The monastery's gates groaned open, revealing a vast inner sanctum carved from blue ice and obsidian stone. Ethereal wind chimes rang from unseen places, and prayers long forgotten echoed faintly through the halls. Rivan stood at the threshold, his expression solemn.
"Within these walls, time is unbound," he warned. "You may live moments—or centuries. Face what must be faced, and do not chase illusions."
Aarav stepped forward, the ring on his finger pulsing cold now, as though bracing for what was to come. As he passed through the veil of wind that marked the monastery's heart, the world twisted.
He was no longer in the mountains.
He stood in his village again.
The day his father died.
Rain poured from the heavens. His younger self—small, terrified, broken—cried beside a burning pyre. The villagers watched in silence, no comfort, only scorn. A cruel memory etched into his soul. But now, Aarav saw it differently. He watched the scene unfold, a spectator to his own pain.
Then came the whispers.
"You were always weak."
"You let him die."
"You are nothing without the ring."
Aarav staggered, gripping his head. The world spun again.
He was in the ruins of the cave where he found the ring—but this time, there was no light, no voice, no guidance. Only emptiness. The skeletons whispered his failures, every choice, every flaw.
Suddenly, he stood before a mirror.
In it, he saw himself—but not as he was.
This version wore the black armor of Kaalkrit, eyes blazing with power and hatred. The ring glowed red, corrupted. Behind him lay scorched villages and broken allies. A path of conquest. A destiny he could choose.
"Is this your true self?" the wind asked.
Aarav closed his eyes.
"No."
The mirror shattered.
He fell through wind and memory, crashing onto a frozen floor. When he rose, he was once again in the monastery. Rivan stood beside him, smiling softly.
"You have passed. You let go of pride, of fear… and chose the harder path. The path of truth."
A new mark burned itself into Aarav's palm—a swirling wind sigil.
"The Second Truth is yours," Rivan said. "With fire and wind, your journey continues."
But even as Aarav stood victorious, far across the land, General Kaalkrit gazed into his own mirror—a black shard of shadowsteel.
"He's awakening too fast," he muttered. "I must accelerate the hunt."
Behind him, armies stirred—wraith-horses, ash-walkers, and cursed monks. The war for the Three Truths was about to begin.