols of serpents coiling around suns, forgotten names of celestial beasts once feared and worshiped. In a leather-bound journal slung across his shoulder, he recorded them all. Not as weapons. Not as keys to power.
But as memories. Echoes.
The villagers in the hamlet below called him "The Quiet Scholar." They had seen him sit for hours beneath dying statues, tracing the cracks on marble faces with reverence. He never asked for payment, only stories. An old woman once said he listened better than a priest. A child once asked if he was a ghost. Jin smiled and gave him a candy.
He lived in a borrowed room above a bookstore. Books piled everywhere—tales of gods who had long forgotten their believers, love stories scrawled in faded ink, myths that blurred into dreams. At night, by lamplight, Jin would decipher fragments:
> "When the stars fall like ash, the hearts of kings will turn to stone."
"Only the one who forgets themselves may rewrite the end."
He didn't question whether the myths were true. In fact, he found comfort in their uncertainty.
Each ruin he explored, each painting he studied, each tale whispered to him in marketplace corners—felt like an echo of something he'd once lived. Or perhaps, had yet to live.
He didn't use his powers here. Not out of fear or loss, but respect. This world didn't ask for gods. It asked for listeners.
And so he wandered. From valleys wrapped in mist to shrines buried under ivy. From shadowed libraries to sun-drenched tombs. Sometimes, he found himself staring at ancient murals, the figures strangely familiar. A girl with golden eyes. A man veiled in stormlight. A silver wolf sleeping beside a throne.
He did not search for battles anymore. He searched for meaning.
But deep within, beneath the layers of serenity and quiet smiles, something stirred.
A memory. A longing. A name.
Velka.
He did not know why the world allowed him to forget everything except her. Perhaps it was her curse. Or perhaps, the universe—ever cruel—had let only her remain in his soul as a reminder of what he'd lost… and what he still feared to confront.
But for now, Jin walked on—boots brushing dust, wind in his hair, and silence in his heart.
A mythologist.
A ghost of godhood.
Waiting for the next story to begin.