Arav stood before the old shrine at the edge of the village. Cracked stone steps led to a forgotten sanctum of Agni—the ancient fire god. His father used to pray here, whispering mantras to the eternal flame. Now it was overgrown, abandoned. But inside, something stirred.
He sat cross-legged and closed his eyes.
"You must chant," the ring spirit's voice echoed inside him. "Speak the syllables. Feel them, don't force them."
He inhaled deeply. The ring grew warm. He whispered the first mantra he remembered from his father:
"Om Vahnaya Namah…"
Nothing.
He tried again. "Om Vahnaya Namah…"
And then—crack.
A single spark flew from the ring onto his palm.
It didn't burn.
It danced.
It grew.
It became a tiny flame, swirling between his fingers like a creature learning to breathe.
Arav gasped, and the fire responded.
The shrine lit up in a heartbeat, the ancient carvings glowing as if awakened from centuries of sleep. Symbols pulsed on the walls, and one etched figure—a man holding a ring above his head—gleamed especially bright.
"First step," the spirit whispered. "You've learned Fire Root. Now comes balance... or ruin."