Samuel shifted, stretching his legs out with a lazy groan.
"So," he said casually, brushing dust off his sleeve, "what was that Eighth Continent, anyway?"
Her body stiffened. Not dramatically—just a twitch. A breath held too long.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
She was a terrible liar.
Interesting.
She blinked a few times, eyes flickering away as if she could hide her thoughts in the cracks of the wall. "It's just… old myth," she muttered.
"No one speaks of it now."
He tilted his head, curiosity sharpening.
"Myths are fun. Especially the kind that make people nervous."
She hesitated, then slowly exhaled—half relenting, half resigning.
"In legends," she began, her voice soft and distant,
"They say Pendora was not always like this. At the beginning… in theFirst Epoch, it was ruled by creatures of unimaginable power. Dragons whose wings could block out the sun. Phoenixes that died and returned with burning hatred. Elves with blood made of starlight. Unicorns that trampled on time itself."
Samuel raised an eyebrow. "Unicorns, huh? Sounds adorable."
She didn't smile. "They weren't. They were called Epoch Breakers. They walked across ages. Bent reality. Left madness in their wake."
He quieted.
"They called it the Golden Epoch," she continued. "A time of chaos and splendor. A world lit by fire, drenched in divinity. Humans didn't exist yet. Or if they did… they were prey."
"And then came the Second Epoch, The epoch of chaos." Her voice darkened.
"That's when humans were said to be… born. Weak. Fragile. Useless. We couldn't breathe fire. Couldn't bend fate. Couldn't speak to stars. So we were hunted—sport, food, labor."
"Charming," Samuel murmured. "Let me guess. This is the part where hope appears?"
She nodded. "In the darkest age… three figures came. Not born, not raised. Created. The Sun God. The Night Goddess. And the God of Thunder"
Samuel's eyes narrowed.
"They were said to be the Creator's last gift to mankind. The gods answered humanity's cries… and descended. They fought the mythical beasts—sealed them, killed them, tamed them. And in their wake… a new world began."
She paused.
"That was the beginning of the Third Epoch—the Epoch of Knowledge."
Samuel leaned forward slightly, intrigued despite himself.
"Humans rose. Under the protection of their gods, they built churches. Cities. Clans. All swearing allegiance to the ones who saved them. Worship turned into order. Order into power. And as peace settled…"
Her voice grew quieter.
"…some began to question it."
Samuel's expression darkened, a flicker of something ancient and knowing behind his eyes.
"Question the gods?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Or more precisely… question why they had to rely on gods at all."
"So they began studying the very beasts that once hunted them. Dragons. Phoenixes. Elves. Trying to mimic them. Unlock their secrets. Some awakened apertures—gateways in the body to tap into power. Others… took shortcuts. Made potions. Elixirs. Drank blood. Ate bones. Lost their minds."
Samuel's smile was faint. "So began the age of cultivation."
She shifted, voice barely more than a breath.
"Then came theFourth Epoch," she whispered. "The Epoch of War."
There was no poetry in her tone now. Only weight.
"They say the gods… fell into slumber. Or perhaps they turned away. Maybe they grew tired of the blood their blessings birthed."
She glanced at Samuel, but he gave no reaction. Just silence.
"And without them," she continued, "humanity lost its leash. With the mythical beasts weakened, scattered, or hiding… people began to hunt them. Not in fear anymore, but ambition."
Her eyes darkened. "Dragons were butchered for their marrow. Phoenixes were trapped, reborn in cages. Elven blood was distilled like wine. All to gain power. To rise."
Samuel's fingers tapped his knee once. "Charming. Let me guess—humans didn't just fight monsters. They fought each other."
She nodded. "The rise of ambition brought new gods into being. Not from the Creator… but from the chaos itself."
"TheGod of War was born—some say he was once mortal, forged into divinity by endless slaughter. And from the ashes of his wake came the God of Hope, preaching salvation, unity… even peace."
Samuel's brows twitched at that. "Hope never survives long in a war."
She gave a bitter smile. "It didn't. Because war broke not just between humans and beasts… but within them. Dragons betrayed dragons. Phoenixes turned on phoenixes. And humans…" She shook her head. "The Eastern and Northern continents bled each other dry. Cities were devoured by fire and frost."
"And at the height of it all," she said softly, "when every race, every faction, every hope was locked in endless war…"
A shadow crossed her face.
"…theGod of Destructionwas born."
Even the air seemed to still.
"No one knows how. Some say he crawled out of the corpses of gods. Others believe he was the price of all their sins made flesh."
Samuel narrowed his eyes. "And what did he do?"
She looked him dead in the eye.
"He ended it."
There was no reverence in her voice. No hatred. Just hollow fact.
"He slaughtered the generals. The kings. The chosen ones. Rebels, tyrants, heroes. All the great names. No allegiance. No discrimination. He burned dragons in mid-air, crushed phoenixes mid-rebirth, tore apart entire sects. His blade did not judge. It only erased."
Silence followed.
Then she added,
"That's how the Epoch of War ended. No victors. No peace treaties. Only absence."
"And the mythical creatures?" Samuel asked after a pause, voice low.
She looked away. "They fled. What was left of them. They crossed the seas… and vanished into the Forbidden Continent. Locked it behind seals only they knew."
"Sealed themselves away," Samuel echoed, as if tasting the words.
"Yes." Her voice trembled, just slightly. "And they've never returned."
The fire in the bowl died.
Darkness filled the chamber.
Samuel sat still for a long moment.
Then he exhaled through his nose, his tone dry and faintly amused.
"So… to summarize. Humanity survived thanks to gods. Then betrayed everything the gods stood for. Then created more gods. Then destroyed the world with them. And finally birthed a god that cleaned house by murdering everyone with ambition."
