> A light refuses to go out. A burning flame. At the beginning of all things is darkness. The closest thing we will ever be to true awakening. To the Quenching of our soul. To the return to the Sea of Dissolution into Awoken-Nature.

>

> Then, sound. A voice. A light pierces through. "Raxri."

>

> Raxri? A name. An epithet. A vow.

>

> "Raxri Uttara, thine tale endeth here, and so shall it begin. Walk... until all the heavens and all the hells... have danced to your song." Then a laugh. The cackle of a mad fool. The telltale sign of crazy wisdom. "Walk. Walk! Ye, once-dead! Let the world realize thine madness. And in so doing, find purchase in liberation. In so doing, the Law shalt reconstitute. Deliver others from the swamp of cyclic existence. Until all beings are free."

>

> Until all beings are free.

>

> Resonant laughter piercing the air. The laughter of a mad woman caged within the husk of a man....

>

> Raxri awoke.

A body.

Half-submerged in ankle-high water. It glowed azure, bioluminescent. The body was rent of all clothing, of all armor. Skin the color of brightening dawn. Hair floating about them like a dawn halo. Lithe yet muscular, militarily grown.

Raxri's eyes open--their eyelashes are long, lotus-like. Their scarlet eyes are dim. Shorn of light? Of memory?

Floating. Raxri's body floated upon a shallow pond. The bright blue liquid lulled her to peace, to sleep. Like bioluminescence, the liquid glowed, blue tendrils reaching the night sky.

Above them, through their eyes, the Horned Moon watches. His gleam bathed her in the light of pallid undeath. A giant edifice framed the moon: an arch with the middle removed. Two spires created a gateway—a Divine Gate. Its adobe was a deep red, the blood used to bind it together.

Raxri felt like they could sleep here for eternity. Their eyes grew heavy. The lulling movement of the softly moving pond made them drowsy. They could choose, right then, to leave—to sleep again under the warm, almost rejuvenating glow of the blue-light pond.

As they closed their eyes, the words resonated: Walk.

They know they must follow the words of the Holy Fool. And so... they moved.

A sound, a rock clacking against hardened soil, sounding like a final, gasping laugh.

Raxri Uttara rose from the waters of rejuvenation, water dripping from their athletic build. As the bioluminescence slowly left them, they felt as if their soul had been reconstituted right there and then.

Walk. Until you become the path you walk.

Raxri shivered and then took their time to ground herself. Even in rebirth, they dared not forget her awareness training. And so they took stock themself: wounded, naked, yet alive. A large gash on her belly, another across her chest. Incredibly, the wounds seem to have healed, at the most. However, the pain perseveres.

Then, they took stock of what was around them, their awareness expanding, encompassing the darkness. 10 Saint statues surrounded them, meditating in a lotus position. They knew they were Saints, as ascertained by the moon haloes about every single one of them, but they could not remember their names. Each wielded a distinct weapon: a longknife, a pewter staff, a bow and arrow, an arquebus, a longsword, a greatsword, a spear, prayer beads, a crossbow, and then four sets of hands.

At the edges of the chasm, they could sense corpses—cadavers—all rotted. Most of them were now just skeletons. An unnerving alertness arose from them. Looking at one, Raxri could swear they could see the Mindstream's Eye staring back.

Their awareness continued to expand: they found a set of clothes from a mound nearby. Neatly folded. Neatly folded? Raxri took their chances. They walked over to the folded set of clothes and took it. "Monksrobes...," they muttered to themself. Without any other set of clothes to cover herself in, they took on the monk's garb: a sarong combined with a simple, scarlet wrap shirt with cap sleeves. No slippers, no over-shawl, and no undergarments. But that's all right: Raxri knew they couldn't be too picky with their current predicament.

"No monk am I. Nevertheless..." they turned to the Saints. Muscle memory overtook them, and they folded their hands in front of their head, lips, and heart. They didn't know what it meant; they had just done it before, and so it felt like second nature to them, like breathing or smiling.

