That metallic stench fills the room. Those divine chains hold Xingchen down, marked against his pale skin. He sits against a wall farthest from those prison bars, a reminder of his incarceration. His pure black hair was drenched in cold water, his daily alarm clock.

Xingchen's dead eyes look up silently as he hears footsteps. His clothes were battered, arms hugging his form. This god was no longer a god. He was less than divine.

"Who are you?" He spats, seeing an unfamiliar deity.