The ground beneath him pulsed as if responding to his resolve. A faint tremor spread through the soil, the energy coursing through his veins beginning to stir. The figure in the mist remained still, observing him with those glowing eyes that seemed to pierce through his very soul.
For a moment, the world was silent. Then, without warning, the figure struck again.
This time, he was ready.
He dodged with more fluidity, his body moving on instinct rather than thought. His muscles remembered something his mind had long forgotten. As the figure's attack slashed through the space where he had stood, he pivoted, countering with a strike of his own.
His palm met the figure's chest—a burst of energy surged outward, sending ripples through the mist. The air trembled, and for a split second, he saw something beyond the shrouded form—something familiar, yet distant.
A name almost surfaced on his tongue, but before he could grasp it, the figure retaliated with a blast of force. The impact sent him staggering, but this time, he refused to fall.
Panting, he steadied himself, clenching his fists. His mind raced, but something inside whispered to him—this was more than just a test. This was a battle for his very identity.
The figure lowered its hood slightly, revealing a glimpse of what lay beneath—an ancient mask, etched with forgotten symbols. Its voice echoed in the mist, carrying a weight of prophecy.
"You walk the path of the lost, but your fate has not been sealed. Will you embrace what was stolen, or will you remain a shadow of your former self?"
The question struck deep. He didn't have the answers yet, but he knew one thing—he was done running from the unknown.
He took a step forward, ready to reclaim what was his.