She nodded, not speaking.
He leaned back, arms crossed. "Sounds about right."
But deep down, something shifted behind his gaze.
A sliver of unease. Or was it recognition?
And in the silence that followed, Samuel wondered—just briefly—if the
God of Destruction was truly gone.
Or merely waiting.
Samuel's eyes lingered on the last words she had spoken—etched into the dark like runes burned into flesh.
But then, suddenly, she laughed.
Soft. Almost melodic. A relief from the heaviness that had settled between them.
"Don't look so tense," she said, nudging his boot with hers. "We're in the Fifth Epoch now. The Epoch of Industrialisation."
He blinked.
But before he could process, she added with a grin,
"The Western Continent's leading the world now. They've even created an artificial god—and yes, they're actually worshipping him."
Samuel stood up so fast he nearly slipped.
His expression wasn't confused.
It was disturbed.
"What… what did you just say?" he asked slowly, each word sharp, like he was cutting through glass.
She raised a brow. "The Age of Industrialisation?"
Samuel rasped. His eyes didn't leave hers.
"You said they created machines… robotics. Don't tell me…"
His voice dropped to a whisper, filled with quiet dread.
"There are… trains?"
That made her pause.
A flicker of surprise passed through her eyes—one she didn't bother hiding.
"How do you…?" she began, but stopped herself.
Then shrugged with a crooked smile.
"Well, yes. Of course there are trains. Steam-powered railways. One runs straight through the Iron Meridian. Mobiles too. They use them for long-distance voice transmission—just a bit clunky. All made by that genius lunatic, Emperor Ethan."
Samuel didn't hear the rest.
His thoughts were no longer in the there.
They were racing through years, epochs, continents, shadows—like a man chasing a memory that was never his to begin with.
Trains.
Mobiles.
24-hour time format.
Days named Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday…
He had dismissed it before—small coincidences, comforting illusions for a mind clinging to familiarity.
But now…
He turned back to her, his voice unnaturally calm.
"The days," he asked. "Monday. Tuesday. Those names. Did Ethan give them too?"
She blinked, visibly surprised.
"Yes. He named the whole modern calendar. Days, months, even the time system. Said it was 'streamlined for progress.' Why?"
Samuel's breath left him in a slow exhale.
So it was true.
Not remnants. Not coincidence.
There was a strange sense of joy in him, brittle and quiet like the first crack in a frozen lake. It came not from triumph or victory, but from something simpler—something... human.
He had never believed it would feel like this—hearing the voice of a fellow Earthman.
Not their laughter, nor their faces, nor their little superstitions whispered under breath had ever moved him.
But now, watching them stumble through broken prayers and hollow reverence, he almost felt... something.
Familiarity.
A thread of home in the ruins of another world.
Almost.
Perhaps it was the absurdity of it all. That in this foreign world, ruled by silent gods and sleeping horrors, the only thing that made sense was the idea that those gods might be other worlds men too.
Strangers. Interlopers. Perhaps... travelers like him.
Who cared?
It didn't matter.
He turned to her then, voice quiet, eyes sharp like broken glass.
"Where is this Emperor now?"
But she only gave a small shake of her head, soft as mourning."Gone," she whispered.
"Vanished... sixty years ago. Some say he died. Others believe he simply walked into the stars."
Gone. Dead. Erased like chalk in the rain.
And Samuel—he laughed. A brittle, humorless sound, swallowed by the shadows.
So that was it.
His only lead was a ghost.
A myth wrapped in old robes and the scent of forgotten incense.
An emperor who might've been just like him—another lost soul tossed into this mad world.
The difference?
He had the courtesy to die sixty years ago.
Before Samuel was even properly born, no less.
"How considerate," Samuel muttered, lips twitching in a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Truly, the universe never misses a chance to screw with me."
The dead man might've held the key home.
Too bad he'd misplaced it... in a grave.
Lyra spoke, her voice calm, like a teacher recounting a tale long buried beneath the dust of forgotten years.
"He was a good emperor," she said. "Ambitious—dangerously so. He created artificial god... thing born not of faith or spirit, but of circuits and steel. Under his reign, the Western Empire rose."
"In the West, humanity had changed. Missiles, bombs, and machines of war replaced swords and spells. Medicine replaced elixirs—life was extended not through cultivation, but through syringes, tablets, and machines that whispered life back into broken lungs."
"It was a safer path."
And safety, Lyra explained, had a gravity of its own.
"The other continents took notice. But not all followed. The East turned its back, still clinging to ancient paths. To cultivation. To the slow dance of qi and spirit.
The North? They trusted their alchemy, their cauldrons and potions and whispered hexes in candlelit chambers.
And so, there was a rift between them.Not war. Not quite peace."
A cold fracture. A silent rivalry.
Samuel sat through it all in silence, as if trapped in some surreal history class—one taught in ruins, with ghosts for textbooks.
A tale of a world that had already moved on… and left him behind.
Samuel's head was spinning.
Too many revelations. Too many cracks forming in the walls of what he thought the world was.
Artificial gods. Empires that wielded missiles instead of blades.
A vanished emperor who might've been like him… and died with all the answers buried in silence.
His worldview had stretched—no, shattered—and in the broken pieces, he could almost glimpse the shape of something larger. Something colder.
He stood slowly, the weight of it all pressing against his spine like a silent hand.
"Good night," he said to Lyra, voice low.
She gave a small nod, already curling into her cloak, eyes distant.
The rain still whispered outside, a steady rhythm against the tree like the world was trying to lull itself to sleep.
Thunder rolled somewhere far off, slow and deep, like a beast turning in its dreams.
Samuel lay down, eyes open to the dark.
Sleep didn't come easy.
It rarely did anymore.