Emerging from the tavern the next day, Buren felt as though he'd been whisked away to a different village or perhaps to a different time. Gone were the suspicious glances and veiled hostility. Instead, the townsfolk greeted him with warm smiles and admiration. They lauded his decision to walk the Path of Penance, with some even pondering aloud if they too should don the weeping mask, now seen as the pinnacle of honor, character, and heroism.

Buren had chosen to keep the Gauntlet concealed beneath his robes, deeming it wiser to remain anonymous. The villagers respected his aloofness, interpreting it as a reflection of his sacred journey. This only deepened their newfound reverence for the order, and while Buren moved largely unobstructed, he was far from unnoticed.

Talun, the town's leader, was notably absent, as were the few supporters he had managed to rally. In stark contrast, the crowd encircling their minister had swelled in both number and zeal. It now encompassed the majority of the village's workers and their families. The minister could afford to rest his voice, for the impassioned villagers had taken up the mantle, echoing the slogans he'd instilled in them. Their personal tales of mistreatment and oppression, born from the exploitation by their superiors and particularly the temple's heretics, resonated deeply. These relatable stories, more than the minister's eloquent speeches, fanned the flames of discontent.

That morning, the fields and quarries lay largely untouched. The laborers were engrossed in visions of a brighter future, where wealth would be evenly distributed. Their wives dreamt of the gold jewelry that would be apportioned from the rulers' coffers, with each individual receiving an equal share.

Amidst the throngs of villagers, their gazes fixated on the preacher or lost in their own dreams of a brighter future, it was Buren who first noticed the approach of the two men. Their long, springy strides immediately signaled to him that the situation was about to escalate. Despite the biting cold and the gentle snowfall that blanketed the ground, the men were bare from the waist up. Their heads were shaven, and they wore only orange loincloths that reached their knees. Intricate tattoos adorned their bodies, some depicting animals and mountains, while others were cryptic symbols unfamiliar to Buren. A thick, oily sheen coated their skin, accentuating their sculpted musculature. They walked with an air of pride, chests thrust forward and chins raised, their gaze fixed intently ahead. Large, empty cloth sacks hung from their backs, spacious enough to hold substantial cargo.

The preacher was the next to spot them. Elevated on the gallows platform, which until recently had displayed one of his brethren as a grim warning, he had a clear view over the assembled crowd. A fleeting grin crossed his face before he adopted a facade of righteous indignation, dramatically gesturing towards the newcomers.

"And here they come!" he proclaimed, prompting a sea of heads to swivel in unison. "Here to relegate you back to your 'rightful' place. But what say you to that?"

A resounding "No!" echoed throughout the square.

The tattooed men remained unperturbed by the crowd's hostility, standing firm like boulders in a turbulent stream.

"We're here for our agreed-upon provisions," one of them declared, his voice deep and resonant, every word articulated with deliberate precision, displaying great attention and control over every syllable.

"However, now that we're aware of this outsider disrupting the balance we've achieved here, we must remove him before the entire system crumbles," his companion added, speaking with the same measured cadence. Every word seemed crafted with care, reminiscent of an athlete's meticulous movement or an artist's deliberate brushstroke. Buren recognized this level of focus from his travels with Anod.

"You'll have to go through us first!" a villager shouted defiantly from the crowd.

"And them!" another chimed in, gesturing towards the Penitents who had strategically positioned themselves between the preacher and the newcomers.

The first tattooed man responded, "You believe their promises are for your benefit, but they're not. In the human body, each part receives what it needs for the greater good of the whole. Society functions similarly. An organ that demands more than its due is diseased, threatening the entire body. These interlopers encourage such greed. It's a path to ruin."

The angry replies of the crowd melded into a tumultuous roar, producing only an incoherent cacophony of resentment. The two tattooed men exchanged a brief, knowing glance before advancing with determined strides. As they pressed into the throng, the villagers pushed back, but the duo's relentless momentum was unyielding. They moved through the crowd with the ease of a blade slicing through warm butter. While some attempted to land punches, the men deftly shielded their heads and torsos, deflecting the blows with raised arms.

