"I still can't get over all this!"
"Why us?"
"It's practically impossible!"
Thousands of unanswered questions swirled within Vakama's mind, each more daunting than the last. He had always been a peculiar hero, driven by fear—not of his enemies, but of his own potential failure. Failure to himself, to his brothers, and above all, to the Great Spirit. Yet, even his once unshakable confidence had blinded him, leading to betrayal when he had succumbed to the manipulations of Roodaka. Upon ascending to the role of Turaga, he vowed to impart all his wisdom to the future generations of Toa and Matoran, so that none would repeat his mistakes. But his companions had little recollection of the days before their awakening. Time had been lost to them, as had the count of countless generations of Toa that had passed.
"There must have been a serious emergency..."
This was the first conclusion the former Turaga allowed himself to entertain. They had come to suspect that the Toa Nuva were somehow involved. Perhaps, as had happened in the past, they had inherited the mantle of the Toa Mata after the Great Cataclysm. Yet, aside from the ever-present threat of Tuma's legions, no immediate danger seemed to pose a true threat. Their sole concern remained the strange symbol branded upon their shoulders. Its meaning was lost on them, a cryptic mark they could not decipher. Could it be a map? And were the three rays of the clover a guide—some sort of paths to follow?
It wasn't until days later that Vakama received a sign—or perhaps merely a suggestion. In a vision, he found himself submerged in a viscous liquid. Above him, the sky was swallowed in an unnatural blackness, adorned only by a gargantuan moon and an expansive constellation that seemed to mock the void around it. He was paralyzed, unable to move, until he found himself washed ashore on a small beach. His gaze fell upon a Toa Suva, crafted from stone, its wide staircase leading upward into the unknown. A biting, frigid wind cut through him, but he spotted a faint glimmer of light ahead.
"Perhaps it's a little bonfire... Finally a small source of heat!" he said.
Ascending the steps, he reached the temple, seeking shelter from the harsh winds. But as he reached the summit, the sight before him was not one of solace, but of horror: the masks of his fallen comrades lay upon every pillar of the temple, each marked with a red cross upon the stone walls. Just as dread settled in his chest, darkness consumed him entirely, and a flicker of light beckoned from within the blackness. He lunged toward it, but some unseen force held him back, unable to reach it.
Then, a soft and reassuring voice, like a whisper in the wind, called to him, "Move... in the... darkness."