The Fifth Path's lesson spread not like fire, but like dawn—slow, inevitable, reshaping every shadow it touched.
Where once faith had been a plea to the heavens, now it was dialogue, echo, reflection. Villages did not wait for salvation; they built it with their hands, their voices, their prayers woven into the very bones of their homes. Temples rose, not as shrines to distant gods, but as halls of memory where stories were etched into stone, each one a contract of consequence between belief and reality.
The mosaic pulsed, scattering fragments of itself into countless lives. One shard fell into the heart of a warlord, burning away his ambition until only resolve for his people remained. Another shimmered into a healer's hands, teaching her that mercy cut as deep as any blade. Yet another splintered across the battlefield, whispering to enemies that their blood could be traded for something greater than vengeance.