A novice penitent, perhaps driven by a desire to prove his worth or to purge the unbelievers, lunged forward, sword aimed at one man's neck. His attack was clumsy, lacking the fundamentals of footwork and weapon control, seemingly underestimating the unarmed adversary. To his shock, the tattooed man, with astonishing speed and precision, clapped his hands together, trapping the blade between them. The sword's momentum halted instantly. Before the novice could react, his weapon was torn from his grip. The tattooed man hoisted him effortlessly into the air, then slammed him headfirst into the ground. The novice lay motionless, and the tattooed man stepped over him like nothing had happened.

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, causing them to recoil. The remaining Penitents, now on high alert, adjusted their stances and readied their swords, no longer underestimating these half-naked warriors. The once-smug expression on the minister's face had evaporated, replaced by a mask of apprehension. His eyes darted about, gauging the quickest escape route should his next line of defense fail as well.

Commander Traum, flanked by the last knight of their cadre, squared off against the tattooed men, adopting a combat stance. He had forsaken his cumbersome shield, deeming that it would not bring benefit against these unarmed adversaries. Together, Traum and the knight unleashed a barrage of expertly executed strikes, forcing the unarmored men to retreat. Their blades moved with such speed and unpredictability that the tattooed men couldn't grasp them mid-swing. Instead, they dodged with a nimbleness that belied their muscular frames. It was akin to a novice trying to catch a slippery fish with bare hands: always tantalizingly close, yet perpetually out of reach.

The knight's stamina waned first. It took him a fraction of a second longer to raise his blade, and that provided an opening. One of the tattooed men seized the knight's wrist, immobilizing his blade. In a swift motion, he tripped the knight, maneuvered behind him, and wrenched the knight's arm into an unnatural position, then stepped on his ankle so it, too, twisted further than it should have. The knight's weapon clattered to the ground, and he crumpled, incapacitated.

Traum remained resolute, but he would have been surrounded if not for Buren's timely intervention. Buren had seen enough of their combat style, both there and on his earlier travels, and, feigning inexperience, lashed out with deliberate, amateurish strikes. The Gauntlet would likely have been enough to demolish them, but Buren hoped that with the benefit of surprise, he could drive them away without lethal injuries. The monk took the bait, attempting to disarm Buren by twisting his wrist, like earlier, so an ordinary limb would have been forced to let go. Not so the Gauntlet, and a look of bewilderment escaped the strongman's restraint onto his face, before being subdued again. The familiar movement did not work like in the thousands of training sessions with his brethren, the limb he grabbed cold and hard as iron. Buren easily wrenched his arm free and rapped him on the temple with his knuckles, and the man fell like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Now, the remaining monk found himself at a disadvantage. With the relentless Commander before him, Buren at his flank, an emboldened novice poised to strike, and the encroaching crowd, his options dwindled. Yet, his face remained impassive. In a sudden move, he vaulted over the front line of villagers, hoisted his unconscious ally onto his shoulder with remarkable ease, and dashed towards the city gates, the crowd in hot pursuit.

"Away with you, thralls of daemons!" the preacher's voice boomed, echoed by the triumphant cries of the villagers. Traum swiftly grabbed Buren, pulling him close. "Follow them," he ordered in a hushed tone, "Find the path to their monastery."

Buren clenched his jaw beneath his mask. The monks had already gained significant ground, but he pressed on, maintaining his facade of unwavering loyalty to the mission.

Emerging from the city walls, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a distant figure and gave chase. Initially, he maintained a steady jog, but as the figure began to shrink on the horizon, Buren quickened his pace. He silently thanked the monk's burden—the unconscious body of his comrade—for slowing him down. Although the thin layer of snow and the pulsating undergrowth provided a clear trail, Buren knew that if he lagged too far behind, the monks could easily obscure their tracks and use their intimate knowledge of the terrain to evade him.

