"The world is not kind... nor fair.

  The strong shape the land with their will, while the weak are trampled beneath it. Kingdoms rise on the backs of the enslaved, and gods sit on their thrones of gold, unmoved by the cries of those who suffer below.

  But power is a fickle thing.

  Legends say the world was not always like this. That once, before the hands of false gods wove their rule into the bones of creation, there was balance. Justice. Meaning. But that is just a story whispered by the dying.

  Now, only one truth remains…

  "Might is law."

  A law written in blood, carved into flesh, and bound in chains.

  But in the depths of—"

  The words blurred. The voice, once firm, began to dissolve into whispers, swallowed by an unseen force. The dream was slipping, fading into nothingness.

  Then—

  "Draven. Draven. Draven!"

  A sharp inhale. A gasp for air.

  Draven's eyes snapped open. His body tensed as if expecting a fight, but instead of an enemy, his gaze met the familiar sight of the cave’s stone ceiling. Morning had come. The air was cool, damp with the scent of earth and embers.

  A presence loomed beside him.

  Angel: "Finally awake?"

  Draven blinked, the weight of the dream still clinging to his mind. His heart pounded—not from fear, but from something deeper. Something unknown.

  Angel (grinning): "Good. Time to train."

  THE FORGE OF STRENGTH

  The angel led him to a clearing where a blackened anvil sat in the center. A forge with roaring fire blazed nearby, its embers glowing like dying stars. This was not the first time Draven had forged a weapon—but today, something was different.

  "Take the hammer," the angel instructed. "Today, you forge with purpose."

  Draven grasped the worn handle, feeling the weight settle into his hands. The hammer was heavy—heavier than it had been before. The angel must have done something to it.

  "What am I forging?" Draven asked.

  The angel gestured to a lump of raw metal beside the anvil. "A blade. One of your own making."

  Draven nodded and set to work. He placed the metal into the fire, waiting for it to glow red-hot. Sweat beaded on his brow as the heat wrapped around him, but he did not back away. He had learned long ago that the forge demanded patience.

  The moment the metal was ready, he pulled it from the flames and placed it on the anvil. He raised the hammer high—

  CLANG.

  Sparks burst into the air as metal struck metal. Draven gritted his teeth, adjusting his grip before striking again.

  CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.

  The force of each blow traveled through his arms, rattling his bones. His muscles burned, but he refused to stop.

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  "Again," the angel ordered. "A warrior must know his weapon like he knows his own heartbeat."

  Draven worked tirelessly, shaping the metal, folding it over itself, hammering out every imperfection. His vision blurred, sweat dripping into his eyes, but he kept going.

  Finally, after what felt like hours, he had something resembling a blade. It was rough, unpolished, and uneven—but it was his.

  The angel examined it, then nodded. "Not bad. But it is unfinished. A dull blade will not save you in battle."

  Draven groaned but picked up the grindstone, beginning the slow, painstaking process of sharpening his creation.

  By the time he finished, his hands were raw, his body aching. But as he held the completed blade in his hands, something stirred within him.

  Pride.

  He had forged this. He had endured.

  And next time, he would do even better.

  THE TRIAL OF PERCEPTION

  Night had fallen by the time the angel led him deep into the forest. The trees loomed high, their twisted branches casting eerie shadows against the moonlight.

  The angel laughs and he vanishes, erasing any trace that he even existed, a chilling feeling is felt through Draven as if something touched his soul.

  Angel: "Where am I Draven?-look for me, search for my presence."

  The angel moves as if he is in multiple places at one time his voice came from everywhere and nowhere.

  Draven staggered back, confusion twisting his expression. "What is happening? What is this?"

  Angel: "Close your eyes Draven and look, where am I?"

  Draven: "How do you expect me to do that?"

  Draven’s brow furrowed as he shut his eyes, focusing. He had to listen—not just with his ears, but with something deeper. The angel had told him this before.

  "Where am I?"

  A whisper, closer this time. Draven took a slow breath. His senses reached outward, stretching into the dark. He could feel the warmth of the sun against his skin, hear the rustling leaves, the insects buzzing… but nothing else.

  He gritted his teeth.

  "Where am I?"

  This time, the voice was behind him. He turned, lunging in that direction, but his hand met nothing but empty air.

  Laughter.

  Draven’s eyes snapped open in frustration. The angel stood several feet away, arms folded, his usual amused smile in place.

  "You rely too much on your sight, Draven." The angel’s tone was calm. "A warrior cannot always trust what his eyes tell him. They deceive, just like the world around us."

  Draven frowned, glancing down at his hands. He knew the angel was right. Every time he tried to listen, to sense something beyond his normal reach, he failed.

  "Again." The angel’s voice was firm.

  Draven took a deep breath and closed his eyes once more.

  This time, he tried not to think. He let go of frustration, of impatience. Instead of searching for the angel, he focused on what was missing.

  The wind moved freely. The leaves rustled naturally. The world had a rhythm, a pulse—until one part of it didn't.

  Draven's lips parted.

  "There."

  He turned suddenly, pointing toward the trees. And for the first time, the angel gave him a nod of approval.

  "Better. But still too slow."

  Draven huffed. He was getting tired of this.

  The angel stepped forward. "You lack patience, but you’re improving." He reached out, placing a hand on Draven’s head. "Now, tell me—how have the past six months been treating you?"

  Draven hesitated before answering. "Whenever you leave, I feel alone… but I remember what you teach me about survival, and it doesn’t seem so bad anymore."

  The angel studied him for a moment, then gave a small smile. "There’s a reason I leave every six months. You need to grow stronger without relying on anyone but yourself. Soon, you’ll be strong enough to rival me."

  Draven’s eyes flickered with determination. He wanted that more than anything.

  But strength wasn’t just about fighting.

  Over the next few days, the angel put him through brutal training—his body ached from endless sparring, his hands were raw from forging weapons, and his mind strained to solve riddles. Some he got right. Others, he struggled with.

  Angel: "Strength is not merely power. It is wisdom, will, and something else," the angel said one evening as they sat by the fire. "Tell me, Draven, what is the third piece?"

  Draven thought hard, as he studied a book on forging.

  "Wisdom, will… What else matters?"

  He frowned, frustrated. He wanted to say power, but that felt wrong.

  Then he remembered something the angel once said—about how a weapon was only as strong as the hand that wielded it.

  "Control," he muttered. "You need to control your strength, or it means nothing."

  The angel raised a brow. "An interesting answer."

  Draven waited, expecting to hear whether he was right or wrong. But the angel simply leaned back, gazing at the sky.

  "One day, you will understand the full truth."

  Draven frowned. He hated when the angel was vague like that.

  But as he sat there, he realized something.

  Even after months alone, he was still here. Still fighting. One day, he would stand on his own. And when that day came, the world would know his name.

  And for now, that was enough.

  But in the shadows of fate, something waited for him—watching, waiting, inevitable.