Black turned to bright orange.

He opened his eyes and was staring at what he thought was the sun. The monk's eyes widened and he reached down to push himself up, not noticing he had crushed a handful of bones in the pile he had been lying on.

There was orange all around. It was the orange of a wild flame. There were levels to it. He realized he was miniscule in comparison to the chasm of fire and shadow he found himself in. He looked around and found no people or structures. What the...? And then he realized, that's where he was. Hell.

It stretched out before him. As far as he could see there were looming walls of flame and where there wasn't there was only darkness. He was sitting up on a plateau of glowing rock, unharmed.

The monk looked down, his nearly shattered kora was beside him. Torn marks on his sleek, blue spotted fabric brought back a sudden memory of the large robot slicing at him with the neon claws. He followed the trail of scratches on his torso cloth to a large hole revealing the middle of his chest where his heart is. Or was.

And then he remembered...The robot killed me.

He stood up. There were no temples here. No tiger spirit. No shrines. Of course not. The elders always taught him the Gods never came here. He had no weapon, no direction, no hope.

The monk got up and walked to the edge of the plateau, looking for a place to go.

I still have a purpose.

As he reached the edge and leaned over he saw another rock, seemingly attached to nothing, just a few feet below him. There were groups of these scattered rocks. There was no ground below this, only a flowng river of fire.

He jumped down.

He landed on the first floating rock, rolled to absorb the fall, then ran off of it and jumped below to the next until he was just above the flaming river. The shore next to it looked smouldering. He was afraid to fall again until he realized he'd be burning already if he had felt the heat of this place. He jumped and landed next to the river. He stretched out his hand and felt nothing over the flowing flame. What should have been burning pain felt like a breeze of cool air.

He dipped his hand in.

Nothing.

It was the sensation of lukewarm water. All his meditation at the Tiger Temple couldn't have prepared him for the pain he should have felt, had there been any. He looked around and saw nothing. No other way out.

I'll follow the flowing river. If I don't find a way out Ill find a clue to a way out.

The monk jumped in. and the current of the fire river dragged him along. He was not wet. He was devoid of any pain or uneasiness. Only his head stuck out and he used his arms as guiding oars by pushing off the sides of the river bed. As the river carried him into darkness, he hadn't lost the unease he felt since he woke up. His training had kept him as sharp as ever, even in death.

He couldn't see who it was but he had sensed glimpses of his presence. Another man. A monk, in fact. His energy emanated a story of its own. That he had been dead for hundreds of years...and that he was watching him.