A raw, burning ache pulsed behind Vishnu's eyes. The mental assault had left him shaken, a lingering phantom of icy tendrils still probing the edges of his consciousness. Answers. He needed answers, and quickly, before the whispers became shouts. His usual self-reliance felt like a thin veil, barely concealing a deep, gnawing terror. He remembered the legends. Ancient tales spoke of a blind oracle, hidden deep within the city's oldest quarter. Her sightless eyes reportedly saw truths others couldn't comprehend, her pronouncements always veiled but unfailingly accurate. Finding her was no easy feat. Alleyways narrowed into treacherous labyrinths, the scent of damp earth and forgotten history clinging to the crumbling brick. Vishnu moved with an instinctual grace, his senses heightened, every shadow a potential threat, every distant murmur a possible clue. Finally, a dilapidated wooden door, adorned with faded carvings of celestial bodies, presented itself. No sign, no grand entrance. Just a humble, almost invisible portal, as if guarding its secrets from the curious and the unworthy. Pushing the door open, a faint chime echoed. The air inside was thick with the scent of aged parchment, dried herbs, and something else – a subtle, almost imperceptible hum of ancient power. Dust motes danced in the slivers of light filtering through a grimy window.

Chapter 45: The Oracle's Dire Prophecy