"Truth slips through our fingers, but understanding tempers the ignorance we carry. To see the world clearly, begin by knowing yourself."

  ***

  His eyes drifted from the crystal and turned inward. Only now did he realize he was seated in the posture of tapasya, as the holy ones did when chanting sacred mantras—syllables that held the secrets of the universe, of the divine.

  Slowly, he rose. Beneath him was a raised stone platform, just slightly above the rest of the ground. His gaze caught a glint of motion behind him—a swirling pool of liquid, impossibly clear, as if formed of crystal itself.

  He stepped toward it and saw, for the first time, himself.

  Brown eyes stared back. Dark hair. Thick eyebrows. A chin that seemed weaker without the familiar beard that had once covered it. But most striking were the glowing tattoos etched into his skin, luminous blue like a cloudless sky, tracing intricate patterns from his chest to the edge of his neckline.

  Something shimmered in the pool. A glimpse—then a scene. He leaned in, trying to decipher what he saw.

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  And then, he fell.

  Memory surged.

  Scenes of his life unfolded—this time with clarity. The vibrations of past moments now resonated through his new awareness.

  Woodcutter.

  He had no name. None that mattered. In his village, he was the woodcutter. That had been enough. He had lived a life of quiet service—sustaining others in a world carved from hardship. A simple life. Tranquil. Far removed from the grand stories of rajas and heroes whispered during rare village gatherings.

  But now, lifetimes cascaded around him—countless identities, countless deaths and desires. Each one driven by the eternal hunger of the self, the serpent chasing its own tail.

  And then—pain. A fire in his neck. The memory of dark, masked figures who shattered his life. Faces hidden behind demonic veils. Not men—but echoes, fragmented and haunted.

  Anger flared, followed by sorrow for the lives they had taken. Fear and helplessness resurfaced as he relived his own death.

  But then—clarity.

  They, too, were broken. The masks they wore hid not only their identities but their suffering. Their dissonance echoed his own, a shared agony across lifetimes.

  He rose from the pool, gasping.

  A pool of reflection.

  The name felt right. So did what came next.

  His purpose had revealed itself. These masked killers—they were cursed, lost. He knew now: it was his destiny to free them, to restore their harmony, to end the cycle of suffering and shadow.

  As this resolve formed within him, the world responded.

  He felt a presence. Turning, he saw it—a portal, glowing softly, open before him.

  Without hesitation, he stepped forward.

  Into the next chapter.