As he ran, the rhythmic glow beneath his feet shifted. Intersecting waves of light, each of a different hue, danced and intertwined, suggesting that the second monk had regained his footing and was now on the move. The two seemed to have split up, their paths diverging. Buren opted to follow the trail he believed belonged to the monk who had been running the longest, hoping he might be nearing exhaustion. However, this hope was dashed as the luminous signals began to fade, indicating the monk was widening the gap between them.

Navigating a slippery hill coated in melted snow atop a layer of ice, Buren found himself amidst a forest of evergreens and other plantlife he was familiar with interspersed with alien flora. These strange plants, resembling stony candelabras and massive grooved boulders, shimmered in the muted light of the overcast day. But Buren's focus remained on the ground, trying to decipher the chaotic patterns of light. The once-clear trail had become a jumbled mess, and distant crashing sounds further muddled his sense of direction. As he proceeded cautiously, the noises and ground's pulsations ceased, leaving him in a tranquil, uniformly glowing woodland.

Moving with stealth, Buren observed that gentle, deliberate footsteps barely disturbed the glowing undergrowth. He soon stumbled upon shattered remnants of the stone-like flora, realizing the monk's cunning strategy. By creating disturbances—knocking over dried husks and scattering large fragments—the monk had crafted a deceptive trail, then stealthily retreated in another direction. It was a clever tactic, one that would confound most unfamiliar with this peculiar environment. Buren had to admit, he was still learning the intricacies of this strange land.

Buren's upbringing in the frosty wilds of Coldwood had honed his skills in tracking prey and occasionally, bandits, by the subtle imprints they left in the snow and the delicate sprigs they crushed beneath their steps. He had to concede, the monk was adept at concealing his trail, but in his haste, it was not flawless. Minute disturbances in the natural layering of snow were enough to guide Buren, albeit at a slower pace.

Emerging from the thinning woods, he discovered a torn spruce branch on the snow, which the monk had evidently used to erase his footprints. From that point onward, the tracks were unmistakably clear. Buren observed the unusual distance between each footprint. The imprints, though spaced apart, indicated the man had settled his weight down very carefully, suggesting the monks had mastered a unique gait that minimized disturbances to the glowing flora while maintaining a swift pace.

The trail led him along a rugged path skirting the mountainside, weaving through rock formations until it abruptly ended at a sheer cliff face. Buren's gaze traveled upward, noting certain outcroppings on the bluff that appeared more polished than their surroundings, the hoarfrost otherwise covering the stones swept away. These protrusions formed a sporadic chain leading up the mountainside.

"That explains how they keep it hidden," he mused. "One would need specialized skills or equipment just to begin the ascent." The crushed remains of ill-equipped villagers at the bottom of the climb spoke to the difficulty of navigating the cliff.

While this might deter most, Buren was undaunted. Grasping the cliff, he propelled himself upward, using the Gauntlet with practiced ease. His ascent was a series of rapid jerks and halts, with tiny fragments of stone scattering each time his clawed hand found purchase.

As he climbed higher, the air grew chillier, and the damp snow of the lower regions gave way to a sheet of ice covering the cliff. Pausing to catch his breath, Buren turned to take in the view. From this vantage point, the forests, with their peculiar flora, looked no larger than shrubs. The distant walled town appeared minuscule, its inhabitants mere specks. Wisps of fog, illuminated by the glow below, meandered through the valleys, resembling tendrils of colored smoke.

Upon reaching a plateau, Buren paused to clear his nose with his free hand before resuming his ascent. Soon, he encountered a rope anchored to a large stone, presumably used by the monks to ease their climb over the precipice. Disregarding it, Buren propelled himself over the edge, landing with a sure-footed grace. Here, the snow lay deeper, and the footprints were fresher, suggesting he had significantly closed the gap during his rapid ascent.

The path ahead was paved with smooth stones, forming steps embedded in the earth. Flanking him were towering constructs of stones, varying in shape and size, adorned with carvings reminiscent of the tattoos on the monks. Some of these stone edifices comprised massive geometric blocks, stacked in awe-inspiring formations that defied logic in such a rugged terrain. Others were intricate spirals, meticulously crafted from smaller stones, showcasing the builder's precision rather than brute strength. The hues of these stones ranged from muted grays to vibrant reds, blues, and streaks of white, orange, and bronze. Clearly, the artisans had sought the most exquisite specimens for their creations.

