The final instruction was the most challenging yet.
This meditation required him to confront his mind, battle it, and emerge victorious. For someone who had never overcome the relentless storm of thoughts, winning this fight would not be easy.
Avasyu had to battle against himself. He had to keep his eyes closed, calm his mind using hunger, and avoid any distractions.
He had to focus on his deepest regret—his most painful memory.
He needed to confront why he held himself responsible for it.
If he felt the urge to cry, he could let the tears flow, but in silence. He had to focus on himself crying. He had to focus on the weight of the tears in his eyes, on the memories that forced them out.
If his heart raced, he had to focus on its rhythm—on every beat that carried grief, pain, guilt, and regret. He needed to fully experience every emotion that shook his mind and kept him from peace.
This was a battle against his own thoughts. To emerge victorious, he had to face them fully, guided by the book.
To win, he had to relive those memories in vivid detail—the ones that shattered his heart. But this time, he wasn't himself. He had to become an outsider, merely observing his past.
An outsider listening to his story.
An outsider who was himself, watching his own history unfold.
He had to decide who was responsible, how it had shaped him, and what he would do next. He had to comfort himself as that outsider, assuring himself that the past belonged only in memories.
To fully embrace the present, the past had to remain in the memories.
To truly enjoy the future, the present had to be lived in joy.
To attain the peace, he must forgive himself.
As Avasyu began his meditation, he struggled to focus on his memories. Though his mind was no longer as scattered as before—thanks to his previous meditative practice—this meditation was far more challenging. Yet, Avasyu was determined. He wanted to free himself from the grip of his own mind.
He felt like crying as he remembered the brief moments of happiness—making new friends, narrowly escaping death through his dreams, and seeing the gratitude in the eyes of the villagers.
But that fleeting happiness had been stolen from him.
Tears welled up and spilled down his cheeks, each drop carrying the weight of his memories. He focused on them, observing as an outsider, trying to understand.
The grief in his heart—the ache that made it race, the sorrow that made it hurt—he relived it all.
To finally have something he had long desired, only to have it taken away—that pain had left his mind in turmoil. And now, he faced it.
He allowed himself to feel every emotion, to acknowledge them as his own. Yet, at the same time, he observed them from afar, as if watching the story of someone else.
He continued this meditation for nearly three months. During this time, he endured every pain, every suffering he had ever experienced. He felt it. He tried to understand it. And finally, he did. He observed it all.
He felt the suffering of his friends as they faced death. He had tried to save them, yet they were gone. But it wasn't his fault.
The blame belonged to those golden eyes.
He had done everything he could—tried to protect the villagers' children, tried to save everyone. He was not in the wrong.
The villagers were not at fault either.
The fault lay with the golden-eyed figure. The fault lay with the terrorists.
His gray eyes were not cursed.
He was not cursed.
He was just a teenager.
A teenager who was beginning to understand,
His tears existed to ease the sorrow in his eyes, just as the ache in his heart existed to release the weight of grief.
Just as tears help the eyes and pain helps the heart, he had been there to save his friends. But sometimes, tears do not wash away all sorrow. Sometimes, pain does not fully mend a broken heart. And just like that, he couldn't save them all.
Perhaps there was some fault in him, but he was not entirely to blame.
He could no longer carry the burden of their deaths.
He could not seek revenge now.
He could not change the past now.
His past belonged in his memories, not in his thoughts.
He had learned to keep his mind calm and in control. He had learned to stabilize his scattered thoughts.
He had felt the pain. He had understood it. And finally, he had accepted it.
He could no longer sink into despair. He could no longer blame himself. He could no longer blame anyone.
The past belonged in his memory.
Memories could fade, but his past was not one to be forgotten. He realized that to truly live in the present, he had to remember his past—not to dwell in sorrow, but to keep moving forward.
The past that once hurt him was now his reason to improve.
The burning regret of failing to save everyone would never disappear, nor was it meant to. It was a reminder—a flame that would push him forward so he could save others in the future.
The three months of intense meditation had been incredibly challenging.
At times, he forgot to brush his teeth. Other times, he neglected even the simplest tasks.
There were days when he skipped lunch, nights when he went without dinner. And sometimes, he didn't sleep at all.
But in the end, he found himself in the present.
He discovered the answers on his own.
He felt every emotion.
He accepted the past.
He faced his mind and won the battle.
He took control.
For the first time, he truly lived in the present.
He understood himself.
He accepted himself.
And at last—He forgave himself.
He opened his eyes in the same room, but he felt new.
The room had grown dark. He then ,walked to the window and peeked outside. The full moon illuminated the sky—it was a beautiful night. It felt as though he was seeing the sky for the very first time.
As the dinner time arrived, and the guard entered with the meal. But the guard saw, Avasyu had not touched his lunch,Again.
Without saying a word, the guard picked up the untouched lunch, placed the dinner on the table, and left a note,
"You haven't eaten in seven days. Please eat this meal."
For the past five days, the guard had been leaving similar notes, urging him not to skip his meals. But these messages had gone unnoticed by Avasyu.
At that moment, feeling an intense hunger, he could no longer resist. He ate the dinner, then cleaned the empty plate and placed it on the table.
Along with the plate, he left a note to the guard,
"Thank you for caring for me. I won't skip meals anymore."