Then, they turned and walked towards the last thing they became aware of: the opening that led to a corridor. As they neared it, they noticed a bronze mirror—the frame of it a giant imp-like demon—leaning against the opening. It was exceedingly dirtied, and part of it had fractured off. No doubt, this place must have been some sort of ritual importance, now abandoned.

Upon the mirror, they saw themself: athletic of build, broad-shouldered, lean. The body of a swordhand, they thought to themself, and yet they could not remember how to move like one. Their hair fell about them in a messy, unbridled curtain, reaching their shoulder, the color of that cream-white dawn. Their skin was the color of just-before-daybreak. The slight reddish brown just before the light.

Finally, they noticed a winding tattoo on their forearm. Upon closer inspection, it seemed to be some sort of talismanic formula, written in an ancient, winding language wherein words are made by connecting a single thread. These words were arranged into a spire-shape, creating conical geometric talismans.

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Raxri shook themself and then moved into the path.

As the chill wind and the nakedness became thoughts behind them, they came to the cognizance of their aching bones and throbbing wounds. Indeed, the pain still persevered. I must find a place of repose first, they thought to herself, so they walked. That was the command of the Holy Fool, after all.

Her feet pattered upon a cold, hard, cavernous rock. Despite the darkness raveling about her, they felt a nakedness beyond physicality. Spiritually, they felt bare, as if they'd been flensed clean of sin and virtue.

As they walked, following the faint light far before them, they couldn't help but let their thoughts drift: Did they have a family? Were they embroiled in some sort of crime? Were they left for dead? Were they tossed down with the hopes of just that? This did not seem like a place for joy and laughter, for rest and life.

Their walking brought her to a doorway decorated with an arch depicting a bulging-eyed, sharp-fanged demon god. It felt like they were walking into the very maw of the hells.

Walk. Though Raxri remembered naught and found themself in a state mighty fragile, Raxri knew they could not tarry. As with the river, they must flow. To cleanse itself of impurity.

And so they walked until they arrived at the end: a clearing in the cavern. The rugged and craggy rock turned into smooth gray stone, with patterns of overlapping circles engraved onto it. The rippling circles of a stone dropped into a still pond. There was light here. Raxri looked up to notice glass lotuses housing white smokeless fires in the shape of perfect spheres and bulbs of light. Each glass lotus housing was held up by four-armed, bulging-eyed guardian spirit sculptures. No doubt, due to the march of time, some of the sculptures have lost their arms and hands.

Raxri's feet padded upon cold stone. In their awareness, they noticed the nephrite pillars lining the sides of the corridor, stories of warfare and justice carved onto its bas-reliefs. Many of the pillars are crumbled, no longer supporting the stone roof.

Eventually, their walking led them to a broken stairway of blue jade, so blue that it could've been considered lazuli. A beat, as Raxri slowed down, then they decided that they could leap it. With a grunt, they threw themself over the crumbled-away pit and easily onto the other side.

They breathed. Their physicality returned to them like a long-lost pet. Turning around and inspecting the blue jade they were standing upon, they noticed that it glowed an almost unearthly blue-green. Was it to light the path?

Nowhere to go but forward. There, two giant ogre statues flanked a narrow set of stone doors. Each ogre was clad in flanged shoulder armor, eyes bulging and fangs twisting. After a moment of meditation, Raxri knew that these ogre statues were placed in a direction to guard from.

Raxri paused and looked over their shoulder. What manner of evil did they seal...?

A beat. Raxri decided that the ogre statues were not going to move, not going to assail her—at least, not yet. They placed their hands on the two stone doors, hewn from stone and engraved with the same overlapping circles rippling across them. In the slight darkness, Raxri could make out, squinting, the little flecks of stars scattered across them. The night sky reflected from a rippling pond.

Raxri's muscles rippled as they heaved and pushed the doors straight open. They were muscles Raxri had forgotten, but they had muscles that told them: Hey, this is your body. You were so comfortable in it once. Like a friend reaching out a hand to help, Raxri was suddenly imbued with strength.

