Victory and The Power of Wrath!

[INT. SURREAL WATERSCAPE – UNKNOWN REALM]

Arya blinks—and the world shifts.

He is no longer in the ruined throne room. The sky above him is burning, a deep crimson bleeding across the heavens. Mountains of corpses stretch into the horizon, their bodies twisted in eternal agony. The ground beneath his feet is soaked in blood, warm and pulsing as if the earth itself is still alive. The scent of iron and death fills his lungs.

A war drum beats in the distance—BOOM. BOOM. BOOM—a sound that shakes the battlefield itself. Shadows stir among the dead. Figures rise from the corpses, their hollow eyes glowing with hatred.

A voice echoes through the war-torn sky, deep and powerful, reverberating like a god passing judgment.

Ravana's Phantom (omniscient, booming):

"Welcome, Arya. This is Wrath—the battlefield of eternity."

The figures of the fallen warriors turn towards him, their movements are jerky and unnatural, like puppets pulled by unseen strings. Some wear armor from battles Arya fought. Others bear wounds that he inflicted.

Then—he sees their faces.

The warlords he has slain.

The soldiers he cut down in battle.

Even those he had to kill for the sake of his cause.

Their eyes burn with fury. They blame him. They curse him. They hate him.

Fallen Warrior (snarling, voice filled with bitterness):

"You took my life, Arya. Do you even remember my name?"

Another Warrior (growling, blade raised):

"You called it justice. You called it war. But was it truly right?"

A thousand voices rise in unrelenting fury, their wrath crashing into Arya like a tidal wave. The war drum beats faster—BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. The air thickens with pure, suffocating rage. Arya feels it digging into his soul, trying to unravel his mind, to consume him whole.

His fists clench. His breath is ragged.

This… is the true Wrath. Not just anger, not just vengeance—but an endless, uncontrollable inferno that feeds on pain and hatred.

Ravana's Phantom (mocking, laughing coldly):

"Feel it, Arya! This is the truth of Wrath! Do you embrace it, or will it devour you?"

A wave of bloodied warriors charge at him, their weapons gleaming under the crimson sky. The ground trembles beneath their fury.

For a brief moment, Arya feels it—the urge to let go. To become the storm. To stop thinking, stop feeling, and simply destroy. The sheer power tempts him, the promise of unstoppable strength whispering in his mind.

*"Give in," the battlefield seems to chant. "Let your rage take control."

But then—

A memory. A voice. Vaishnavi's voice. Soft but firm.

Vaishnavi's Voice (echoing in his mind):

"Arya… whatever happens, don't lose yourself."

A sudden clarity strikes Arya like lightning. His golden eyes flare.

Arya (whispering, voice steady):

"No."

The battlefield shudders. The charging warriors pause—as if the world itself was caught off guard.

Arya (louder now, voice unwavering):

"I refuse to be controlled by Wrath."

He lifts his hand, and a massive wave of blood and fire halts midair, frozen in time by his will. The crimson sky cracks—a shattering of an illusion. The battlefield shakes as Arya takes control.

Arya (fierce, powerful):

"Wrath is not my master. I am Wrath's master!"

The flames twist around him, no longer wild but tamed—no longer mindless rage, but unyielding resolve. The warriors crumble to dust, their wrath dispelled. The sky clears, and the battlefield begins to fade.

A booming laugh echoes once more—not of mockery, but of approval.

Ravana's Phantom (proud, triumphant):

"Well done, Arya. You did not let Wrath consume you—you became its king."

The trial ends.

[INT. THE ASHEN THRONE ROOM – LANKA'S RUINS]

A fiery gust erupts as the battlefield dissolves, and Arya finds himself standing back inside the ruined throne room of Lanka. The skeletal remains of Ravana crumble into dust—but from the ashes, a new figure rises.

The air vibrates with unmatched fury as Ravana's Phantom emerges, no longer a lifeless remnant but the proud warrior-king in his prime. His ten arms stretch wide, each hand gripping a different Tenfold Blade, forged from the essence of Wrath itself. The very ground shatters beneath his presence.

Ravana's Phantom (booming, fierce):

"You have tamed Wrath, Arya… but now, you must prove yourself against it."

A ring of black flames ignites around them, sealing them in combat. The air trembles with battlelust as Ravana lunges forward, his ten blades striking simultaneously like a storm of carnage.

Arya barely manages to dodge the first strike, his body twisting midair as one of Ravana's blades carves through the stone where he stood a second ago. Sparks erupt as two more swords clash against Arya's blade, sending a shockwave through the chamber.

Ravana's attacks are relentless—each of his swords embodies a different form of Wrath: Furious Flames, Thunderous Rage, Bloodthirsty Hunger, and more. The clash of weapons illuminates the room, each strike sending embers flying like dying stars.

Arya (gritted teeth, eyes blazing):

"Tch… Ten swords? That's just unfair."

Ravana's Phantom (smirking, pressing the attack):

"Then prove your strength by overcoming unfairness!"

Arya counters fiercely, channeling the power of Wrath into blazing strikes, but Ravana is a tempest of destruction. His tenfold blades move in perfect synchronization, leaving Arya with no openings.

One blade infused with Hellfire swings down—Arya blocks, but the sheer force drives him to his knees. Another blade, pulsating with pure fury, slashes toward his chest—Arya barely manages to dodge, the air itself sizzling from its heat.

Arya (panting, realization dawning):

("This isn't just a test of strength… It's a test of control.")

Ravana's Phantom (grinning, eyes burning):

"You wield Wrath like a blade, but Wrath is more than a weapon—it is the unyielding will to rise above defeat!"

Ravana swings all ten swords at once—a cataclysmic attack meant to end the battle. Arya's golden eyes blaze, his mind sharpening beyond pure rage. He exhales… and for the first time, he doesn't resist Wrath—he flows with it.

Time slows.

Arya's movements become flawless, his instincts surpassing thought. He sidesteps, ducks, parries—every blade barely grazing him as he dances between destruction.

Then—he strikes. His blade, infused with controlled Wrath, pierces through Ravana's chest. The impact shakes the very foundations of Lanka. The phantom staggers, his form flickering.

Arya (determined, resolute):

"I don't need to destroy everything to be strong. Wrath serves me—not the other way around!"

With one final swing, Arya cleaves through Ravana's form, shattering the phantom warrior in a burst of flames. The black firestorm dissipates, and silence falls upon the ruined throne room.

Ravana's Phantom, now fading, gives Arya a final, proud smile.

Ravana's Phantom (softly, approvingly):

"You have surpassed fury… and reached resolve."

A burning sigil appears on Arya's arm—the Mark of Wrath, proof that he has conquered the trial.

As the phantom fades, Arya exhales, gripping his blade. His power has evolved, but at what cost? He glances at Vaishnavi and Sachin, who watched in awe—and perhaps, a little fear.