Beneath the velvet night skies across the lands of Teyvat, from every nation, countless eyes turned skyward as a streak of light carved its path through the clouds—
A falling star, brilliant and beautiful.
Carrying within it a figure, descending in silence. His eyes were closed, but from them flowed silent tears, as if his soul wept for what it could no longer hold.
One by one, his memories slipped away, each fragment torn from the weave of fate, unraveling the essence of who he once was.
And now, as he falls toward the whispering waters below,
When he wakes…
There will be no name. No pain.
Nothing of the person he used to be.
Just a hollow.
…
On the shore, waves crashed gently against the sand, a soothing rhythm to some, an irritating noise to others. But there, caught between the tides and the land, lay a figure—a man with light skin, dark hair, and a lean, tall frame, around six-foot-two, motionless beneath the early light.
Each wave rolled over him, nudging his body as if urging him awake.
And with one final splash, his eyelids fluttered open, revealing emerald green eyes shaped like diamonds. The world around him was a blur, distorted by confusion and the sting of seawater. He grunted, struggling to focus.
"Where… am I?" he murmured.
Slowly, he lifted his hands and stared at his fingers—as if seeing them for the first time.
Then the clouds shifted, and sunlight broke through, flooding his vision with harsh, blinding light. He winced and used his hand to shield his eyes, narrowing them against the glare.
"No… who am I"
He pressed a hand to his forehead, sand clinging to his skin, and searched his mind—for a name, a memory, anything.
But there was nothing.
His name… gone.
Who he had been… lost.
Yet the emptiness only raised more questions.
Did he have a family? Friends?
Was he a good man… or something darker? A criminal?
Or maybe he'd lived a quiet life—a simple fisherman in some distant village, forgotten by the world.
The contradiction sent a dull ache pulsing through his head as he strained to remember… but nothing surfaced.
Only silence.
Only questions.
His expression shifted into a faint frown.
A dull ache throbbed in his chest.
What was this feeling?
Was this… sadness?
Was it because he'd lost his memories? Because he had no name, no past?
He couldn't be sure—but the weight of it was heavy.
Whatever it was, he couldn't remember, so did it really matter now?
He clicked his tongue in mild annoyance.
As the sadness slowly ebbed, he drew in a deep breath, letting his senses sharpen—listening to the rhythmic crash of waves, scanning the endless horizon, and breathing in the sharp, salty tang of the sea air.
One thing was certain:
He was on a beach.
At least… some things hadn't abandoned him completely. He still knew what a beach was.
But the problem wasn't just the loss of his memories—
It was another question gnawing at him:
Where the hell was he?
Yes, he was on a beach… but what place was this? He couldn't remember the names of any towns, cities, barely anything at all. At the very least, his vocabulary was intact. A small comfort in the middle of all this confusion.
Turning his head, he took in his surroundings. Towering rock formations loomed on either side, with a steep cliff wall separating the beach from whatever lay beyond.
Just his luck—he woke up without his memories and ended up in a place where the only way out was to climb or swim.
With a quiet groan, he slowly pushed himself up from the sand.
His gaze drifted upward to the sky, where birds glided above the waves, their distant cries carried on the breeze like Anemo whispers.
What were they called again…?
Seagulls.
Yes, that sounded right.
A low growl rumbled from his stomach, dragging his focus back to a more immediate problem.
Food.
"I guess that means I'm hungry," he muttered, glancing around.
He stepped forward, his bare feet sinking into the wet sand, and began walking along the shoreline.
What could he even eat?
He had no weapons, no tools—nothing to hunt with, nothing to trap prey.
And as if that wasn't bad enough, he was completely naked, with the cold air biting at his skin.
He shivered, wrapping his arms around himself in a futile attempt to keep warm.
"Fantastic," he muttered under his breath. "I'm going to freeze at this rate…"
Then, something caught his eye: a red crab scuttling across the sand.
His stomach growled, his mouth watering. He wouldn't let the chance slip away.
He lunged forward, closing his hand around the crab.
It wriggled and pinched painfully, but he didn't care. Hunger left no room for hesitation.
He bit into it raw—salty, gritty, unpleasant… but enough to quiet the gnawing emptiness in his belly.
It was satisfying, though eating it raw probably wasn't the best idea.
He glanced around, his emerald eyes scanning his surroundings, weighing his next move. He needed to find a way out of this place.
But just as he began to push himself to his feet, his hand brushed against something beneath the sand—a weathered wooden crate.
How lucky could he be? Maybe—just maybe—there was something inside that could actually help.
He quickly brushed the sand away from the crate and pried it open with both hands.
Inside, nestled between scraps of cloth and broken splinters, was a single folded sheet of paper.
"Wonderful," he muttered, voice thick with sarcasm. "Exactly what I needed—nothing useful."
Even so, he tugged a length of cloth free. It wasn't much, but it would do—enough to knot around his waist and preserve a shred of dignity.
Only then did the paper catch his eye again. He lifted it carefully, unfolding the creased sheet; the ink was faded, yet the words remained just legible.
"This crate is to be delivered to Oakfield. High-importance order from Grand Master Varka of the Knights of Favonius."
He stared at the words, letting them echo in his mind.
Varka… Knights of Favonius… Oakfield…
None of the names rang any bells. He let out a heavy sigh.
Maybe someone in Oakfield would know who he was.
Still… at least he could read. That had to mean something. Maybe he'd been educated—maybe even important—once.
But one fact still remained: he had no name.
What should I call myself?
He glanced around.
"Rock?" he muttered. "No, terrible."
"Sandy? …Worse."
Then, as his eyes drifted to the treetops beyond the cliffs, a name surfaced from the depths of his fragmented thoughts.
Riven.
It felt right, like a fragment of something once whole.
He held onto it.
"I'll go by Riven… until I remember who I really am. If I ever do."