In a space untouched by time and unspoiled by gods or mortals, a chessboard floated in stillness.
Each square shimmered—not in black or white—but in infinite shades of memory, fate, and possibility. The pieces were not mere carved stone, but formed of concepts—each one a being, an idea, a destiny.
The old man, robed in silver and shadow, moved a black pawn forward, fingers steady. He was the same old man who met jin in western temple and Temple of Tumaru
Across from him sat a cloaked figure, whose face was hidden entirely save for a serene mouth that curled into a faint smile. His presence was unnatural—not in malice, but in design—as though reality itself bent slightly to accommodate his existence.
Click.
A white knight moved across the board.
"Zhel-Vorah's strike," the old man murmured. "Straight, brutal, righteous."
The cloaked figure leaned in slightly. "But Jin—he's the real anomaly."
"You speak as if you've seen his path before," the old man replied.
"I haven't," the figure said softly. "That's what troubles me."
The board pulsed.
The old man's eyes—aged, heavy with ancient dust—gazed at a pawn. He picked it up between two fingers, studying it.
"Funny, isn't it?" he whispered. "The pawn… the weakest piece. The most overlooked."
The cloaked one responded, "Yet the only one that can become anything."
"Yes." The old man—Yomon—smiled. "It is the pawn's very helplessness that gives it infinite potential. Because it walks the long path. Because it must earn transformation, step by step. A King is born. A Rook is carved. But a pawn becomes."
Click. He moved the pawn.
"And now," Yomon added, "this boy—Jin Shang—who should've remained a pawn, walks as if he remembers he was always a King."
The mysterious being tilted his head. "He hasn't even ascended the throne of godhood. He shouldn't have meta-awareness, and yet… the more he descends into suffering, the more he rewrites his role in the world."
Yomon nodded. "He is playing his game beyond the board."
The cloaked figure chuckled. "I always thought Nyreth would be the true author. The Trickstar Pillar, the one who could rewrite fate. His race could alter the ink of reality itself."
"But even a Trickstar," Yomon said, "can't overwrite the intention of a pawn who chooses to walk backwards against the game itself."
The board changed. Pieces rearranged on their own. A black bishop trembled. A white pawn shimmered gold.
"Jin is no longer just a player," the cloaked one whispered. "He is... self-aware. And that makes him dangerous."
"He's stepping into narrative awareness. Not just defying the gods. But rewriting the tale itself." Yomon's voice became quiet, reverent even. "Not because of power… but because he chose not to forget who he was."
The cloaked figure spoke, voice curious now. "What do you see in him?"
Yomon closed his eyes.
"…The boy who still carries love, even through betrayal. The child who sees hell, yet keeps his humanity. A pawn with a philosopher's soul. The man who had been broken, fooled countless times but never lose his will. And if he walks far enough… the gods will no longer be players."
A silence followed.
The chessboard faded slightly, leaving only the two men. The cloaked one smiled—just a hint.
"Then let's watch," he said. "The pawn that defies the page."
The board shimmered—subtle, slow.
Yomon moved his fingers gently across the piece before him, eyes not on the board, but on the cloaked figure.
"You've seen so much. Threaded through stories that don't even remember your name. I've asked before, but perhaps now you'll answer."
He raised his eyes.
"…What is your name?"
The cloaked one paused—still, like a statue carved from forgotten stars.
Then… he smiled.
The smile wasn't warm.
It was the kind of smile that curled with ancient irony, the kind of smile worn by someone who had been erased and remembered simultaneously.
"A name?" he said softly, voice carrying a thousand layered meanings.
"There are so many, old man. Some called me He Who Walks Backward Through Time. Others whispered The Archivist of Unwritten Books."
He tilted his head, as if listening to something very far away.
"In the Era of Silver Mirrors, they etched my initials backwards—S.L.—onto the blade that divided their gods."
He leaned closer.
"In the Tragedy of Aevonhelm, the writer left a footnote: 'The luneblood flows not with crimson, but with memory.' That footnote was removed from the final edition. Only the first 33 printed copies remain."
Yomon narrowed his eyes. The chessboard grew darker.
The figure whispered now.
"Ask the Library of Hollow Names who opened the sealed 9th page of the Book of Contradiction."
He finally leaned back and, for the briefest of moments, the cloak shifted—not fully revealing—but the faint shimmer of a lunar crescent glowed along the edge of his collarbone.
Then it vanished.
"…You already know who I am," he said.
Yomon sat in silence, one hand frozen on the board.
"…Steve Luneblood," he said—not as a confirmation, but a recognition.
The cloaked figure chuckled, low and echoing.
"A name erased by its own ending," he murmured.
Then, casually, he moved his piece.
A pawn. To the final rank.
It didn't become a King.
It became a blank space.