Kairen rose to his feet, the grass of the Sanctum cool and damp beneath him. He was exhausted, his body drenched in sweat from the mental exertion, but the fierce, triumphant smile from his victory in the previous chapter still lingered.
He had done it. He had faced the "Sorrow" echo—the crimson eyes, the falling axe, the bottomless despair—and he had held. He had anchored himself in his own identity, his own memories, and the ancient, terrifying grief had reced-ed. He had not been consumed.
He was ready.
"Good," Kairen said, his voice steady, breaking the morning silence as Vanamali approached. "I held the fortress. Now, I learn to draw the thread."
Vanamali stopped before him, his ancient eyes holding a profound, almost startling, pride. "You have built your fortress," the Sage said, his voice resonating with deep approval. "You have stood in the heart of the storm and learned to be the mountain. You have achieved stillness of mind, a feat that takes some monks a lifetime."