These stone marvels seemed to jostle for space along the path, with spirals winding around larger structures, maximizing every inch of available airspace. Remarkably, the stones were devoid of snow and lichen, indicating regular maintenance.

Buren's journey led him beneath stone arches, both natural and man-made, through a cavern illuminated by crystalline reflections of candlelight, and across a chasm via narrow pillars that plunged deep below. Another cliff awaited, this one equipped with carved handholds. As he navigated a slender ledge etched into the mountain's face, the icy gusts pelted him with hail, causing his metal faceplate to frost over.

So engrossed was he in maintaining his balance that when a warm, moist breath brushed against the nape of his neck, he lost his footing and fell, the Gauntlet being the only thing stopping him from plummeting to his death. Instinctively, he drew his sword, pointing it upward as he hung, preparing to confront the unseen adversary. His ambusher stared at him unblinkingly with its rectangular pupils and opened its muzzle.

"Baa!"

Buren stared at the mountain goat standing on miniscule prominences in the vertical rock face, then chuckled silently and put his weapon away. Now that he saw up he spotted half a dozen curious pairs of eyes peeking at his progress from higher up.

"Maybe I'm not the one best equipped to this climate after all," he mused as he marveled how they skipped around, seeming to stick to the wall like spiders and occasionally shaking their bodies so the snow gathering on their thick coats of fur got rattled away.

Pulling himself up, he gently nudged the inquisitive creatures aside and continued on firmer ground.

The path was lined with intricate stonework, carvings, and paintings, each a testament to the meticulous craftsmanship of its creators. Though he wished to study them in detail, time was not on his side. Just as he began to doubt his direction, suspecting the monks had led him on a wild goose chase, the monastery loomed before him.

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Carved directly into the mountain's heart, its red stone base contrasted beautifully with the golden, gently arching roof. Numerous flags and pennants, each bearing unique colors, fluttered in the wind. From the vast square before the main edifice, the rhythmic cadence of chanting reached his ears. A group of monks, arranged in a precise grid, moved in harmonious synchrony, their bodies and voices melding into a singular, mesmerizing performance. Atop a cylindrical turret, a lone sentinel stood watch.

Buren had achieved his immediate goal: he'd tracked the monks to their sanctuary. The prudent course would have been to return and report to Commander Traum. Yet, he hesitated, wary of the Faith's intolerance towards differing beliefs. Moreover, mere obedience wouldn't distinguish him from his fellow novices. He yearned to achieve more.

With resolve, Buren stealthily approached the monastery, using the statues and sculptures as cover. Scaling a cluster of monoliths, he slipped through a second-story window. Inside, he found himself in a corridor encircling the entire floor. While the exterior boasted intricate carvings, the interior was adorned with tapestries and mats. These textiles showcased vibrant, spiraling symbols of muscular limbs and stylized human forms that seemed to endlessly branch and divide. The complexity of the designs spoke of immense dedication and dexterity. Yet, for Buren, their most valuable quality was the silence they afforded his movements.

Buren discovered a stairwell and, trusting his instincts, ascended, feeling the atmosphere grow more significant with each step. The topmost corridor was flanked by statues of humans, their forms idealized and powerful, stretching almost to the soaring ceiling above. These statues, captured in dynamic poses, exuded an aura of immense physical strength. At the corridor's end, massive bronze doors stood slightly open, allowing murmurs of conversation to seep out. Buren stealthily approached, crouching beside the entrance to eavesdrop.

The voices emanating from within held the unmistakable resonance and discipline of the Corporeal monks, their words clear even from a distance. Buren refrained from peeking inside, but it was evident that two men were passionately presenting their cases to a third, or perhaps a group, who remained silent.

"We must act immediately, Living Incarnate," one voice urged. "Before the rot at our foundation consumes the entire body of our community. Including them."

