A wide establishing shot of an imperial courtyard garden at dawn. Mist curls between pruned pines. In the center of the garden, freshly turned earth surrounds a simple grave marker. The stone is white, new, inscribed with careful characters

Close-up on the grave marker. The characters carved into white stone are clear and undeniable. The name: Yan Jiu. Below the name, smaller characters read: Imperial Mourner, Regent of the Empty Throne.

Yan Jiu approaches the grave. His face is visible for the first time — angular, hollow-eyed, expression unreadable. He does not understand what he is seeing. Behind him, the ledger protrudes from his sash, its pages worn thin.

Yan Jiu kneels in the fresh dirt. His hands press against the cold earth beside the grave marker. His head is bowed. The morning mist swirls around him like a mourning veil.

The tears begin. Yan Jiu's face contorts — not the practiced grief of his profession, but something rawer. His eyes squeeze shut. Tears cut through the dust on his cheeks. His hands tremble against the earth.

Yan Jiu opens his eyes. The grief is still there, but something else surfaces — the mourner's trained awareness. He looks at the grave. He looks at the empty earth where a coffin should be. He understands. There is one skill left to extract

Yan Jiu reaches toward the empty grave. His hand extends over the dark earth. The god-fragment stirs inside him — it knows what is about to happen. A pulse of gold luminescence flickers at his throat.

The extraction begins. Yan Jiu's hand presses flat against the empty earth. His mourner's technique activates — tears still falling, he reaches not for a memory but for a skill. The skill of forgetting. How to forget the god.

Something rises from the empty grave. A coil of gold and black light, luminous, ancient, taking shape between Yan Jiu's outstretched hands. The god-fragment. It is being pulled from him.

The extraction tears through Yan Jiu. His face contorts in silent agony. His shadow writhes independently across the ground. The god-fragment pulls free from somewhere deep inside him — somewhere between his ribs, somewhere in the spaces wh

The forgetting begins. Yan Jiu's expression goes slack. The tears stop. His hand rises to his chest — why was he crying? He cannot remember. The question itself dissolves before he can hold it.

His hand moves to his own face. He touches his cheek. Who is this? The name does not come. Yan Jiu — the word is a stranger. He looks at the grave marker again. The characters mean nothing.

His hand moves to the ledger at his sash. He pulls it free. The leather is worn, familiar in his grip, but the pages — the pages are blank. Every page. He flips through them and finds nothing. No names. No memories. No debts. Just empty pap

Yan Jiu closes the ledger. His hands move mechanically, the gesture familiar even if the reason is not. He tucks the blank ledger back into his sash. He does not know why. He does not ask.

Yan Jiu stands. His body knows the motion — rise from kneeling, straighten the robes, lift the chin. He stands before his own grave. He does not know why he was kneeling. He does not know why there is a grave.

Courtiers appear at the garden's edge. They approach in silence, their robes rustling. They bow to Yan Jiu — deep, formal bows of obeisance. They address him formally: Imperial Mourner. Regent of the Empty Throne.

Yan Jiu regards the bowing courtiers. He does not know them. He does not know why they bow. But his body knows the response — a slight inclination of the head, a measured gesture of acknowledgment. The mask of authority settles on his empty

The courtiers rise and withdraw, leading the way from the garden. Yan Jiu follows. His footsteps are measured, precise. He does not look back at the grave. Behind him, the morning mist begins to close over the open earth.

Yan Jiu walks through the palace corridors. Courtiers part before him, bowing. Servants press against walls. He accepts their obeisance without acknowledgment. His face is a porcelain mask. His shadow moves normally behind him.

A servant rushes to open the great doors to the throne room. Yan Jiu pauses at the threshold. He looks at the vast dark space beyond — the empty throne, the silent court, the weight of power. He does not know what he feels.

Yan Jiu steps into the throne room. The court falls silent. He walks the length of the hall, white robes trailing across stone. The empty throne waits. He stops before it. He does not sit. He simply stands.

A close-up on Yan Jiu's face. The mask slips for just a moment — a flicker of something beneath the emptiness. Confusion? Recognition? It passes. The mask returns. He turns from the throne and addresses the court.

The court bows. Every official, every servant, every guard — all bow to the man before the empty throne. Yan Jiu watches them. He does not understand why they kneel. He does not understand that he should feel power. He simply watches.

Close-up on Yan Jiu's chest. His hand presses flat against his sternum. Something is there — not a memory, not a feeling, but a presence. A warmth. Patient. Waiting. He does not know what it is.

Yan Jiu lowers his hand. The warmth remains. He turns back to the court. The mask of authority settles fully into place. He speaks — a single command, measured and cold. The court rises and begins to move.

The court disperses. Yan Jiu stands alone before the empty throne. The great hall empties around him. Incense smoke curls in the silence. His shadow stretches across the stone floor — and for just a moment, it moves wrong.

Close-up on Yan Jiu's face. He does not notice the shadow. He does not know. He looks at the empty throne. The warmth in his chest pulses, gentle and patient. He feels nothing. He should feel something.

Yan Jiu lowers his hand. He turns from the throne. He walks toward the doors, white robes trailing. His shadow follows normally. The great hall falls silent behind him. The empty throne remains.

Yan Jiu walks through a corridor alone. Sunlight falls through high windows, striped across his path. His shadow stretches before him. It is still. It is patient. It coils.

Yan Jiu pauses at a window. He looks out at the imperial gardens, at the distant mountains beyond. He does not know what he is looking at. He does not know what he has lost. The warmth in his chest pulses.

Yan Jiu turns from the window. He walks on. His shadow follows. It uncoils from where it lay coiled at his feet, stretching long and dark behind him. It moves with purpose. It moves with hunger.

Final panel. Yan Jiu walks into darkness — a corridor without light. His white robes disappear into the black. His shadow stretches behind him, uncoiled, reaching, patient. The warmth in his chest pulses in answer. The ledger at his sash is