The first step into Nimavari’s Grove was like crossing a veil between two worlds.

  The air thickened, not with heat or fog, but with memory. Every leaf shimmered faintly, as if dusted in moonlight, though the sun still hung high above. The trees stood taller than any Arjun had seen before—ancient things with bark like cracked marble and roots that pulsed softly, like the beat of a resting heart.

  They moved carefully, weapons sheathed, senses open.

  “This place…” Ayra whispered. “It’s alive.”

  “It’s more than alive,” Elaran murmured. “It remembers.”

  Arjun felt it too. The moment his foot touched the soil, visions fluttered at the edges of his mind—echoes of laughter, weeping, battles long passed. The forest whispered in languages long forgotten, and in those whispers, it knew his name.

  “Arjun…”

  It wasn’t the System. Nor was it the spirit of a fragment.

  It was the Grove itself.

  They followed the path indicated by the scroll, which wound between silver-leafed trees and across roots that spiraled like frozen rivers. No birds called. No wind stirred. Yet every so often, petals would drift from above, carried by something unseen.

  The deeper they went, the quieter it became.

  Until they reached the clearing.

  In its center stood a tree unlike any other.

  It was massive—its trunk as wide as a house, bark glistening gold under the filtered light. Its branches formed a perfect dome overhead, leaves fluttering with soft chimes that played a haunting, slow tune.

  Beneath it sat an old woman on a throne of roots.

  Her skin was bark. Her eyes were liquid amber. She wore no crown, yet power radiated from her in waves—gentle, but absolute.

  She opened her eyes.

  “Welcome, Arjun.”

  He stepped forward.

  “Are you the guardian?”

  She smiled. “In this Grove, there are no guardians. Only witnesses.”

  “Witnesses to what?”

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  She stood—graceful, though she moved like wind through reeds.

  “To who you really are.”

  The others stayed behind as the woman beckoned Arjun to stand before the tree.

  “This is the Tree of Self. It holds no illusions. No tests. Only truth. You seek the next Karmic Fragment, yes?”

  He nodded.

  “Then step into the roots, and surrender.”

  He blinked. “Surrender?”

  “Your defenses. Your lies. Your masks. The tree will not harm you. But it will reveal you.”

  Raaka scowled from the back. “This is madness.”

  Elaran, however, touched his shoulder. “No. This is a rite. Older than karma itself.”

  Arjun stared at the tree, its trunk slowly opening, revealing a hollow filled with warm golden mist.

  He stepped in.

  And the world vanished.

  He stood in a courtyard bathed in dusk.

  Children ran past him—laughing, screaming with joy. A woman stood nearby, singing softly as she stirred a pot over a flame. Her back was turned, but he recognized her instantly.

  His mother.

  But she was supposed to be dead.

  This wasn’t memory. It was a reconstruction. A realm built from his own soul.

  He stepped forward.

  “Ma…”

  She turned, smiling brightly.

  But her eyes bled shadows.

  “You left me,” she said softly.

  “I didn’t—I was just a boy—”

  “You forgot me.”

  She stepped forward, and the shadows curled around her face, swallowing it whole.

  “Arjun,” she whispered, voice changing. “You left everyone.”

  The world shifted.

  Now he stood in the burning streets of Valdahar.

  The charred husks of people reached toward him, screaming.

  He turned and found himself in the courtyard again—but this time, a throne stood at its center, carved of bone and flame. Seated atop it was a version of himself—draped in crimson robes, eyes glowing with a cruel light.

  This Arjun smiled.

  “You think you're a hero,” he sneered. “You think karma chose you. But you're just another tyrant waiting for a crown.”

  “I won’t become you.”

  “You already are,” the other Arjun said. “You’ve killed. Lied. Sacrificed. And you’ll do it again. And again. And again.”

  Arjun clenched his fists. “It was for survival.”

  The crimson Arjun laughed. “And so it always begins.”

  The flames surged.

  Everything dissolved.

  And then… silence.

  Arjun stood alone in darkness.

  Then came a heartbeat.

  Not his own.

  The world lit up in a single pulse of golden light.

  And before him floated a shard.

  This one wasn’t jagged or bloodied. It was smooth. Clear. A perfect sphere of glowing white light.

  The Karmic Fragment of Reflection.

  He reached out, hand trembling—and it surged into his chest.

  This time, he didn’t scream.

  The surge wasn’t pain. It was peace. Acceptance.

  And then he heard a voice—not the System, not the forest, not himself.

  But something beyond him.

  “You have embraced the Mirror. Your path is clearer now.”

  [Karmic Insight +15]

  [New Trait Gained: Soul Anchor – Your mind resists manipulation. Your spirit is harder to corrupt.]

  He stepped back from the light.

  And the vision ended.

  Arjun stumbled out of the tree’s roots, gasping.

  The old woman was gone.

  The tree was still.

  Ayra rushed to him. “What happened? What did you see?”

  Arjun wiped tears from his eyes. “Everything. And nothing. Myself. My shadow. My truth.”

  Raaka offered a hand. “You don’t look broken, so I guess that’s a good sign.”

  “I’m not broken,” Arjun said. “I’m… whole.”

  They camped beneath the Tree of Self that night. The forest, once silent, now hummed softly around them—accepting them.

  And for the first time in weeks, Arjun slept without dreams.

  But far away, in a chamber lit by blood-red candles, another hand touched a different fragment.

  Kael opened his eyes.

  “Four fragments now,” he whispered. “And Arjun… has four as well.”

  A smile played across his lips.

  “Soon, we will meet.”