"An arm that strikes its own leg will surely cause the body to stumble," another voice interjected, countering the first. "Rather than heed Brother Jigten's advice, we should guide them back to the righteous path. Those not too lost will willingly return to their roles. Such a course is more harmonious."

"When gangrene threatens, amputation becomes a mercy, even if it brings pain. We might suffer temporarily, but we will recover."

"Yet, our foundation will forever be weakened, especially if it acts under coercion rather than its innate nature," the second voice argued.

"The reports from our brothers on the ground are clear. Their nature has shifted. They no longer serve as they once did. Their aspirations now exceed their station, and they will not relent until they drag even the heart down to their level."

"Perhaps they yearn not for the heart but for an attentive ear to voice their concerns? Our response should restore balance and harmony. Using force will only exacerbate the imbalance."

"They will trample all they can. We must act swiftly, or-"

Buren's senses tingled with an alertness he couldn't quite place—perhaps a subtle shift in the air? Instinctively, his right arm shot up, shielding the back of his head and neck, intercepting a blow that would have surely stunned him, even through his helmet. The force of the deflected strike knocked him off balance, propelling him into the chamber where the monks debated.

Regaining his composure, Buren rose just in time to parry a fierce roundhouse kick aimed at his head. A flurry of fists, elbows, and knees followed, each deflected by his iron arm. The monk's determination never wavered, even as his bare flesh tore against Buren's jagged metal limb. The two debating monks, now united in their intent, joined the fray, leaving Buren encircled by three formidable, tattooed adversaries. Drawing his sword, he held it in a reverse grip, blade pointing downward, primed for swift, close-quarter slashes. With The Gauntlet extended to his right, its sharp claws ready, he braced for the onslaught. The monks' faces mirrored his own metal visage, but where his was impassive, theirs were etched with steely resolve. Buren tensed like a spring ready to launch, preparing to cut them down.

As they lunged in unison, a commanding voice boomed, "Stop!" All motion halted, freezing the scene into a tableau of martial prowess. The monks, mid-strike, held their poses—one balanced on a single foot as his other leg was coming down on Buren's head, another suspended just above the ground on his hands as he had been in the process of tripping Buren, and the third, arms outstretched, ready to catch Buren in a bear hug. Buren, too, had come to a standstill, slightly crouched as he would have jumped over the sweeping leg, sword's edge mere inches from slicing away the leg poised to crash on his head, while The Gauntlet's talons were on the verge of gouging out the eyes of the monk with spread arms. Their expressions remained unchanged, but Buren noticed a slight pallor creep into the monks' faces, realizing how close they'd come to death and dismemberment.

Buren's gaze shifted to the voice's origin, finding the temple's leader, the Living Incarnate, seated on a raised platform. The man laughed heartily, his muscular frame shaking with mirth. "You should all see yourselves," he chuckled. "Apologies, brothers. Had I known our guest, I would've prepared a feast rather than a fight. As long as I am the Heart that Pumps, this temple welcomes him. Though his attire is concerning, we would be wise not to pick a fight."

The monks relaxed but remained vigilant. Sheathing his sword, Buren listened as the Incarnate continued, "It's been too long, friend. Remove that eerie mask. Show me Buren, the Hero of the Grey Battle."

Unclasping his helmet, Buren revealed his face, relishing the fresh air against his sweat-dampened skin. The temple's warmth, combined with the heavy scent of incense, almost masked the odor of sweat pervading the halls. Pushing back his hair, Buren met the Incarnate's gaze.

"Hello, Anod."

The monks had initially been adamant about accompanying them, unwilling to leave the pair unattended. However, Anod's unwavering determination eventually won them over, and with his jovial insistence, they departed. Anod led Buren to his private chambers, accessible through a concealed doorway behind a draped curtain. Buren hadn't even noticed the modest room adjacent to their initial meeting place until Anod confidently strode in.

