The sun had long since lost meaning inside the heart of the volcano.
Light didn't break here—fire did.
A red haze shimmered through the forge as molten rivers flowed like the blood of the earth, cascading with slow fury around black stone cliffs and the cracked altar Rudra had carved out for himself.
His body bore the signs of effort—skin marred with faint, half-healed scars, soot staining his arms, his clothes reduced to ash-singed wraps.
Ten full rotations.
That was how far he had come.
He could now perform the Dance of Flames ten times before collapsing from sheer exhaustion.
The movements had become a language between him and the fire: a conversation of breath, pain, and willpower.
He had become part of the volcano's rhythm.
But he wasn't done.
Not even close.
Now that he had gotten the breathing and the movements down, he needed to combine them, harmonize them before he could start with the Ki path.
