Soen sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor, the ancient book resting on his lap. The echoes of Auron's presence still lingered in his mind, faint but unshakable. The pulse that had awakened in his chest was stronger now, like a steady thrum beneath his skin. He could feel it in every fiber of his being, the rhythm of the world aligning with his own heartbeat.
The book, with its tattered pages and runes that seemed to shimmer with a light of their own, was no ordinary relic. It held more than knowledge; it held a key—a key to his resonance, to the power that lay dormant within him.
Soen opened the book again, his fingers tracing the faded symbols, each page a step into the world of resonance. He had no clear understanding of it yet, no full grasp of the might that now stirred within him. But he would learn. He would practice. He would follow the path the book set before him, one page at a time.
The first page was simple, almost unassuming. But the words, written in an ancient script, seemed to pulse as if they were alive. Soen read aloud softly, allowing the words to sink into him.
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"To perceive the world, first still your own waters."
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Soen closed his eyes, the words reverberating in his mind. He had already begun to feel his own resonance, but it was still chaotic, unrefined. It was like a river rushing, unbridled and full of force. The first step was clear—he had to calm the waters within himself.
Taking a deep breath, Soen focused. He visualized his mind as a calm lake, its surface perfectly still. His heartbeat slowed, matching the rhythm he sought to establish. The noise of the world faded, and he was left with only his own presence, a deep stillness that filled the space around him. It was not peace, not yet, but the beginning of it.
His body relaxed, his senses sharpening. The resonance within him did not fade; instead, it grew stronger, more distinct. It was as if his very essence was beginning to hum in harmony with the universe.
The next page was more complex. Symbols of light and shadow intertwined, forming intricate patterns that seemed to shift and change before his eyes. Soen could feel something new—something deeper—whispering from the page.
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"Your summit is not the height of your pride, but the place you stop lying to yourself."
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Soen exhaled slowly, the words sinking into the core of his being. He had spent so long hiding from his true self, from his fears and weaknesses. He had forged a path of survival, but it had always been driven by a refusal to confront the truth. To stop lying to himself meant to face everything he had hidden away.
He set the book down for a moment, his eyes unfocused as he thought. He didn't need to be a king, a hero, or anything else. He only needed to be himself—raw, unfiltered, and honest.
The resonance within him shifted. It no longer felt like something foreign or forced; it became a part of him, woven into his being. It was no longer about what he could achieve, but about what he could accept within himself.
Soen picked up the book again, turning to the next page. The runes glowed faintly in the dim light, their meaning elusive yet compelling. The message was clear in its simplicity.
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"Snow may fall once and vanish. But the glacier rules by staying."
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The words hung in the air like a silent challenge. Snow may be beautiful, delicate, and fleeting, but it was the glacier—the slow, relentless force—that shaped the world. The resonance within him was not something that would come and go with the wind; it was a steady, unwavering force, a power that would remain if he chose to nurture it.
Soen stood up, feeling the weight of the words settle on his shoulders. The resonance was not something he could simply harness in a single moment. It was something that would grow, evolve, and shape itself over time. He had to remain steadfast, like the glacier, and allow it to build within him, slowly but surely.
He could feel the hum in his chest again, a deep vibration that echoed through his entire being. It was not loud or overpowering, but it was constant, a reminder that the power of resonance was always there, waiting to be shaped by his will.
The final page of the book was blank. Soen stared at it for a long time, unsure of what it meant. He had expected more words, more instructions. But there was nothing. Only the empty space staring back at him.
And then it hit him. The final lesson was not something that could be taught—it was something he had to discover for himself. Resonance was not a path that could be laid out for him; it was a journey he had to walk on his own.
The book had given him the foundation, the understanding, but the true power of resonance came from within. It was not something that could be understood through words or teachings—it was something that could only be experienced.
Soen closed the book, feeling a sense of calm wash over him. The resonance within him was no longer just an echo—it was a living, breathing force, waiting to be fully realized. And now, with each step he took, he would grow stronger, more attuned to the rhythm of the world.
