The silver road stretched before Krish, woven from the rhythm of moments themselves. Each step he took sent ripples across its surface, and every ripple unveiled fragments of time—scenes of creation, destruction, and rebirth, layered one atop another like reflections in shattered glass.
At first, the visions were distant. He saw mountains rise and crumble, rivers carve valleys, stars ignite only to collapse into silence. But as he walked further, the visions began to close in, until he was walking through them, surrounded by worlds that lived and died in the blink of an eye.
The pressure was immense.
The weight of centuries pressed down on his shoulders, trying to grind him into dust. A lesser cultivator would have drowned in the endless tide of ages, but Krish's wings pulsed steadily, aligning his heartbeat with the rhythm of the silver road.
Then the path split.
Before him appeared three silver bridges, each stretching into different horizons. The first glowed with the warmth of dawn, filled with echoes of what was. The second blazed with the raw fury of what could be. The third shimmered faintly, difficult to grasp, as though it represented what is.
A voice stirred in the distance—the whisper of Time itself.
"Choose, traveler. The past, the future, or the present. Only one may you walk."
Krish's eyes narrowed. His instincts told him it was no simple trial. Each road