Step into the moon-lit clearing. Stone altar, three glowing vials—no instructions, only instinct. Point, click, read. The bottle you choose doesn’t invent you; it names you.
WEALTH – liquid gold, steady flame
You reach for power you can bank. Money = runway, shield, megaphone. You build budgets like blueprints, tip 25 %, and still invest the rest. People call it “boss energy”; you call it Tuesday. Your future is insured, your family’s too, and the only thing you collect faster than interest is gratitude for the safety net you weave.
YOUTH – sun-drenched bubbles racing upward
Your hand shoots toward the sparkle before logic blinks. Curiosity drives the car; joy rides shotgun. You dance in supermarket aisles, start hobbies on Thursdays, and believe every mistake is just plot twist material. Hard times hit—you somersault, scrape knees, laugh through blood. The world feels brand-new every sunrise, and you’re the tour guide.
WISDOM – starlight pooled in glass
You pause, breathe, then lift the silver draught. Pain taught you; books refined you. Friends text you at 2 a.m. for “brutal truth, soft landing.” Trends exhaust you; truth restores you. You speak little, mean much, and forget nothing that mattered. Power, to you, is the quiet moment someone says, “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” and finally sleeps.
Choose. The forest is waiting to echo your name back to you.