The doors groaned, and white dust billowed. Loose stones tip-tap fell onto the ground. The stone doors swung open, crumbling and grinding against the stone door. Slowly at first, then quickly, allowing her escape. The cold night wind rushed in, striking a hammer. The smell and touch of freedom, a slight glimpse at liberation. Their hair whipped about them, their sarong fleeing from the touch of freedom.

Raxri moved forward. The night sky was cut by a clean stone path flanked by bamboo groves that lead into a cliff. A curtain parted: a shooting star streaked across the starry night sky. The Gash of the Invincible Blade Princess cleaved the black of the sky.

Inhaling the cold air, Raxri felt the warm rejuvenation catalyzed into vigor. They stepped forward, bare feet embracing the cold stone at first and then eventually the harder, weed-choked stone path as they stepped into the bamboo gateway.

As they walked, their awareness told them that beings watched them from between the shadow of the bamboo. As is well: they were unnerved by the utter lack of spirits inside the chasm they crawled out from.

Deep inside them, they knew that the world they walked upon was the world of spirits, not man. To stake one's own kingdoms and empires is to accord with the gods that walked upon the grass, danced about the clouds, swam across the trees, and warred in the seas. Or to subjugate them. But the cycle of subjugation abounds, unlike the mutual trust of the accord.

The stone path was eventually choked by grass, soil, roots, and underbrush. The spirits always reclaim what is theirs. Raxri walked upon dank soil until they found themselves near the cliff's edge. There they beheld the vista:

Overpowering the scene was a titanic strangler fig reaching into the sky. It held the Firmament, or at least a part of it. Further, craggy spires scoured the sky, the fingers of a long-dead giant. Clouds dance about it in mockery. You will never touch the sky! In the valley below, smoke wafted up and dissipated into the black. Multi-roofed wooden shrine structures jut out from the lower mountains, stopping by a river. The river fed into a small village of stilt houses and cottages until a lake, at the mouth of the valley, where a city walled by the roots of the titanic strangler fig slumbered.

To their east, past the jagged mountains that formed the southern part of the valley, were more coastal towns, similarly slumbering, with nary but slight torches to keep them alight, to ward off bears, tigers, and crocodiles.

Immediately to their east, Raxri saw the path that led down to that coastal region: a dirt path where a destroyed wagon lay dead. Horse hooves stamped upon the earth once. Now, it was nowhere to be seen, though the marks of the horse's once-lived life here were etched evermore into the grand tapestry of all beings.

Their muscles creaked and moved. They felt as if rusted cogs began moving on their own within their bodies, ready to carry them where they needed to be.

"Oi!" A man peeked out from the path. Clad in bandit's garb: a dusty and torn sarouel, a sleeveless, collar-less vest, and a cloak that covered his face all the same. His hair was shorn on its right side, and a tattoo branded itself onto it. Not talismanic, like Raxri's. "Pray, to what goal do you have to gallivant upon the fields on such a night as this?"

Raxri bit their lip, stepped back. "None, good sers. Lost am I!"

Another man stepped in, wearing much of the same, though this one had bright blonde hair contrasting his burnt caramel skin. "Jugi... Do you not think it foolish to deal with that one? Witness again, it bears monksclothes!"

"A monk undead walks in death all the same," said the other bandit, stepping closer and brandishing his longknife. "Remember: the wizard's price is undead flesh and hearts. Those that walk in death are abominations; the Scarlet God bears no ill will to the destruction of one so divested of the light of the Sacred Fire's Wheel."

The blonde bandit frowned, staring at Raxri. "Aye, but use your eyes again. Do you not witness? This one bears not the mark of the dead. They look simply as a dame."

"What stygian business would a woman have in the Vault of Souls? Nay, this be demon mockery, I tell you. Let us lead it along the Whorl!" And the man charged.

Sighing, the blonde bandit raised their kinked-up longsword and charged as well.