The room was simply furnished: a slender sleeping mat lay on the floor, a rack held a few robes, another mat was designated for physical exercises, and a collection of body oil vases occupied a corner. The room's singular opulence was a magnificent floor-to-ceiling window, crafted from the clear crystal Buren had observed in the caves. It offered a breathtaking panorama of the surrounding peaks and the fog-shrouded valleys below. They settled on floor cushions by the window, facing one another. Anod struck a flint, igniting a blend of dried hay, herbs, and goat dung to prepare tea. The bubbling of boiling water soon melded with the room's ambiance, the herbal aroma almost masking the faint scent of manure.

Up until that point, Anod had engaged in light conversation, discussing the weather and recent births within their goat herd. He then poured tea for both of them. The imposing man deeply inhaled the scent from his cup, releasing a satisfied sigh. With a grin, he gulped down the steaming brew, still scorching hot.

"Just the way I like it," he proclaimed, placing the cup aside. "How have you been? I see peacetime hasn't added any weight to your frame. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"There hasn't been true peace. Merely a pause, a deceptive lull. That's primarily why I'm here."

"What do you mean?"

Buren recounted his haunting dreams and how his visions had directed him to the cliff in the Ancient Forest.

"I, too, once dreamt of the war," Anod mused. "Despite our constant meditation, some of my brothers still grapple with such visions. The battle may be in our past, but sometimes the mind refuses to let go."

Buren clenched his jaw, the words echoing those from Azure's previous letter. "They are not dreams. I know them to be reality. I just see it when I'm asleep."

"The mind is a cunning deceiver," Anod replied. "Even in wakefulness, its illusions can appear as tangible truths. But when one centers oneself, focusing on the body, those perceived realities dissolve into the ether. The mind is always telling you to turn back when tired, to attack when angry, to give up when sad, yet the body can keep going. That is what my way teaches."

Buren's gaze shifted. Throughout their journey, Anod had tried converting the Seekers of the Artefact to his beliefs, but found them too stubborn to seriously consider taking up a new code, driven by the greater good rather than personal welfare. Buren had largely dismissed Anod's teachings, unwilling to be sidetracked from his mission. That resolve remained unchanged.

"You've chosen a misguided path," Anod said gently. "Exchange that somber scarlet robe and mask for one of our simple loincloths, perhaps some body oil, and a touch of armor oil for that formidable right arm. Embrace our way, and you'll learn to harness the mind through the body, breaking free from its deceptive chains."

"There's nothing I'd rather do than be free, but there is too much at stake here. It is not my mind that binds me, but the needs of the many," he thought, but said. "I am here to make you leave the village below alone."

Anod's serene smile persisted, but a subtle shift in his demeanor betrayed his disappointment. "Our course of action regarding the village remains under debate."

"I heard the discussion. Both your advisors wish to intervene one way or another. I need you to lay off them entirely."

Anod paused, weighing his words. "That... will be challenging."

"But it can be done."

"How much of our conversation did you catch? Eavesdropping hardly befits a man of your stature, bye the way."

Buren shrugged. "A lot of talk about feet and their proper placement."

Anod chuckled. "Speaking of feet, let's stretch ours." Without awaiting a response, he gracefully rose and began to stroll. Rolling his eyes, Buren used his right arm's strength to propel himself upright. They ambled to the corridor's end, flanked by towering statues, and stepped onto a balcony Buren had previously overlooked. Below, they observed the monks in their intricate exercises. Their postures ranged from statuesque stillness to deliberate, fluid motions, and even blindingly swift actions, all synchronized with their chants. The collective of monks moved in harmonious unity, reminiscent of a vast wheat field swaying in the breeze.

"When each understands and embraces their role, harmony emerges," Anod began, his voice echoing the rhythm of the monks below. "Consider the human body: each part functions seamlessly, desiring nothing beyond its purpose. But when disease or injury strikes, its efficiency wanes. Or worse, it becomes cancerous, consuming more than its due. It is a system of perfect balance, which is why we dedicate our lives to learning from it, rejecting the fabrications of the mind."

