Ammonia stood as calm and clear as a pond, accepting her fate. She knew there was no resisting Zhu Fan's will. Eight hundred years had passed since she first felt his presence, and though she was powerful, she had long given up hope. She had no connection to her original soul, but she knew the passage of time well.
In those eight hundred years, not a single being had sought her out. At first, she clung to the hope that her original soul would trap Zhu Fan in the void, but over time, that hope turned to despair.
Then, suddenly, a spark appeared in the void, a golden light breaking through the darkness. Yet, Ammonia, who had spent so long in total blackness, could no longer see it.
She was no longer a physical being; she was the very essence of the goddess of time. She could heal herself, turn back time to restore her sight, but she had done so eight times before, only to go blind again.
Her power had waned. From the beginning, she could push time forward, but going back came at a cost. Foolishly, she had wasted her strength trying to see the dark world again, only to end up blind.
When Zhu Fan saw her disheveled hair and dark-rimmed eyes, he realized her essence was fading. If she died, the goddess of time would know and could create a new essence, though it was a complicated and time-consuming process.
Zhu Fan hesitated but finally touched her forehead, transferring some of his spirit power—not too little, so it would be effective, but not enough to make her a threat.
Ammonia immediately recognized the frequency of that energy. It was **Cyrus**.
A bitter smile spread across her lips. Her pale skin darkened, and black veins appeared beneath her eyes. Zhu Fan recoiled, fear gripping him. Ammonia had concealed some of her power, and now, with the energy he had given her, she was ready for one last strike.
The goddess of time screamed, summoning the spirits of time. Seven golden spirits materialized in the dark void, forming a constellation. With a rush of energy, they charged at Zhu Fan.
*******
Gray clouds swirled like restless spirits among the towering beech trees. Rain poured down in endless sheets, soaking the earth with sorrow. The trees stood like sentinels, their roots entangling the valley beneath. From the peak of the mountain, the river was a thin, gray thread, tearing through the landscape.
Beneath an ancient tree, a man in black sat motionless, though he breathed. He felt neither cold nor discomfort from the rain, but something within told him it was time to pause. So he sat for hours, gazing at the rocky mountains and the trees clinging to the stone edges. As clouds raced above and the river raged below, the man remained still, contemplating when it would be right to continue his journey.
At last, the rain stopped. A semi-circular rainbow appeared over the mountain, arching gracefully like a bridge to the plains below.
The man stood. His footsteps splashed through the muddy ground, but he paid no attention to the sound. His hazel eyes scanned the path ahead. He had traveled far and had no time to waste. Suddenly, a column of white smoke rose from behind the row of green trees. He knew he was on the right path.
His name was **Cyrus**.
His hair was gray, his skin smooth and ageless. In the cold, he appeared pale as a corpse; in warmth, his face gained a slight flush. His hazel eyes were dull, lacking enthusiasm or hope. He was the ruler of the **throne of forgotten memories**.
Memories were the core of a human's spirit power. Without them, emotions had no meaning. Sadness was an empty word without the memory of loss. Happiness was hollow without the recollection of a smile. As a demi-god, Cyrus had a duty: he ensured that no human spirit retained too many memories.
Too many memories gave a spirit power. But if those memories were filled with pain and darkness, they corrupted the spirit. A corrupted spirit would eventually ruin the body, and a corrupted body would destroy the world. It was Cyrus's burden to cleanse these memories, ensuring humanity's survival.
He was the king of forgotten memories. But long ago, he realized that those memories, both good and bad, had become his own power. The other gods feared him. Billions of years of memories from countless worlds had accumulated within him.
Cyrus had woven those memories into a new world: the **realm of memories**. Since then, he had wandered across dimensions, searching for answers. He understood now that the truth lay within the memories of others. Armed with this knowledge, he continued to absorb memories, and now he was after another human.