I. They did not crown me. They called me. And I came— not in thunder, but in silence. Not to rule, but to answer.

Through moongate veils I passed, drawn by a summons deeper than voice. A land was breaking, and the sky itself had grown ashamed.

II. I did not come to slay, though I have slain. I did not come to judge, though I have watched kingdoms crumble under the weight of their own forgetfulness.

I came to embody— Valor. Compassion. Honesty. And the rest— those difficult names we speak like prayer but live like puzzles.

III. What is a virtue, if not a sword turned inward? Each choice, a mirror. Each deed, a reflection not always kind.

For I have walked the shrines, bathed in runes and stars, and felt the burden not of evil— but of being seen. By the people. By myself.

And by the Codex, which remembers what we forget.

IV. There is no victory in virtue. No song at the end. Only another road, another call. Another wound to bind with gentleness instead of glory.

For evil is loud, but good must be still. It listens. It waits. And sometimes, it walks alone.

V. Call me Avatar, though I am not whole. Call me hero, though I have failed. Call me beacon— but understand: the light I bear was never mine. It was given, and I carry it not for myself, but for those who have forgotten how to see in the dark.