He did not remember his name.
Not the sound of it, nor the shape it made in his mind. He did not remember a home, nor a mother's face, nor even whether he had ever been loved. His mind was an empty scroll, torn and sun-bleached, with nothing left but scraps of emotion and instinct.
Yet—
He knew this world.
He knew it too well.
A world where the gods held dominion over fate. Where men and women were born only to be judged by celestial whims. Where those chosen—those blessed by divine marks—walked with pride, with purpose, with power.
And those who were not?
They were forgotten. Forsaken.
Slaves. Beggars. Fodder for war. Test subjects for alchemists. Playthings for nobles. Condemned to suffer from their first breath to their last.
Even the Demonkind—those twisted humans who had pledged their souls to the dark gods and bathed in demonic energy—even they lived better lives than the Unchosen. They were feared, hated, hunted—but never ignored. They had power, and in this world, power meant existence.
The boy—if he was still one—was among the countless many who had received nothing.
No sigil on his body.
No voice in his dreams.
No flame in his blood.
Nothing.
---
"Stop there!"
The shout came sharp and loud, snapping the march into stillness.
The sky had already begun its descent into dusk, painting the horizon in smears of orange and violet. Shadows stretched across the dunes like grasping hands, and the cruel heat of day slowly gave way to the sharp teeth of desert cold.
The guards wasted no time.
They barked orders, unfurling canvas from their packs and erecting tents in a rough circle around a hollow basin in the sand. Stakes were driven. Fires were lit. Sentries assigned. Armor loosened.
Meanwhile, the slaves were herded together, chains clinking in the cold air. They were pushed to the center of the encampment—no shelter, no bedding, just hard sand beneath and pitiless stars above. The guards formed a loose ring around them like wolves keeping sheep penned.
A few guards carried a sack between them. It reeked of mold and age.
One of them—a wiry man with missing teeth and a face like cracked leather—opened it and pulled out several chunks of old bread, the color of stone.
"Here," he grunted, tossing pieces one by one at the slaves. "Dinner."
"Better than nothing," another muttered with a cruel grin.
The boy caught a chunk as it hit the ground beside him. It was small, hard, and dry. His hands trembled slightly as he raised it to his lips. His teeth hurt from the first bite, but he ate every crumb. Hunger was stronger than pain now.
Around him, whispers rose like wind among the slaves.
"Still breathing, huh?"
It was a voice beside him—deep, rough, male. The speaker was a broad-shouldered man with a shaved head and a swollen eye, maybe thirty. His voice held a mixture of mockery and admiration.
The boy glanced at him but said nothing.
"No tongue, or just no fight?" the man continued, then smirked. "Don't worry. Most here don't talk much either. Names Roff. You?"
The boy hesitated… then gave a slight shake of his head.
"No name?" Roff raised an eyebrow. "Damn. Gods really didn't give you anything, huh?"
Another voice joined in—this one soft, feminine. A girl, maybe fifteen, sat cross-legged a few feet away, cradling her own bread like treasure. Her eyes were dark and too large for her face.
"Nobody here has anything," she said. "That's the point. We're the ones the gods forgot."
Roff laughed dryly. "Forgot? Nah. The gods remember. They just don't care."
Someone behind them spat into the sand. "Wish I'd been born a demon. At least they fight back."
A silence followed.
Then the girl added, "You ever wonder why some of us aren't chosen? Maybe we were cursed before birth. Maybe our parents were trash, so the gods spit on us."
Roff grunted. "Or maybe the gods are just bastards."
That drew a laugh from a few, quiet and bitter.
The boy listened, but he didn't speak. The bread sat heavy in his gut. His limbs throbbed. His neck ached from the weight of the collar. Every part of his body begged for rest.
He laid back on the cold sand, eyes turned to the black sky above, stars blinking like distant watchers. He felt the world move—slowly, uncaring, vast.
And then he slept.
His body lay still beneath the stars, but his mind had gone somewhere else.
He didn't know when it happened—if it was the moment his eyes closed, or the breath just after. But suddenly, the pain, the hunger, the chains—they were gone.
And he was floating.
Not in air. Not in water.
In space.
Infinite. Silent. Holy.
The stars stretched endlessly in all directions, like veins in the skin of eternity. Galaxies spun slowly in distant orbits. Colorful nebulae shimmered like ghostly fire. Moons and broken planets drifted like forgotten toys. There was no ground, no sky. Only everything, and nothing.
He could see all of it.
He could feel all of it.
The pulse of solar winds. The vibrations of comets cutting through emptiness. The cold weight of time pressing against the edges of existence.
And something else.
Something immense.
He couldn't see it. Not with eyes.
He couldn't touch it. Not with hands.
But he knew it was there.
A presence. Ancient. Boundless. Watching. Breathing.
It was like standing at the base of a mountain that never ended. Like hearing the whisper of a god through walls of reality.
And it was everywhere.
Was it a god?
No.
It was older than the gods.
It had no form. No name.
But it was.
He tried to reach it. Not physically, but mentally. Soulfully.
He emptied his mind. Focused. Waited. And slowly, like fog parting under moonlight, understanding came.
The presence he felt…
The vastness around him…
The cold, living intelligence pulsing through his veins…
It wasn't a creature.
It wasn't separate from the stars.
It was space itself.
And it was awake.
Just as that thought formed, something shifted. A ripple across dimensions. A tremor in the soul.
And then he saw it.
An eye.
Not of flesh or blood, but of void.
An enormous, impossible eye formed from gravitational pull and absence—like a black hole sculpted into a single, divine gaze.
It stared at him.
And he knew—it saw everything.
His body. His mind. His past. His possible futures.
Something entered him. Not pain. Not light. Not heat.
But presence.
It was like a tide rising in his chest. Something cold and deep and ancient crawling into his bones, curling behind his ribs, planting itself like a seed.
It was—
"Fire ! Fire !"
He gasped.
Eyes opened. Breath sharp.
The dream was gone.
The night was fire.