Ashoka should have felt joy and pride at what he had accomplished. After all, he had crossed the gates of Nirvana, something countless generations of monks, ascetics, and sages had sought in vain on Earth. However, what emerged in his chest was not jubilation, but shame and guilt.

  Because the process had been more dangerous than he had anticipated. He had literally died for a few moments, reducing Joel's body to little more than bones and skin. For weeks, he had flirted with the abyss, not knowing if he would return. He had no way of having foreseen that, after the first few days, his mind would lose consciousness and the meditation would continue automatically, like a bonfire that continues to burn even when the wood is gone.

  If he had failed in that final moment… Joel would have died with him. The thought pierced him like a knife, because he had never considered the magnitude of the risk he imposed on his host. And now, looking at his own rejuvenated hands, he felt that this miraculous regeneration was not enough to mitigate his recklessness.

  The irony of it all was painful. He had achieved liberation, a state in which earthly emotions should dissolve like smoke in the wind. But the reality was different: his teachings were wrong, or at least incomplete. Because now he felt everything with multiplied force. Shame was not a distant memory, but a burning shackle on his chest. Guilt was not a passing thought, but an unbearable weight. And at the same time, a new clarity amplified those emotions, as if Nirvana had given him not absolute calm, but the ability to experience everything in its purest and most brutal form.

  Ashoka closed his eyes, trying to stem the whirlwind. But the more he tried to empty himself, the more evident the contradiction of his new state became: he had transcended humanity… only to once again feel more human than ever.

  He knew he must find a way to redeem himself, or guilt would eventually break his sanity. He had put Joel's life at risk, and although the boy had received a miraculous regeneration as an indirect reward, that was not enough.

  The monk meditated in silence, searching through Joel's memories, delving into the fragments of his life, the ambitions and desires that had marked his short existence. He delved into those memories like someone searching through a lost archive, trying to find something, anything, he could offer as compensation.

  He spent a long time in this introspection, until finally two ideas emerged in his mind.

  The first took shape when Ashoka bent down to the tree that held him and carefully removed a piece of bark. The piece of wood trembled between his fingers, and under the touch of his will, it began to warp and transform, taking on the appearance of a medallion with a raised image of an open eye.

  Then, with a solemn gesture, he tore a fragment of his worn robe and braided it into an improvised rope. With it, he tied the medallion and hung it around his own neck.

  The object shone with supernatural intensity, projecting a golden glow that illuminated the gloom of the forest. Almost instantly, beads of sweat broke out on Ashoka's forehead; his breathing became irregular and labored, as if he were performing something strenuous. It was evident that the act was consuming more than he could give in his new state.

  The glow finally faded after a few minutes, and the forest returned to calm. The medallion, however, remained warm, charged with a subtle spiritual energy, vibrating like a miniature heart.

  Ashoka leaned against the trunk, panting, his face pale. It seemed as if his body would collapse at any moment. Only after several minutes of rest did he regain some semblance of normality, although his hands continued to tremble.

  The second thing he did, still with his third eye open, was to raise his gaze to the sky and emit an invisible energy pulse, a silent signal that spread beyond the horizon.

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  Several minutes passed before the answer came. A colossal shadow covered the treetops, and one of the enormous winged beasts, which had recently witnessed his ascent, descended from above, folding its vast wings until it landed with a creak on the very branch where Ashoka was meditating.

  The bird was similar to an eagle, but as tall as three adults standing on top of each other. Its blue eyes reflected a primitive and ferocious intelligence, and each breath seemed to move the air like a gale.

  Ashoka's third eye throbbed violently, and as it did so, a crimson tear fell. The drop ran down his cheek and into his palm, but before it touched his skin, it crystallized into a deep red gem, small and brilliant, like a freshly cut ruby.

  Ashoka raised his hand and silently offered it to the bird. The winged colossus bowed, emitting a deep screech, excited by the gift. And as if understanding what the man was seeking, he plunged his beak into its plumage and carefully extracted one of its innermost feathers, still young and bathed in vitality.

