Far away, in an age long forgotten by the common folk, the kingdom of Drulkhang flourished under banners of gold and red. Its armies were feared, its palaces envied, and its ruler—though stern—was beloved. Among the soldiers, none stood taller in honor than Chimar Chen, the king's most loyal warrior. She rode into battle astride a midnight horse, wielding a spear sharper than the sharpest blade known to man. Chen was the embodiment of justice—unyielding, pure, and unwavering in her duty. But loyalty is a fragile thing when weighed against the fate of the innocent. When the king, clouded by pride and greed, ordered the conquest of peaceful lands, Chen's heart trembled. She had sworn her sword to protect Drulkhang, but she could not watch her homeland rot from within. To save her people, she betrayed the king she loved like a father. It was not an easy betrayal. The battle that followed shook the kingdom's very foundations. Chen fought not for glory, but for the lives of farmers, mothers, and children who would never know her name. Steel clashed, arrows screamed, and the rivers ran red. And in that chaos, Chimar Chen found herself at the edge of death, a spear buried deep in her side. The world dimmed. The roar of war became a distant hum. Shadows pulled at her spirit. But she refused. She would not die. Not while her kingdom was under threat. Not while the screams of the innocent still echoed in her ears. She wrestled death itself, clawing her way back from the abyss. In that moment, she transcended mortality, becoming a Sungma—a guardian spirit whose oath outlived her flesh. When the sun rose, the battle was won, but Chimar Chen's mortal body lay still. The people wept, yet they also celebrated, for their savior's spirit was said to walk among them still, watching, protecting.
To honor her, the monks of the Dagger Monastery crafted the Torma of Chen—a sacred offering, shaped in her likeness, carved and molded not for worship, but for remembrance. Every detail told her story: the tilt of her spear, the flow of her hair in the wind, the expression of defiance against the impossible.
And so it became tradition. Every three years, the monastery's students compete to craft their own Torma of Chen. The rules are cruel, the materials scarce. Some are given wheat and oil. Others, oil and water. Some, only wheat and water. One minute is all they have to create the finest Torma, the one worthy to stand in the monastery's great frame until the next trial.