Suddenly, Zhu Fan remembered that this had all happened before—a past buried deep in darkness.
"The forgotten throne?" The voice asked again, echoing through the fog of his mind.
Zhu Fan, trapped within Cyrus's body, struggled to process the disorienting sequence of events. He hesitated, confusion clouding his thoughts.
"The ruler of the Palace of Memories has forgotten his own past."
He knew this voice.
"Amonia…"
But no, the first voice wasn't hers. He had heard it before, yet its source eluded him.
"Perhaps it is better to remember," the voice said, "you might understand why you forgot everything."
The world around him was cold and dim, though not as bleak as the void between life and death. Slowly, Zhu Fan began to realize that he, too, was a god. The meaning behind Lucian's poem suddenly clicked. He was the god sitting on the forgotten throne.
'Why forgotten?'
He pondered for a moment. And then, like a blind man gaining sight, his pupils quivered as memories flooded back.
Memories were potent. Their strength lay in the soul, in the fragments of time they captured. Cyrus had the ability to absorb these fragments, channeling the "shadow of the soul" to create. That was his uniqueness among gods. He didn't need a physical palace; his realm of memories was his creation, a parallel world built from the souls he touched.
As if acknowledging this revelation, the first voice faded, and Amonia remained silent. All was still, until Zhu Fan looked down and saw an image of himself lying on the ground.
"This…"
His right eye had turned a deep, luminous blue. His fingers trembled as they brushed against his face, and his once gray hair now flowed like willow branches.
'What is happening?' he wondered, but before he could process it, a cool wind caressed his cheek. A leather strap suddenly appeared across his chest, and he found himself clad in a leather tunic and steel armor, resembling a wandering warrior. In front of him, a bay horse bowed low, awaiting its rider.
The forest had changed. The vibrant colors of autumn filled the air—birch, maple, and oak trees, their leaves shimmering gold and crimson, surrounded him. The smell of damp earth and fallen leaves lingered.
His boots crunched the ground beneath him, the leather gloves on his hands glinting with metal studs. A long sword rested against his side, its hilt grazing his neck. The scent of burning wood wafted through the air. Rising from a log draped with fur, Cyrus stretched and took a breath.
Just beyond a thicket of bushes lay a small pond. His reflection rippled across its surface before fading as he stepped away.
Without hesitation, he saddled the bay horse. He had no idea where to go, but the horse moved with purpose, as though it knew the way. Cyrus had recovered fragments of his past, but the path forward was still shrouded in mystery. He opened his hand, summoning a flickering flame. He smiled bitterly as thoughts of the uncertain future clouded his mind.
************
In a distant land, heavy snow blanketed the highlands, and the sunlight, reflecting off the ice, blinded anyone who stared too long. The guards on the castle wall, familiar with this danger, wore protective goggles. One of the guards peered down, where a small fire burned, surrounded by soldiers seeking warmth.
Twelve men, weary from shoveling snow all morning, huddled near the flames. The oldest among them, Stuart, spat onto the frozen ground and took a swig from his flask, the liquid freezing in his beard.
"Ugh. This stuff tastes like piss!" he grumbled.
Jonathan, puffing on a pipe, exhaled a cloud of smoke that drifted like a ghost.
"Cursed snow. When did winter arrive? It's barely autumn!"
The others said nothing, relieved that the snow-shoveling was done. Stuart eyed them, irritation creeping into his voice.
"You bastards have nothing to say?"
They stayed quiet.
"Damn it!" Stuart cursed.
The morning air was bitter and dry. Though the sun shone high in the sky, its light offered no warmth. Cotton-like clouds drifted over the jagged peaks, leaving the snow-covered landscape in shadow.
"Shut up, old man! The mountain's miserable enough without your whining," Raymond muttered, rubbing his sore shoulder.
Suddenly, the sound of someone banging on an empty barrel echoed through the camp. "Enough with the yapping! As if we don't have enough to deal with!"
A group of soldiers marched by, their faces grim and expressionless. Stuart and his men quickly fell silent. Stuart, glancing at Jonathan, leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"Has it happened again?"
Jonathan took the pipe from his mouth and nodded grimly.
"Yeah, this time it was near the spring," Stuart muttered, his eyes narrowing. "The body was untouched."
"Not completely," Raymond chimed in. "His eyes were gone."
"And the last one? They cut his ear clean off," Stuart added with a scowl.
Jonathan puffed again, then shrugged. "You think it's one of the officers? The rank-and-file don't have the nerve for this."
Stuart's gaze darted around cautiously. "No. It's him…"
"Superstitious old fool!" Jonathan snorted.
"They call him the Whisperer." Stuart ignored the jab, his tone low and foreboding.
"Oh, for God's sake, shut up! Not this nonsense again."
Stuart swallowed another drink, keeping his thoughts to himself.