The wind carried whispers now.

  As Arjun and his companions traveled away from the ruins of Valdahar, the weight of the encounter lingered on their souls. Each step felt heavier, like they were moving against some unseen tide. The third Karmic Fragment pulsed faintly within Arjun’s core, a shard of memory, grief, and untold power now bonded to him.

  Night fell slowly across the vast plain.

  They made camp beside a fractured stone outcrop, the only shelter for miles. A modest fire crackled between them, casting wavering shadows that seemed to whisper in an old tongue. The others sat silently, wrapped in cloaks and thought.

  Ayra was the first to speak.

  "You said that thing was you... in another life. Did you mean that literally?"

  Arjun shook his head. "No. But he could’ve been. A version of me that lost his way."

  Raaka scowled. "You mean the guy who burned an entire city because the world pissed him off? Sounds like someone we shouldn’t be chasing the footsteps of."

  “He wasn’t just angry,” Elaran said thoughtfully. “He was... abandoned. By fate. By people. Maybe even by the gods.”

  Ayra poked at the fire. “So what are you going to do now? You’ve got three fragments. That’s more than most warriors in legend ever found.”

  “I’m going to find the rest,” Arjun said simply. “Because the throne is real. And someone else is trying to take it.”

  They looked at him.

  The silence that followed was not of doubt—but of understanding. The stakes had changed. This wasn’t about power anymore. It was about fate itself.

  That night, Arjun dreamed again.

  But this time, it wasn’t the voice of the System that spoke to him.

  It was a girl’s voice.

  Soft. Young. Familiar.

  “Arjun… don’t forget me.”

  He turned in the dream, surrounded by smoke and flames. Somewhere in the haze, a silhouette—a child with long hair, eyes shimmering like the moon.

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  “Who are you?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer.

  She just wept.

  And then the dream shattered like glass.

  Arjun woke in a cold sweat.

  The fire had died.

  And the wind was no longer whispering.

  It was howling.

  They weren’t alone.

  Figures circled the camp—shapes moving with unnatural grace and silence. Elaran stood first, staff ready. Ayra vanished into the shadows. Raaka gripped his axe, eyes locked outward.

  Then came the voice.

  “Hail, Bearer of the Karmic Flame.”

  From the darkness emerged a man clothed in silver and bone. He wore a mask shaped like a jackal’s face, its eyes glowing with blue fire. Around him stood others—masked, armed, and silent.

  “The Ashen Order welcomes you.”

  Arjun rose slowly. “You’ve been following us.”

  “For some time,” the masked man replied. “We watch all who walk the path of Karma. Especially those who gather fragments.”

  Raaka raised his axe. “Try anything, and you’ll be ash like your name suggests.”

  The man chuckled.

  “We do not come to fight. Not tonight. We come with knowledge. And an offer.”

  Arjun narrowed his eyes. “What do you want?”

  The man stepped closer.

  “You have seen what happens when the Karmic Throne is misused. You’ve seen what it costs. Power drawn from the suffering of the world always demands its toll. We exist to balance that toll. To ensure the Throne never falls into the wrong hands.”

  “And who decides what’s wrong?” Ayra asked coldly.

  The masked man tilted his head. “Karma itself. Not us.”

  He pulled something from his cloak—a scroll wrapped in serpent leather. He handed it to Arjun.

  “This map leads to the next shard. But it is not a place of ruins or battle. It is a place of choice.”

  Arjun took the scroll. “Why help me?”

  “Because we are not your enemies. And because the other one who gathers shards… he is not like you.”

  “Who is he?”

  The wind hissed as if it didn’t want the name spoken.

  The masked man said it anyway.

  “Kael.”

  The fire flared.

  Ayra froze.

  Elaran paled.

  Raaka muttered, “That name’s cursed in the Eastern Hills. They say he fed an entire village to a dying god just to awaken his first shard.”

  Arjun clenched his fist.

  Kael.

  Even the name carried a chill.

  The masked man nodded.

  “He already has four fragments. He walks the Red Path—a version of the Karmic Throne that feeds on wrath, not balance. He intends to usurp Karma itself.”

  “And I’m supposed to stop him?” Arjun asked.

  “No,” the man said. “You’re supposed to become something stronger. Not just a bearer. Not just a king.”

  He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper.

  “You must become the Judge.”

  And then the Ashen Order vanished into mist.

  The next morning, they opened the scroll.

  It revealed a forgotten region called Nimavari’s Grove, a place where the boundary between karma and soul blurred, where choices echoed louder than actions. A sacred forest, guarded by spirits older than the gods.

  They set out at dawn.

  As they traveled, the land grew greener. Life returned—flowers blooming, deer watching from the edges of trees. The tension of Valdahar seemed to wash off their skin.

  But the weight of destiny still loomed.

  At nightfall, Arjun sat alone, staring at the stars.

  Elaran approached. “Do you really believe you can win against Kael?”

  “I have to,” Arjun replied.

  Elaran sat beside him. “Even if it kills you?”

  Arjun nodded.

  “I’d rather die for balance than live in a world ruled by wrath.”

  The wind stirred the trees.

  Somewhere deep in the forest, a chime rang—no bell, no wind—just a sound of something watching.

  The Grove was near.

  And the trial of choice awaited.