Now Rudra stood on a battlefield.
His siblings were dead. Their bodies crumpled beside him.
Iris's eyes—cold and gone. Thor's hand outstretched, never reaching.
Blood.
Smoke.
And again—he couldn't move.
"What did you think?" the voice whispered. "That you could save them?"
"That standing in front of a wooden dummy for a few years made you more than a failure?"
"You're nothing but a trickster—still playing warrior in a world made for monsters."
Rudra fell to his knees.
"No… no, I won't let this be real…"
"You wanted to be strong?" the voice chuckled. "Here it is. Your truth. You couldn't save them then. You won't save them now."
His fingers dug into the dirt.
Images changed again.
"No—NO!" Rudra howled.
But then—another voice.
One colder. Inhuman.
"You're no Dragonheart. You're not even a flame. You're just ash pretending to burn."
The void twisted. Chains pulled tighter.
His pride shattered like glass, and with it, the world around him.
No light.
No wind.
