She could only venture inside again and again, return wounded again and again, and finally die alone upon her divine throne.
No cheers. No glory. None of the eternity a god was supposed to have.
Only loneliness.
Qian Yuhan watched those memories as though she were watching a complete stranger.
Yet every fragment gave her an intensely familiar feeling.
Not the familiarity of "I've seen this before," but something far stranger, a familiarity almost etched into the depths of her soul.
It was as though the woman in those memories had nothing whatsoever to do with who she was now.
Yet every breath she took, every swing of her sword, every injury she suffered.
Every moment of exhaustion as she sat alone at the highest point of the temple, watching countless people kneel below, was something Qian Yuhan could feel as her own.
The broken memories did not even need to unfold in full.
Often, a single movement, a glimpse of her back, a turn of her body was enough to stir an inexplicable familiarity in her heart.
It was not like watching a piece of history. It was more like watching another version of herself.
Yet that "self" felt terrifyingly unfamiliar.
The woman in the memories was so tired.
Eternal night. Corpses. Famine. War.
Countless chaotic, fragmented images kept surging from the depths of her consciousness.
Beneath pitch-black skies, city after city had only a faint holy light remaining.
Snow covered the streets, and there was not even time to bury those who had frozen to death.
Food grew ever scarcer, and people fleeing for their lives were everywhere outside the cities.
And every time, the Qian Yuhan in those memories could only take up her sword.
Because everyone believed she was a god.
A god could not say