The sky here is a gloomy iron-gray color, and it is raining, taking on a haze-like texture. The ground was muddy, and some grass was shaking in the rain. Not far away was a huge dead tree, it was huge, but it had no leaves left.

If someone suddenly decided to hang upside down and observe, they would probably think of it as a huge, branched tombstone holding up the sky.

Not far from the tree, rows of tattered thatched huts were battering in the rain. They have apparently not been repaired for a long time and have long since lost their role as shelter from the elements.

Of course, buildings are buildings after all, and they can still tell something. For example, it used to be a village, but now it's deserted

No, maybe there are still people.

The man walked naked and blankly in the rain.

He was tall and strong, and his eyes were as blue as the ocean under his wet blonde hair. He walked barefoot in the muddy and uninhabited village, looking unusually noble.

Just ignore the scarlet on his lips and hands, and he's almost a walking demigod, mesmerizing in his physical form alone.

Every muscle in that muscular body has a supernatural beauty, and for the artist, they are the ultimate fantasy that can only exist in dreams.

But if a well-trained soldier came to see the demigod, he would only shudder. Soldiers are people who kill professionally, and they understand exactly what this muscle means.

But he didn't understand, he didn't even know what his name was.

A lot of indescribable knowledge is squeezing into this nascent brain, and it is so cruel that it doesn't matter if he can accept it or not, he just rushes into the brain cells and occupies his own place.

They brought pain, but they also brought something that made him more and more confused.

For example, the things that are falling in front of him and floating on his body are called rain.

He reached out and caught a little raindrop. He watched as the clear, icy water lingered in his palms, wetting his skin and bringing a strange tactile sensation.

He froze.

So that's what rain?

His ignorant brain began to beat inside the skull, the first question to be born since he had life.

What is Rain?

In another bout of rapidly approaching gass, he got his answer. So more questions were thrown out one after the other, and then one after the other were answered.

Curious, he walked into the thatched hut, touched the rotting wood with his hands, grabbed the rusted iron pot and the tattered clothes that had been thrown away, and then even began to taste it.

Some innate analytical ability came into play, tightly linked to the database in his brain.

He began to know what wood was, what rot was, what iron was, what rust was, what clothes were—and then, looking down, gave birth to his first desire.

I need clothes.

He sprang into action, and half an hour later, he found a lot of messy clothes and tattered sheets in the surrounding houses. Luckily, he found a box of sewing tools that he didn't know who had left them.

Although their size was surprisingly small for him, he managed to use the knowledge in his head to sew the clothes and sheets together into a filthy rag robe.

In this way, his first craving was satisfied, and more followed. The first thing he had to deal with was hunger, a notion that was not new to him, and he had some memories in his mind of eating wild beasts in the mountains.

There are so many of these memories that if you put them together consecutively, you can even concretely deduce time. In this way, he knew that he had been in the mountains for about two months.

The wails of those animals before they died seemed to linger in his ears, and among them, the animal he ate the most was the deer

He froze again.

The word deer because of his strong associative ability, let some memories that sank in the bottom of his heart come flooding up. At this moment, he could vividly remember that he had gnawed on a doe in front of her baby.

The graceful animal did not stop, perhaps out of fear, perhaps because it had given up resistance.

She just stood dumbfounded in front of him, trying to arch the tiny piece of flesh in his hand with her wet nose, and then wailed quietly, as if trying to persuade her child to get up and leave with her.

And then, then.

He fell to his knees, grabbed the edge of his throat with his hand, and wanted to vomit. A deep sadness rushed into his simple mind, and if he really was 'him', then he would not have this emotion now.

However, he is not 'he', he is just a fabricated being.

Those who believed in him brought their simple notions of good and evil into his heart, and in contrast to a series of extremely complex opinions about right and wrong.

And now, they're hitting him.

He understood that it was natural that he was not condemned for foraging for hunger. But he also felt that his act of eating a mother's child in front of her was simply cruel

Whether or not the deer had the same emotions as him, he shouldn't have done that, he had a mother, he-

- Wait, Mother?

The grieving giant's eyes widened suddenly.

A name rushed into his heart along the faith that shaped his existence, a white-haired woman in an archon's robe and a cane. Her name is Talasha Judton, and she is Robert Killiman's adoptive mother.

My name is Robert Killman?

He frowned deeply, and slowly rose from the ground. There were some things he didn't understand, but along with the name, there were many other things that he remembered.

For example, his duties, he is the monarch of Maculag, the monarch of the five hundred worlds of Otlama, he is also the thirteenth son of the emperor, and he is one of the great genetic protogens.

Robert Kiliman is so great, he is a walking demigod who is born with great strength and wisdom to use it well.

He is fair, but by no means ruthless. He is good, but he will never spare any wicked person.

Is this really me? The giant frowned, silently thinking.

He was acutely aware of the dissonance between these descriptions and his present situation, and if he were really Robert Killiman, he would not have been in such a situation.

What's more, in his memory, just a few months ago, he was still eating wild beasts in the mountains, how could Robert Kiliman be so downcast?

Of course, there is also the crucial question - where do these words, or knowledge, come from?

Silent but confused, he stood up and walked out of the hut. It was still raining outside, and the ground of the abandoned village was completely soaked in rainwater, and the mud puddles were like natural broken mirrors, cutting his image into uneven pieces.

Through them, the giant was able to piece together his own form, and he half-crouched down, carefully observing his broken face, and his blue eyes were left with the most simple and direct confusion.

"Who the hell am I?" He murmured in high Gothic in a rusty way.

After a few seconds, he heard several screams, as well as the sound of horses' hooves and weapons being wielded, which he could barely make out with difficulty.

They were delivered to his ears in the rain and wind. He frowned, stood up, and strode in that direction.

Along the way he passed the great dead tree, and a darkened bird perched on the top of one of the branches staring at him. It doesn't scream, doesn't move, doesn't even blink, just stares deeply at him in the wind and rain.

The giant looked at it, not understanding what the creature was thinking, but he couldn't pay attention to it now. He hurried and continued to make his way to the place.

Behind him, the bird silently flapped its wings and flew silently into the mountains.

The mountain smells of blood, and even the word slaughter is not enough to fully describe its fierceness. The grass was overflowing with blood and bones, and the grass was flattened by cleanly eaten animal carcasses. Their blood also feeds these plants, making the ground soft and the swarms revelry.

This particular bird takes in all of this, but does not stop, but continues to fly. It flew for nine nine minutes, reaching its destination at the speed of a slow bird—an empty cavern.

It stopped in front of the cavern, and its eyes began to glow, a blue light, as illusory as the light in a mirror, and everything within it was completely illuminated. The cavern was covered in dried blood and nine carrions.

They had been dead for at least a year, and the robes they wore had long since melted into flesh and blood, rotting like another layer of skin. Each of them held a dagger in his hand, as well as a small wooden statue.

The bird jumped over, picked out the statues with its hard beak, and placed them next to the corpses.

The faces of those statues are indistinguishable from those of Robert Killiman.

The bird tilted its head and stared at them for a long time, before its glowing gaze moved past them and the corpses into the depths of the burrow. There lay an open sarcophagus, empty inside.

It jumped into the depths of the cavern again, flapping its wings and leaping onto the top of the coffin. It had been left with a small line of writing with something like a carving hammer.

'Our Savior'

The bird opened its beak and pecked at the words one by one, corrected them, and finally added a sentence. When the work was done, it couldn't help but rattle, as if it was triumphant.

'The Savior of Hypocrisy, a simple creature born of the flesh and blood of a beast, and let me wait and see what will happen to him'

(End of chapter)