Darkness. Silence. Then, pain.
A sharp, biting kind of pain. Not the dull ache of exhaustion, not the burning sting of a fresh wound—this was something deeper. Like his body had been battered, broken, then roughly stitched back together with something missing.
He took a breath. The air was stale, thick with dust. It clung to his throat, dry and suffocating. His chest ached with the motion, but the pain was distant, drowned beneath the more pressing realization that he didn't know where he was.
Or how he got here.
Frowning, he forced his eyes open. The world swam in blurred colors—muted shades of gray and brown, streaked with the faintest traces of deep green. His vision struggled to focus.
Stone.
He was lying on cold, cracked stone. Jagged ruins surrounded him, towering above in crumbling pillars and shattered archways. A temple, or what remained of one. The air smelled of old decay, mixed with the faint scent of moss and rain that had long since dried.
He swallowed, trying to push through the haze clouding his mind.
Nothing.
No recognition. No sense of familiarity. Not even a name.
---
A Hollow Identity
His hands curled against the rough ground. His breathing turned shallow. Stay calm. Think.
Names. Memories. A face—anything.
But there was only a gaping void where his past should have been.
The sensation was wrong. Deeply, fundamentally wrong. It wasn't just forgetting a detail or misplacing a memory. It felt as though his entire existence had been stripped away, leaving only the raw awareness that he shouldn't be here.
He clenched his jaw, frustration flickering beneath the unease.
Someone did this to me.
The thought came unbidden, sharp and cold. And if that was true—then the next question was obvious.
Why?
---
The Old Man Who Waited
"You woke up faster than I expected."
The voice was rough, like gravel dragged over rusted metal. It came from somewhere nearby. He turned his head sharply, instincts flaring—too fast. Pain shot down his spine, but he ignored it.
A man sat on the remains of a broken pillar a few feet away, watching him with dull gray eyes. His face was gaunt, lined with deep creases, his beard a mess of tangled white strands. His robes were old and tattered, their original color long faded. A long wooden staff rested against his shoulder, the surface worn smooth from years of use.
The man didn't look surprised to see him awake.
That was unsettling.
The stranger tilted his head. "Do you remember your name?"
The question sent an icy shiver down his spine. He parted his lips to answer, but the words caught in his throat. There was nothing to say.
His fingers twitched. His heart pounded against his ribs. His mind searched for something, anything—but the void swallowed it whole.
Panic clawed at his chest, but he forced it down. No. No, no, no—there had to be something.
But there wasn't.
"...I don't know," he admitted finally, the words dry in his throat.
The old man exhaled, slow and measured. Not surprised.
Not surprised.
"Then it's as I thought," the stranger muttered. He shifted, resting his elbows on his knees. "You were erased."
The words sank into him like ice. He stared. "...What?"
"Your name. Your past. Who you are, or were—it's gone," the old man said simply. "Erased from memory. From history. From existence itself."
A quiet hum of finality lingered in the air.
The man didn't say it like a guess.
He said it like a fact.
And somehow, he knew it was true.
---
The Mask on the Altar
The old man gestured toward something nearby. His movements were slow, deliberate, like someone who had spent far too long watching the world and had no reason to rush anymore.
The young man followed his gaze.
There, sitting atop a cracked stone pedestal, lay a mask.
It was simple in shape, its surface smooth yet marred by age. Dark engravings traced its edges, symbols that seemed both familiar and completely alien. Unlike the rest of the shrine, the mask was untouched by dust.
As if it had been waiting.
"Pick it up," the old man said.
He hesitated. "Why?"
A small smile flickered across the man's lips. "If you don't know who you are… perhaps this will tell you."
That whisper of unease returned.
There was something deeply wrong about this place. About the mask. About all of this.
And yet… he had nothing else.
No past. No name. No choice.
Slowly, cautiously, he reached out and touched the mask.
The moment his fingers brushed its surface, the world tilted.
---
The Whisper That Spoke to No One
A voice.
Not from the old man. Not from anywhere.
It spoke directly into his mind.
"Choose a name."
A rush of cold surged through his veins, his heartbeat hammering against his ribs. His vision blurred, distant whispers curling around the edges of his awareness.
"Choose a name. And the world will believe it."
His throat went dry.
A feeling settled deep inside him—something vast and unknowable, like standing at the edge of a cliff and realizing the abyss was staring back.
The voice did not demand. It did not force. It simply waited.
He wrenched his hand away, his breath ragged. "What… was that?"
The old man studied him, his gray eyes unreadable. "What did it tell you?"
He swallowed. "It told me to choose a name."
The old man nodded, as if he expected that. "Then you should listen."
---
The First Lie
Before he could respond, a sound broke the stillness.
Footsteps. Metal scraping against stone. Voices.
His head snapped toward the entrance of the ruins. Shadows flickered between the shattered pillars—figures moving fast.
The old man sighed. "Seems we have company."
The air grew heavy. The tension sharpened. Whoever was coming, he had no doubt.
They were looking for someone.
And from the way the old man watched him, there was no question who that someone was.
His pulse pounded in his ears. His gaze darted back to the mask.
The whisper came again.
"Choose a name. And the world will believe it."
His hands curled into fists.
He didn't know who he was.
But maybe—just maybe—he could decide.