Gods and demons were dead.
No one remained to pray to their empty pride, and in their absence, despair spread like a slow poison through the lands.
Those who once followed gods and demons had forgotten their names. The sacred chants and prayers fell silent, swallowed by time and indifference.
With each passing generation, the stories of gods and demons faded like distant echoes carried away by the wind. Their once-mighty names, spoken with reverence and fear, became nothing more than forgotten whispers, lost beneath the weight of time and the silence of those who no longer believed. The temples crumbled, prayers ceased, and the world moved on—leaving behind only shadows of legends that no living soul could truly remember.
The classroom was filled with the soft scratching of pens and the low murmur of students as the teacher wrote on the blackboard.
"Clinical skills are not just about knowledge," the teacher said, turning to face the class, "but about empathy—how you communicate with patients, especially in moments when the truth is hardest to hear."
Today's lesson was about delivering bad news—how to break the gravity of a dire prognosis gently, without crushing hope.
But Ashborn, as always, sat lost in his own world, eyes distant, detached from the discussion.
The teacher's gaze swept the room and paused on him. "Mr. Ashborn, please stand."
A hush fell. Ashborn rose slowly, calm and unreadable.
"How would you handle a situation where a patient is dying? How would you explain the severity of their condition?"
Ashborn's voice was cold, flat. "What else is there to say? You're going to die."
Shock flickered across the teacher's face. "That's not how a doctor should speak to a patient. There is a way to be honest without stripping away their dignity."
Ashborn's eyes sharpened. "Ignorance might be bliss for some, but to me, it's a curse. Wasting time on a man who's already dead isn't just pointless — it's unjustifiable. There are others who can be saved. Why waste time?"
Murmurs rose among the classmates—half in disbelief, half in quiet judgment.
"Huh, what's this guy even talking about? How can he be so cold?" one whispered.
Another scoffed, "Ashborn? What a weird name… Doesn't it mean he caused deaths when he was born?"
The classroom buzzed with low whispers as the students packed their things, leaving Ashborn alone with the weight of their stares.
***
In this world, names were never given lightly. They held deep meaning, often tied to the circumstances of one's birth or defining moments in a person's life. A name was a story, a fate, a mark stamped on one's soul — a constant reminder of who they were meant to be.
After class, Ashborn returned to his small apartment, a quiet refuge where he lived alone for now. The evening was calm, but the weight of the day lingered like a shadow.
He ate a simple dinner, the taste dull against his restless mind. Later, he stepped out onto the balcony, the city lights flickering beneath him. A dark cup of coffee steamed in one hand, a cigarette glowing softly in the other.
As the ashes fell slowly, drifting away like forgotten memories, they stirred something deep inside him — a flicker of a feeling he couldn't quite grasp.
That night, when sleep finally claimed him, the dream came again.
A woman stood before a child, her neck half burned and scarred, the wound pulsing like a living flame. She asked softly, her voice distant and cracked, "How's mommy looking?"
The child smiled innocently. "Mom, you're beautiful as ever."
Her face blurred like smoke, the flames on her neck growing larger, spreading, until they consumed her entirely—leaving nothing but ash.
Yet the child kept smiling, untouched by the fire.
Ashborn awoke suddenly, gasping, sweat slicking his skin as he found himself back on the balcony, the night air cold against his clammy skin.
"What is this dream?" he muttered, voice tight. "Why does it keep coming… over and over?"
His eyes stared into the darkness, searching for answers that refused to come.