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‎The morning sun rose with a deepshine glow, spilling fire across the academy’s marble walls, painting shadows that looked sharper than blades.

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‎Students gathered in the courtyard, buzzing about rankings and results—yet all eyes drifted to one figure.

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‎Chakar.

‎The outsider. The boy with white hair that caught the sun like frost.

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‎Whispers spread like wildfire:

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‎Nazim (narrowing eyes): “This guy doesn’t seem like an ordinary Seyrah… surely he’s strong.”

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‎Group of girls (blushing, whispering, overlapping): “He’s so handsomeeee…” “Look at his hair!” “Those eyes…”

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‎Even Songadh and Zarnaz weren’t immune.

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‎Songadh (grinning): “Zarnaz, look at him… handsome, and that hair? White as snow.”

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‎Zarnaz (biting her lip, trying to sound calm): “Well… he is attractive.”

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‎Nearby, Mahal shook his head.

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‎Mahal (half-joking): “I think Gull Banok might be the only girl here who doesn’t have a crush on him.”

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‎Gull Bahar (smirking): “Exactly. I’ve never seen her fall for anyone.”

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‎Songadh rolled her eyes dramatically.

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‎Songadh (teasing): “Forget her—just look at him. Too handsome.”

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‎The moment she said it, every girl around turned and glared at her with mock-deadly expressions, like knives behind their eyes.

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‎Songadh (sweating, forcing a laugh): “…Uh, I mean, we all think he’s handsome, right? Hehehe.”

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‎Nazraan:these girls are just overacting(neutral emo face)

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‎Gulsher:totally agreed(silly jealous face

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‎Cut to a higher slope Salal sat on an old pine, legs dangling over the edge, breath shallow. The ranking board’s numbers burned through his mind: #43. It felt like a brand.

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‎Salal (voice breaking, to the wind): “Why… why always me?”

‎His knuckles were white from punching his palm until the sting replaced the ache. Tears threatened like an incoming tide and he held them back until his chest felt full of broken stones.

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‎Salal (bitter whisper): Everyone’s moving forward and I’m… stuck. I trained. I fought. Where’s my number?

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‎From the shadows, a figure sprang down from a tree behind Salal, landing silently yet with intent. His presence was calm, almost unnerving.

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‎Salal (spinning around, tense): Who… who are you?

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‎Azaar (smirking slightly): The name’s Azaar Bezjo.

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‎Salal (struggling, trying to shove him away): What do you want from me, huh?

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‎Azaar (leaning closer, voice low): Strength. You want it, don’t you?

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‎Salal (voice cracking, defeated): I’m a loser… I don’t need it anymore. I already lost.

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‎Azaar (eyes locking with his, intense): Just think… for once. If you listen to me, it could change everything. Your life… forever.

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‎Salal froze. Surprise, fear, and something darker flickered across his face.

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‎—Cut to the courtyard—

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‎Chakar stood trapped between a group of eager girls, their voices echoing around him.

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‎Girls (in unison, panicked): We’re gonna die if he doesn’t marry us!

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‎Without hesitation, Chakar leapt, flipping through the air, landing effortlessly on the branch of a nearby tree. The girls shrieked in unison below, their chaos contrasting his calm escape.

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‎The girls’ eyes widened as Chakar perched on the branch, casually surveying the chaos below.

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‎Girls (shouting, frantic): He’s running! Catch him!

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‎They lunged forward, stumbling over each other, their movements clumsy yet desperate. Chakar smirked, gripping the branch, then pushed off, flipping through the air with fluid precision.

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‎Branches snapped under his weight as he landed on the next tree, the girls chasing below like a storm of panic.

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‎Girls (screaming in unison, flailing arms): Don’t let him get away!

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‎Chakar’s white hair glinted in the sunlight as he leapt from tree to tree, a blur of movement. Their frantic shouts echoed through the courtyard, but he was already disappearing toward the edge of the academy grounds, calm and untouchable.

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‎Scene shifts to Salal and Azaar, hidden among jagged mountain cliffs. The wind howls between the peaks, carrying a biting chill that gnaws at their bones. Shadows stretch long over rocky ledges, hiding them from any prying eyes.

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‎Salal’s shoulders slump, his head hanging low, still reeling from his defeat. Azaar moves silently over the uneven rocks, circling him like a predator stalking prey, boots crunching against loose stone.

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‎Azaar (soft, coaxing, voice carried by the wind): Look at you… so broken. So ready to give up. But what if I told you… that weakness isn’t the end?

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‎Salal glances up, suspicion flickering in his eyes, wind whipping his hair around his face.

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‎Salal (hesitant, voice low, teeth chattering): I… I told you, I’m done. I lost… I don’t want this anymore.

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‎Azaar (smiling, tilting his head, eyes glinting against the snowy peaks): Done? No. Not done. You’re just standing at the edge. The edge of everything you could become…

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‎He steps closer, careful on the narrow ledge, lowering his voice to a whisper that carries in the crisp mountain air, almost intimate.

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‎Azaar: There’s something… something the masters don’t want you to touch. The most powerful Zorgor ever—locked in the Grand Temple atop this range. Think of it, Salal. Just imagine what it could do for you. Strength. Power. A chance to rise above the rest…

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‎Salal’s eyes widen. A flicker of longing—and a dangerous hunger—crosses his face.

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‎Salal (almost a whisper, teeth grinding): The Grand Temple…?

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‎Azaar (nodding, eyes sharp as knives, wind tugging at his cloak): Yes. But no one else can take it. You have to be the one. No one else deserves it… except you.

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‎Salal’s hands clench, knuckles white against the jagged stone, jaw tightening. A mix of fear and desire wars within him. Azaar leans closer, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder, the cold of the mountains nothing compared to the chill in his intent.

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‎Azaar: One choice, Salal. Follow me… and claim what no one else can. Or stay weak, forgotten, a loser like you always feared.

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‎Salal swallows hard. His heart pounds against his ribs. The temptation is unbearable, the mountains around them echoing with the silent weight of destiny.

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‎He looks down over the abyss of the cliffs, then slowly back up at Azaar, a spark of resolve—or is it corruption?—lighting his eyes.

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‎Salal (voice trembling, almost defiant): …I’ll do it.

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‎Azaar’s grin widens, sharp and dark.

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‎Azaar: Good. Follow me. The Grand Temple waits… and with it, your destiny.

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‎The wind whips higher as they move along narrow mountain ledges, shadows clinging to the rocks like a living thing. Every step echoes danger, every movement a test of balance and nerve. The mountains themselves seem to watch, the path to the Grand Temple treacherous, steep, and forbidden.

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