The wind howled through the ruins, whispering secrets long buried beneath the snow. Soen stood before the great stone door, its towering presence unwavering against time itself. Carved deep into its surface were words that felt both foreign and binding:
> "ONLY the King's BLOODLINE, unbound and awakened with resonance, may pass."
> "Or the lifeblood of the Maiden most pure."
His breath came in slow, visible clouds, his body trembling from the relentless cold. He was neither.
No royal blood coursed through his veins. No grand legacy or divine right set him apart. He was just a man—one who had struggled, fought, and endured, yet still stood before a threshold meant for those far greater than him.
And yet, he had made it here.
Was that not enough?
He took a step forward and placed his hands against the stone. The surface was rough beneath his fingers, cold enough to bite through his gloves. He pushed.
Nothing.
Soen set his jaw, bracing himself. He dug his feet into the frozen ground, using every ounce of strength he had. The ice beneath his boots cracked as he strained against the unyielding weight of the door. His muscles screamed, his breath turned ragged, but the door remained unmoved.
He clenched his teeth.
He would not accept this.
His journey had taken him through burning deserts, across raging rivers, and into the depths of forgotten ruins. He had suffered wounds, endured hunger, fought against warriors stronger than him. Every moment had led to this place.
To be stopped by a door?
No.
The cold was seeping into his bones now, dulling his senses. His fingers ached, his legs trembled beneath him. If he stood still for too long, he knew what would happen. The mountain did not welcome the weak. It would claim him as another frozen corpse among its many lost souls.
With a sharp exhale, he forced himself forward once more.
This time, he did not rely on brute strength alone.
He called upon his entire body—his will, his spirit, his very essence. His mind burned with the desperation of survival, his heart pounded with defiance against the cruel fate waiting for him in the snow.
He had to move it.
If kings and their bloodline were meant to enter, then he would challenge fate itself. If only the purest maiden's sacrifice could unseal the way, then he would force another path open.
Soen slammed his hands against the door once more, not as a man seeking entry, but as a force refusing to be denied.
A deep, resonant groan rumbled through the stone.
His breath hitched.
It was faint, but he had felt it—movement.
The mountain trembled beneath his feet, a slow, ancient stirring. The air around him pulsed, heavy with something unseen. The markings on the door, once lifeless and still, now glowed with a soft, eerie light, as though awakened by his touch.
The resonance.
His heart pounded. He had felt it before—a connection, an unseen force that bound the world together. He had always thought it belonged to those chosen by destiny. Those born into power.
But now—it responded to him.
A pulse rippled through his arms, seeping into his chest, filling his body with a warmth that defied the cold.
The ground beneath him trembled again, and then—
The door moved.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, the massive stone began to shift. Dust and ice fell from its edges as ancient mechanisms awakened, gears began to move.
He made it in.
Thankfully he could still survive. But deep down, he felt it—that his effort alone wasn't enough. Something else had moved the door with him. Or through him.
The pillars whispered.
Not through sound—but through stillness.
Soen stood before them, unmoving, as the wind howled behind him like a beast denied entry. Within, the mountain swallowed the storm. The silence inside was almost deafening—not a hollow emptiness, but a full, thick quiet that pressed against his skin like velvet. Every step he took echoed softly, swallowed quickly by the walls.
He was at the top of the ruins, deep inside the mountain's crown. The air was still. Heavy. The kind of stillness that made the world feel paused.
At the center of the ruin was a pedestal. Unassuming. Covered in frost, as if time itself had refused to melt it.
Resting on it—
A book.
Thin. Bound in a dark leather he could not identify. No lock. No inscription.
He reached out and touched it.
The ice cracked—not beneath his fingers, but inside his chest.
As if a door he hadn't known existed had just opened.
He sat down. The climb behind him was gone. In this silence, there was no weight, no war, no title.
Only him.
And the book.
He opened to the first page.
---
Page One: Reflection
> "To perceive the world, first still your own waters."
He stared at the words. They did not glow, did not change—but something inside him did.
He closed his eyes.
There were no enemies here. No orders to follow. No banners to kneel under. Just the echo of choices he'd never questioned.
Memories surfaced. Not the grand moments—but the forgotten ones.
The day he watched a younger recruit break during training—and looked away.
The time he stood silent while a village was purged in the name of security.
How often had he told himself it was not his role to decide? That orders were above judgment?
To still your waters.
To see clearly, he had to look back.
And he did.
---
Page Two: Self Peak
> "Your summit is not the height of your pride, but the place you stop lying to yourself."
The mountain he had climbed was not the hardest one.
This was.
He had believed he was different from the other soldiers. More thoughtful. More restrained.
But that was a lie.
He had simply been more efficient at hiding the same hunger. The need to be seen. The desire to be useful. The fear of being nothing without purpose.
He had worn humility like armor—but it was pride. Pride in his control. Pride in being less flawed than the others.
Here, the book held no judgment. Only truth.
And he let it in.
---
Page Three: Consistency
> "Snow may fall once and vanish. But the glacier rules by staying."
Discipline. Not the false discipline of obedience—but the consistency of being present in one's own life.
Of facing the mirror each morning and choosing—again and again—not to lie.
Of not waiting for war to give him meaning.
Of not hoping another mountain would tell him who to become.
Soen had always been strong when others were watching.
Could he be strong when no one ever would?
The page did not answer.
It did not need to.
---
He closed the book after the third page.
Three teachings. Three wounds. But also, three seeds.
He sat in the heart of the mountain, at its silent summit, as snow gently fell outside. Here, the world's voice was quiet—almost sacred. He was no longer climbing.
He was descending into himself.
And then—
The pages turned.
Not by his hand.
The wind had died.
There was no breeze.
Yet the book opened itself.
Page Four.
And for the first time, the ink did not lie flat.
It pulsed.
Like a heartbeat pressed into paper.
Soen leaned in, every sense on edge.
The page read:
> "You are not alone in your body."
He blinked.
The ink bled.
His vision doubled.
He reached for the book—but it was already warm.
Too warm.
His own chest throbbed, echoing the rhythm of the page.
Something was waking.
And it was inside him.