Kieran didn't descend the mountain immediately.
He stayed.
Up there, where the wind howled like a beast denied, and the stars seemed to watch with judgment, he began his self-imposed exile. For seven days, no fire, no company, no words. Just training—until pain was as natural as breath, and sweat froze to his skin before it could fall.
The Eye granted him insight now. Small flickers—moments when he could predict a strike before it landed. A half-second where time slowed at his will. But it wasn't enough.
He wanted control. Full awakening. The kind that would make him stand against constellations and not falter.
He began to train with illusions—constructing memories from the shadows, rebuilding foes he had fought before: the assassins from Eldoria, the Failed One, even the mid-level constellation that had nearly killed him.
But he didn't stop there.
He summoned his past self, the version of him that bled and screamed in the dirt, that flinched at every whisper of his name.
And he fought him.
Night after night, he would lose.
Until one day—he didn't.
That evening, the wind fell silent. The Eye pulsed without being called. His shadow split—multiple reflections, coiled in motion around him like sentinels.
He had gained something new.
"Will Manifest," he whispered.
And the shadows obeyed.
Three figures emerged—shadows shaped by his resolve. Not illusions, not memories. Not perfect copies—but fragments of what he could become.
Speed. Strength. Precision.
They trained with him. They attacked him. They taught him.
And when he finally stood at the edge of the cliff again, he did not feel cold. He didn't feel tired.
He felt ready.
But something stirred in the valley below.
Smoke rose from the distant horizon. And with it—a low rumble like thunder swallowed by the ground.
Trouble was coming.
And Kieran welcomed it.