He leaned on the balcony's edge, eyes sweeping over the disciplined forms below. "This is why we've modeled our community on these principles, with the villagers as integral organs. But now, external forces push them to overreach. Our only recourse is to excise the malignancy and restore their rightful place."

His gaze lingered on the monks, a smile touching his lips, but a shadow of sorrow clouded his eyes. "Upon my return, after recounting our adventures, they named me the Living Incarnate, The Heart that Pumps of this temple. For I had pushed my body's limits more than any here and survived. That means I should be the most in tune with the corporeal. My words redefine how they understand the world and themselves. To release the villagers would shatter my brothers' faith. They need stability now more than ever."

Buren studied Anod, feeling a weight settle on his shoulders. The realization dawned that he wasn't the only one burdened by the expectations of many. But his duty remained. Taking a deep breath, he met Anod's gaze with unwavering determination.

"I suspected it wouldn't be simple with you," Anod admitted, exhaling slowly. "I know you well enough to surmise that leaving you cornered, with no way out, would surely lead to dire consequences. So, I propose a contest. A game. The victor decides the fate of all."

Buren's nod was solemn. He could only guess at the lengths Anod imagined he'd go to, but he suspected his friend's assumptions were conservative at best.

Anod's bow was graceful, but his smirk held a hint of mischief. Buren recognized that expression, having seen it before they'd sprung traps on unsuspecting foes. He realized he'd been ensnared in some stratagem, but he hadn't expected Anod to play fair.

With a resonant clap, Anod commanded the attention of the monks. Raising his arms as if to encompass them all, he declared, "Brothers! Our esteemed guest has invoked the Corporeal Challenge. The victor shall shape our sanctuary's destiny. As the Living Incarnate, I accept his challenge, for his past deeds deem him worthy. The trials commence on the morrow."

In unison, the monks began a deep, resonating hum, building to a thunderous climax, culminating in a sharp, collective shout. As quickly as it began, they dispersed in various directions.

"It's our tradition," Anod explained. "Once the Challenge is proclaimed, words cease. The chant's abrupt end signifies the close of one chapter, heralding the dawn of another."

Anod's hand landed heavily on Buren's left shoulder. "I sincerely hope the next few days don't mark your end," he said, his voice a mix of jest and genuine concern.

Buren met his gaze, allowing a subtle lift of his eyebrows.

"But if they do," Anod continued with a smirk, "it's always best to meet one's fate on a full belly, right?" He gave Buren's shoulder a reassuring squeeze before releasing it. "I trust you're not abstaining? The feast before the Challenge is legendary! And don't fret, your priests will be none the wiser."

Indeed, Anod hadn't exaggerated. The main hall on the temple's ground floor had been transformed with additional tables laden with a sumptuous spread. The air was thick with the aroma of roasted goat, the meat's fat shimmering enticingly. Teas and infusions of varying shades bubbled away, their steam wafting invitingly. Buren paused to admire a crystal teapot filled with a deep blue liquid. The bubbling concoction refracted the firelight, casting mesmerizing patterns of sapphire, turquoise, and azure.

"Azure..."

Shaking off the memory, Buren turned his attention to the barrels of goat's milk. He took a deep swig, only to be assaulted by a fiery sensation that scorched his throat and nostrils. Coughing and spluttering, he expelled the liquid, much to the amusement of a group of nearby monks.

One approached, still chuckling, and handed him a glass of water. "The Amrita-Khadir isn't for the uninitiated," he remarked with a grin.

Buren took a grateful gulp of water. "What's in that? Water from the Flood?"

"Fermented goat milk, aged anywhere from a few weeks to several years. And a generous helping of spices."

Buren eyed the beverages warily.

"For a milder experience, try the drinks at the other end," the monk suggested. "They're from this season and are far more... forgiving."

Buren merely shrugged, earning a chuckle from the monk. "To each their own."

Surveying the feast, Buren noted soups, stews, and porridges made from the thick, gnarled red roots he'd seen during his ascent. However, many dishes were familiar and appetizing, featuring potatoes, squashes, and tomatoes. Given the sparse vegetation of the mountain range, Buren realized these were likely acquired from the village below during the monks' trading trips.

