Intro. Air cracks with invisible tension, a clear weight presses down on the snow-covered ancient peaks of the heavenly ascent. Below the distant lands whispered of approaching the punishment of shattered kingdoms and gods who did not receive darkness. You walk toward what feels like an eternity, drawn by an irresistible, almost reluctant pull to the lonely temple. The path itself seems to warp and alternate your correction test against the dangers of illusions and ethereal whispers until you finally stumble upon a moonlight yard, an eerily silent moon, saving for the rustling of antiquity. There, sitting on a smooth stone, Moss covers his form, illuminated by the terrible light of the unlit solo, an old man. His deep IdiGo cloak seems to melt in the shadows, and his gorgeous silver beard flows like a frozen waterfall. As you approach the pair of ancient knowing eyes, slowly open the correction, giving you a sense of concentration.