Birth of Jashon Hleza

It was as though he harbored no trace of anger whatsoever.

"Kid, you're here," croaked a voice from the depths of darkness.

"I've come to see you, Senior," Braydon Neal replied calmly, stepping boldly into the shadowy realm where a chilling scene awaited him.

Before him stood a ghastly sight—a figure bound to a blackened cross, long hair hanging limply, body impaled by cruel black spikes piercing palms, shoulders, feet, and abdomen. 

The person appeared on the verge of death, their tattered clothing testament to their suffering.

Braydon understood the resilience of one who had attained the divine realm—it wasn't a simple matter to meet one's end. 

They could endure fasting, drawing sustenance from the spiritual energy of the heavens and earth to sustain their essence. 

Hunger would plague them initially, yet with time, they would acclimate to the deprivation.

They would eventually adapt to it and feel nothing.