When I left the mountain of music behind, the world around me felt quieter, yet fuller. After learning from Master Seraphina, even the sound of footsteps on stone seemed to carry rhythm.
Elder Aarion met me near the silver tree and said, "You have learnt to hear what the world says. Now, it is time to shape what you hear."
He pointed toward the island's northern cliffs—the region no one had spoken about until that moment. "Up there lives your next teacher," he said. "The one who gives form to silence."
So I began the climb early the next morning. The air grew colder and sharper and filled with the scent of stone and ice. As I reached the top, I saw a strange valley cut into the cliffs — full of tall figures carved in wood, stone, and crystal. Some were beautiful, some monstrous, but each felt so alive that I half expected them to breathe.
At the centre of that valley stood a man, striking a massive stone with a hammer that glowed blue at its edge. Sparks scattered like stars. He worked with steady, rhythmic strength — neither in haste nor in hesitation. His bare arms glistened with frost, and his eyes — pale grey and severe — looked like they carried a storm behind them.
When he noticed me, he set the hammer down and spoke in a voice deep and rough as thunder. "You're late, boy."
I stepped forward quickly, bowing. "Are you my next master?"
He gave a short nod. "You may call me Master Thalon Korr, though others once called me The Sculptor of Eternity."
Elder Aarion, who had climbed silently beside me, added, "Thalon Korr is the builder of worlds. He once forged weapons and monuments for gods, shaped mountains for kings, and carved cities that lasted longer than empires. When men forgot gratitude and worshipped his work instead of their own hearts, he vanished into the mist. The island welcomed him."
Master Thalon picked up a shard of stone and tossed it into the air. It froze there, hovering for a moment, before shaping itself into a bird that flapped its wings once — then crumbled into dust.
"I create," he said quietly. "But creation must learn restraint."
He motioned for me to follow him into a wide cave, its walls glowing with soft blue light. Inside, carved from the stone itself, were thousands of sculptures — warriors, dancers, beasts, and even structures that looked like bridges made of light.
"This, he said, "is not just art. It is memory made solid. Sculpting, carving, and forging — all are attempts to make time stop. But nothing lasts forever. Not even stone. That is the first truth you must learn."
From that day, my lessons began.
He first taught me the ancient ways — the art of shaping raw material with heart instead of tools. "The material is alive," he told me. "If you strike it without knowing its rhythm, it will break. If you listen, it will show you its form."
He made me carve soft shapes from wood that shimmered under moonlight, then harder ones from pearl stone found under the cliffs. Sometimes, he gave me blocks of ice and told me to sculpt before the sun melted them. "Every creation has its moment," he said. "Learn to work with time, not against it."
Then came the modern lessons.
One evening, he took me to a large metallic room carved beneath the cliffs. Machines hummed softly inside. Tables were filled with wires, molten metal, and strange devices that shaped laser-like light beams.
"Yes," he said with a small smile, seeing my surprise. "I studied modern architecture and engineering long after I mastered chisel and hammer. True creation accepts new methods. Modern design is also sculpture — energy transformed into structure."
He showed me how to design buildings using vibration models, how modern printers could shape forms from mere thought, and how sound and heat could merge to form living materials. "Ancient builders carved mountains. Modern builders carve reality," he said.
In one lesson, he gave me a lump of golden clay and said, "Make something that will outlast you."
I tried carving a statue, but every time I thought it was perfect, he shook his head. "Too proud. Too fragile. Too small."
Finally, out of frustration, I shaped it into a small hand, the size of mine, holding light scraped from a crystal. Thalon watched silently for a long moment, then nodded.
"That, he said, "will last — because it holds humility, not glory."
He also made me carve using sound, a technique he called 'resonant sculpting'. The vibrations from sound waves hardened or softened material depending on frequency. "Your masters taught you to control energy and harmony," he said. "Now, blend them into form. When sound becomes solid, imagination becomes truth."
Sometimes he was harsh. If I broke a sculpture by mistake, he never helped me fix it. "You must repair it yourself," he said. "A sculptor must face his cracks before rebuilding others."
After weeks of practice, I asked him one question that had lingered in my heart. "Why are you here, Master Thalon, if you once shaped worlds?"
He paused his work and gazed at the horizon through the cave's mouth. "Because I sculpted perfection," he said softly. "And perfection dies first. It leaves no room for growth, no space for life to breathe. The island gave me forgiveness — to teach others what I forgot."
When he said that, I looked around at the hundreds of unfinished sculptures in his cave — beautiful, detailed, yet flawed. It was then I understood: he never finished them intentionally.
On my last day, he handed me a small stone hammer — carved with runes that glowed faintly under light. "This is the Hammer of Shape," he said. "It breaks and mends with equal will. Use it not to build monuments, but to shape purpose. Creation must come from need, not pride."
As he turned away, his deep voice echoed one last time. "Remember, Mukul—every strike carries two lessons. One teaches strength. The other teaches patience."
That night, I stood outside his cave, looking over the valley filled with silent statues lit by moonlight. Each sculpture seemed to breathe — trapped in moments of eternal stillness.
And I realised what Thalon meant all along — creation only matters if it leaves space for imperfection, for life to move and change within it.
And that was how I met Thalon Korr—The Sculptor of Eternity, the man who taught me that everything in life—from stone to soul—holds a hidden story waiting to be carved, and that a creator's duty is not to last forever but to inspire others after he fades.