The path ahead was uncertain, but for the first time, Soen felt ready. Ready to resonate. Ready to embrace the legacy that had been passed down to him.
And as he stepped forward, the mountain around him seemed to hum in response, the air vibrating with the resonance of his very being.
The line repeated in Soen's head like a prayer etched into the marrow of his bones:
"Snow may fall once and vanish. But the glacier rules by staying."
He stood still, the book closed against his chest. That single line reverberated louder than all the others—it wasn't about beauty, power, or brilliance. It was about persistence. Not the kind fueled by desperation, but the kind born from resolve. That kind of resonance didn't flare like lightning; it flowed like ice, slow and relentless, carving even mountains with its steady crawl.
Soen found himself walking, instinctively. He left the mountain cave, stepping into the cold morning where the snow had just begun to fall. The flakes danced lightly through the wind, melting the moment they touched his skin. Fleeting. Temporary.
"Endurance," he whispered, eyes lifting to the distant ridges where old ice slept unmoving, untouched by time.
He knew now what the book had meant. The snow was beauty without foundation. But the glacier—it never rushed. It never crumbled for applause. It simply stayed. That was the kind of strength he needed.
Inside the cave again, Soen stripped off his tunic, exposing his skin to the bite of the wind. The body, the vessel of resonance, was not a tool to be used recklessly. It had to be disciplined. Trained. Protected.
Health was harmony.
Soen began his first real practice—not of power, but of preparation.
Push-ups against stone.
Breath control until his lungs burned.
Posture, stillness, motion in perfect cadence with his heartbeat.
This wasn't a display. This was devotion.
The resonance he felt was no longer an echo, no longer a mystery. It had weight now, resistance, and rules. Every repetition was a reminder: You do not grow in storms. You grow in patience. You grow in discipline.
His muscles strained, but he didn't stop. Sweat mixed with the melting snowflakes on his skin. Pain throbbed in his limbs, but he welcomed it. The body remembered pain. It taught respect for boundaries, and the will to exceed them.
After hours, when his body finally gave out and he collapsed on the stone floor, Soen smiled faintly. Not from pride—but from understanding.
This was the practice of the glacier.
Not to burst through limits in a single moment, but to erode the impossible, one heartbeat at a time.
He lay there, staring at the cave ceiling, and let the hum of resonance crawl through his chest again. It was stronger now. Not louder—deeper.
__
When the ache in his body dulled to a steady hum, Soen rose from the pedestal chamber and dressed again. The chill remained sharp in the air, but it no longer bit. It sharpened him.
He stepped back through the ancient corridor of the ruins. The stone didn't resist his presence. The doors opened with a low grind, no longer closed to him—but not wide either. Just enough. As if the mountain itself acknowledged his right to return, but only if he respected it.
Outside, snow whipped across the jagged summit paths. But this high up, life still moved—hidden, cautious, but alive. He'd seen the hares, the small mountain birds, the tracks of something larger farther down the slope. Enough to live on.
He spent the next days in repetition.
Mornings in silence, reading from the book page by page, absorbing not just words but the rhythm behind them. The phrases were simple but weighty—each one felt like it had been carved into the bones of the world. "Snow may fall once and vanish, but the glacier rules by staying." It wasn't metaphor. It was instruction.
It meant enduring through discomfort. It meant fasting some days, walking until his legs failed, then walking more the next. It meant stretching scarred limbs to regain movement, breathing cold air not as punishment but fuel.
He balanced his training with the hunt. Spears carved from ruin scrap and stone tips hardened by fire. He tracked the hares across the ridges, hunted only what he needed, learned to store and dry the meat with old cloth, stone, and ember heat. No waste. No excess.
When storms rolled in, he returned to the ruin—his body sore, his lungs scraped raw by thin air—but the pedestal room welcomed him. Its silence helped him rebuild.
He would rest there. Sleep beside the worn pages and carved walls. Wake before dawn, fingers stiff, joints aching—and begin again.
This was his training now.
Not to become stronger.
But to remain.