  The exchange was simple but solemn. Then the bird took the gem in its beak, crushed it, and immediately consumed it, before spreading its wings again and taking flight, disappearing into the sky with a roar that shook the forest.

  Ashoka gazed at the feather now resting in his hand. Its hollow root oozed fresh blood, and he delicately placed it in Joel's bag.

  Ashoka took a deep breath and, with a final effort of will, proceeded to close his third eye. The luminous symbol slowly faded, leaving no wound or scar, as if it had never existed. Silence returned to the branch, and for the first time in days, he felt it was time to give back control.

  Before leaving, he formed a clear and profound message in his mind, addressed to Joel. In it, he recounted what had happened, the risk he had put him at, and the consequences of his daring. And, above all, he conveyed his most sincere apologies: not for having reached Nirvana, but for having stolen his time and put his life in danger.

  Unlike Hoshinobu, Ashoka understood that this was not a final goodbye. His recent ascension to a higher spiritual plane meant that he no longer needed a borrowed body to exist. He only required a physical anchor to hold him firm against the spiritual currents of this world; that role would be fulfilled by the medallion he had forged from the tree bark.

  However, he was aware of his own limitations. He was still too new and ignorant of this world and its rules, especially with the presence of magic and unknown forces that did not belong to the path he had followed in life. Taking risks without knowledge was reckless, and the last thing he wanted was to repeat mistakes.

  With that conviction, Ashoka once again settled into a meditative position. This time he did so simply to fall asleep, surrendering to rest and trusting that Joel would know what to do when he woke up.

  Silence once again reigned in the sacred tree. And so, with a deep breath, Ashoka said goodbye… for now.

  …

  Joel's awakening was unusually difficult. He felt as if he hadn't rested at all, as if his mind had wandered too far and was now returning to a different, heavy, almost alien body. It was like waking up in a new and unfamiliar place, even though nothing around him had changed.

  At first, he tried to ignore the feeling, but soon a stabbing pain in his stomach and an extreme thirst made him shudder. He knew instantly something wasn't right.

  Instinctively, he searched through his belongings but realized he had no food or water—everything was gone. He looked at his pants, and a grimace of disgust twisted his face: they were stained with dried urine and feces, the unmistakable sign that something was seriously wrong.

  "What the hell happened?" he muttered in a hoarse voice, cracked by the dryness in his throat.

  He tried to climb down the tree, but every movement was a struggle. His body felt as if he'd been sick and bedridden for years; his muscles stiff, his joints tense, his legs unable to support him steadily. Every step was a struggle against incredible weakness.

  When he finally reached the ground, Joel felt lucky he hadn't tumbled from the branch. He barely managed to recover a little, before his legs carried him staggering toward the nearest water source.

  Fortunately, no more than two hundred meters from where he was, a crystal-clear stream ran between stones and roots. Without a second thought, Joel dove in headfirst, burying his face in desperation and drinking until his stomach filled with the cold liquid.

  "Haaaaaaaa... what a great satisfaction..." he sighed with an exhausted smile, as the coolness of the water restored some of his life.

  After a while, he undressed and began to bathe. He insistently scrubbed every corner of his body, especially his lower parts, trying to erase the disgusting traces of neglect that covered him. His trousers were treated no more kindly: he rubbed them furiously against the stones and water, determined to remove every stain, as if by doing so he could erase the humiliation.

  It was then that he noticed an object hanging from his chest. He looked down at himself and discovered a wooden medallion hanging from his neck. Upon touching it, a torrent of other people's memories hit him full force, etching themselves in his mind as if they had always been there.

  Joel froze, at first surprised and afraid. But that expression soon faded, leaving a stony face… until fury emerged, painting his cheeks red.

  "You damned son-of-a-bitch monk!" he roared, beating the surface of the water with his closed fist. "I lost more than three months… and on top of that, you almost killed me!"

  Naked in the middle of the stream, Joel spent nearly an hour cursing the monk who had crossed from his dreams to use him as a vehicle in his own mistic ritual. Each insult was a release, a clumsy attempt to cope with the fact that time, food, and even part of himself had been taken from him without his permission.