The road to Varneth wound like a serpent through the wilderness, but Kieran never reached it.
Not yet.
A whisper in the trees had led him astray—no voice, no presence, just instinct. The sense that something older than the city was calling.
He walked into a forest that didn't match the map.
And there, where no water should have been, flowed a river of absolute stillness.
Not a ripple.
Not a breeze.
"This place," Kieran muttered, eyes narrowing. "It's wrong."
And then it happened.
The air grew heavier than mountains.
A presence—immense, lethal, ancient—descended.
The Man Beyond Power
Kieran dropped to one knee. Not by choice. His body betrayed him under the weight of something divine.
A man stepped from the riverbank fog.
He wore no armor. No crown. No markings of power.
But his aura alone could kill a god.
"You're far too weak," the man said calmly. "And yet… you're the one carrying the spark. How pathetic."
Kieran couldn't speak.
Couldn't move.
Could only listen.
"Train here," the man said. "Once you have done training, do as you want to fix the world."
Then, like smoke swallowed by wind, he vanished.
The Training Begins
The forest changed after that.
It bent around the river—time slowed, or twisted, or perhaps obeyed something Kieran didn't yet understand.
He trained there for days that felt like months.
Fought shadows that didn't bleed.
Faced illusions of his greatest fears—his family dying again, Eldoria burning, Seréne's words echoed by corpses.
He pushed through all of it.
Every breath sharpened his senses.
Every strike perfected his speed.
Every fall rebuilt his resolve.
Twice the Strength, Twice the Speed
When Kieran emerged from the clearing, the world itself seemed slower.
His footsteps no longer echoed. His blade moved faster than light could follow.
His body was forged in silence, and his mind was steel.
And in his reflection at the edge of the river, he saw not the scared boy of Eldoria…
…but a warrior who could challenge fate.
"Varneth," he whispered, turning toward the horizon. "I'm ready."