The Trial of Wrath Begins!

A cold wind sweeps through the decayed remains of the once-mighty kingdom. The ruins of Lanka stretch endlessly, illuminated only by eerie, flickering flames that hover like spirits clinging to the past. Arya, Vaishnavi, and Sachin stand before an enormous, crumbling palace, its gates broken but still exuding an undeniable sense of power.

Vaishnavi (whispering, gripping her staff tightly): "This place... it feels alive. As if something here refuses to die."

Sachin (eyeing the distant throne, his fingers twitching over his sword hilt): "Or someone."

A deep, guttural growl echoes through the ruins. From the shadows, Rakshasas emerge—twisted demons with dark, battle-worn skin, adorned in shattered armor. Their glowing eyes fixate on Arya, unblinking, their expressions a mixture of reverence and challenge.

Rakshasa Captain (voice rough like grinding stones): "The unworthy do not tread here. Turn back... or be consumed by Lanka's wrath."

Arya (stepping forward, undeterred, eyes glowing with determination): "I did not come here seeking permission. I came to claim the power of Wrath."

A tense silence follows. The Rakshasas do not move—until a sudden, resounding roar shakes the very ground beneath them. The palace doors, ancient yet untouched by time, creak open with a force beyond mortal strength. The Rakshasas instantly kneel, their foreheads pressed against the scorched earth.

Rakshasa Captain (grinning darkly): "Then step forward, Mortal King. Face the remnants of Lanka's past."

A massive hall, its pillars shattered yet defiant against time. Faint embers float in the air like dying stars. At the center stands a throne, cracked yet unbowed, where the remains of Ravana sit. His skeletal form, adorned in rusted golden armor, is frozen in time—yet his empty eye sockets suddenly flicker with an eerie blue flame.

Vaishnavi (shuddering, clutching Arya's arm): "It's him... the Demon King."

Sachin (muttering, gripping his sword tightly): "Even in death... he commands fear."

Ravana's Remains (voice echoing like a storm trapped in a tomb): "Who dares stand before the Throne of Wrath?"

A suffocating force presses down on the air, making even the Rakshasas tremble. But Arya does not falter—he takes another step forward, eyes locked onto the hollow gaze of Lanka's fallen ruler.

Arya (firmly, unwavering): "I am Arya, the one who seeks the power of Wrath. If Lanka still has strength left to give, I will claim it."

A deep, chilling laughter shakes the throne room. The blue flames in Ravana's eyes burn brighter, and the skeletal figure shifts ever so slightly, his bony fingers tightening over the armrests of his throne.

Ravana's Remains (amused, yet darkly intrigued): "Wrath is not something to wield, Mortal... it is something that consumes. Step forward, if you dare. Prove that your fury is greater than mine."

A surge of dark energy erupts from the throne, the air warping with ancient power. The Trial of Wrath has begun...

The air is heavy, and suffocating, as if Lanka itself refuses to let go of its past. The ruined hall is silent, save for the distant crackling of ghostly embers drifting in the air. Arya steps forward, his boots echoing against the broken stone floor, his gaze locked onto the skeletal remains of Ravana seated upon the decayed throne.

Suddenly, the temperature drops—a gust of unnatural wind howls through the ruins. The flickering blue flames in Ravana's hollow eye sockets ignite fully, pulsing like dying stars. A deep, ancient voice echoes through the chamber, resonating with undeniable authority.

Ravana's Lingering Will (voice like rolling thunder, reverberating through the walls):

"Who dares disturb the King of Lanka?"

A pulse of dark energy ripples outward from the throne, causing the ground to tremble. The Rakshasas kneeling in the hall bow even lower, their foreheads pressed into the dust, their forms trembling before the presence of their long-dead king.

Vaishnavi (whispering, clutching Arya's arm in alarm): "He's… still alive?"

Sachin (gritting his teeth, gripping his sword): "No… this is something worse."

Arya stands his ground, unwavering. His golden eyes blaze, unshaken by the overwhelming force pressing down on him.

Arya (firmly, voice steady): "I am Arya. I have come to claim the Power of Wrath and learn its true purpose."

For a moment, there is silence. Then—laughter. Deep, chilling, and filled with something that feels like both amusement and menace. The ruined palace itself shakes as if Lanka remembers the days of its fallen king.

Ravana's Lingering Will (mocking, yet intrigued):

"Wrath? You come here to claim Wrath, mortal? Foolish."

The throne creaks, bones shifting as the remnants of Ravana's form stirs. The embers in his ribcage burn brighter, and his skeletal hand clenches the armrest as if testing its strength.

"Wrath is not something you wield. It is something that consumes. It is the fire that devours all—friend, foe, and self alike. Those who seek it… are already lost."

A pulse of raw killing intent explodes from the throne, slamming into Arya like a tidal wave. Vaishnavi stumbles back, gasping for breath. Sachin drops to one knee, gritting his teeth as the overwhelming pressure bears down on them.

But Arya does not falter.

Arya (his voice unwavering, cutting through the storm of rage): "Then I will prove you wrong. If Wrath is destruction, I will make it my weapon. If it is fire, I will become the one who controls the flames!"

Ravana's eyes blaze with renewed intensity, and the hall erupts in a maelstrom of dark fire. The Rakshasas scatter, howling in terror. The throne itself shatters, and from the wreckage, a spectral form of Ravana rises—his past self, a towering phantom wreathed in hellfire, his ten heads flickering in and out of existence like echoes of his former glory.

Ravana's Phantom (grinning, voice filled with chaotic mirth and challenge):

"Then come, mortal king! Show me if you are worthy! Prove that your Wrath is greater than mine!"