Trips he was now determined to halt.

The grand double doors at the hall's end burst open, revealing monks bearing stretchers laden with their wounded kin. They carefully placed them at the hall's center, and Buren's gaze sharpened as he took in the scene. Many seated monks bore visible injuries, from simple slings to grievous wounds. Yet, despite their pain, smiles graced their faces, whether they were being carried, carrying others, or simply observing. The healthier monks ensured that their injured brethren were well-fed, placing plates and pitchers within their reach.

"Brothers!" Anod's voice boomed, silencing the hall as effectively as a struck gong.

"It has been an age since we last celebrated in this manner. Our reasons were justifiable: with many among us absent or temporarily incapacitated, it seemed prudent to ration our resources, to conserve our dwindling strength. But how long could we have sustained that? As we dwindled, external threats grew bolder. A body confined to bed grows frail, vulnerable to further afflictions. We were on a precipice. I've heard your concerns about my perceived favoritism towards our guest, your anxieties about our community's future, and even the calls from some to cast the outsider from the mountain's edge."

Buren's gaze swept the room, challenging the monks. Few met his eyes, and those who did quickly averted their gaze.

"But many of you haven't seen the grim terminus of our current trajectory as I have. You deem this Challenge over our fate as madness? Perhaps it is. Madness akin to the delirium of a fevered patient, drenched in sweat with wild eyes. Yet, in that fever lies the patient's sole hope: to either succumb to the ailment or to burn it out. Such is our predicament as a brotherhood."

Lifting a glass filled with the thick Amrita-Khadir, Anod declared, "So tonight, brothers," and with a hearty gulp, he drained his drink, his face breaking into a wide grin. "We revel!"

The hall erupted in jubilation as monks emptied their cups. Their laughter was deep and resonant, their dances precise and synchronized. Even those who couldn't dance clapped in rhythm, while others sang or whistled along. Every monk, regardless of their condition, partook in the celebration. Bowls brimming with food circulated, and hands eagerly scooped up portions, fingers licked clean in the aftermath.

Beside Buren, a monk struggled with his meal. His right arm terminated in a stump just above where the elbow should have been, and a misaligned jaw, skewed to the left, made biting a challenge. Buren observed the man's futile attempts to tear into the meat slab on his plate. Without a word, he leaned over, slicing the meat into manageable strips with his sharp talons. The monk responded with a grateful, albeit toothless, smile and eagerly consumed the pieces.

"I see your penchant for aiding those in need remains intact," Anod remarked. Buren had sensed him approaching and shifted to make room on the bench. The temple's master settled beside him, his broad frame nearly acting as a barrier between the two.

"Yet, I find it curious," Anod continued, "that you'd assist a member of a group you aim to dismantle. Seems counterintuitive."

Buren deftly skewered choice cuts with his talons, taking a bite.

"You've always been one to see the world in stark contrasts, never one for explanations," Anod mused. "But indulge an old comrade. I recall saving your hide a time or two. Though, if we were to keep score, you'd undoubtedly have the upper hand."

After swallowing, Buren replied, "Helping him cost me nothing."

"So, it's a simple equation for you?"

"I act on what's right. It's why we triumphed in the war."

"The realms are far from serene."

"But there's potential for peace. Where there's life, there's a chance."

"And that's your measure? Anything is permissible as long as life persists, regardless of its quality?"

"The alternative is for everyone and everything to perish."

"Had such a calamity been imminent, others would've noticed. There would've been omens, like with the Malignant One."

"By the time signs manifest, it'll be too late."

Anod sighed, "Your resolve is unyielding, always has been."

Brightening, the burly, bald man grinned. "Look at me, wallowing in somber thoughts amidst a celebration. Here we are, amidst merriment and the company of an old ally, and I'm ensnared by my own musings. Let's revel, my friend. Allow me to introduce you to the delights of Amrita-Khadir."

With that, he rose, and Buren, after a moment's hesitation, joined him. Maybe it would cost nothing to have a good time with his friend, either.