A cast-off wanderer from a lost homeland? An interesting name.
In the desolate stillness, where time seemed frozen, the figure on the throne finally stretched at one point, then continued lounging there with utter confidence.
His consciousness had been clear the whole time, but precisely for that reason, Fu Qian had kept a low profile for a while, reflecting on what had happened.
He had to admit, the praise he'd given the memoir earlier hadn't been for nothing. It had maintained its literary quality while even filling in plausible details on its own.
At the end of the memoir, the original version of his account had been only a few brief strokes, but it had been expanded into a whole essay.
And it wasn't just a heap of words, either. It had substance.
For starters, it seemed the assassination really had taken place during the Long Night. And those people who had been crawling on the ground from beginning to end were called the Cast-Off.
Cast off by the gods—that wasn't hard to understand. He'd known for a long time that humanity had lost the gods' responses during the Long Night.
Cast off by oneself—that sounded a little awkward, but it was still easy to understand if he put himself in their shoes.
In the face of a catastrophe beyond comprehension, despairing people might well have chosen to abandon their own will and accept the scorching of the Madness Flame, offering themselves to the Tyrant in exchange for a meager chance to survive.
The little child who'd been placed in a coffin by her family, hoping the darkness or death might offer her some small measure of protection, had embodied this perfectly on the night he'd traveled with Su Gao.
This also explained why Forsaken Prison had seemed so lively