The applause still thundered, but Pralay barely heard it.
His breath came uneven. His fingers curled tightly around the hem of his robe, as if to ground himself in something—anything—that wasn't slipping into myth.
Ahaman.
That name. That impossible name.
His grandfather's voice echoed in his mind:
"You will search for Ahaman. He resides at the Nalanda. He will tell you what the Kalki Stone truly is..."
It wasn't a metaphor. It wasn't a riddle.
He was here.
Not a wandering ascetic. Not a forgotten guardian in exile.
Not in the assembly… but within these walls. Somewhere behind stone and silence.
Dharmpal Ahaman—not a myth, not a memory. Real. Breathing. Within reach.
And Pralay had been sent to find him.
Not just to meet him…
Ravi, beside him, nudged his ribs.
Ravi (grinning): "Hey! Mystery boy, you okay? You look like you saw a ghost riding a comet."
Pralay (softly): "I need to find him."
Ravi (raising a brow): "Who? The Dharmpal? You and half the monastery, bro. Good luck scheduling an audience."
But Pralay's eyes were fixed, a quiet blaze beginning behind them.
Before Ravi could probe further, the sea of white robes began to move. Disciples poured out into the courtyard—some buzzing with excitement, others contemplative, their minds caught on the Acharya's words… and on the Dharmpal.
As Pralay tried to steady his breath, the world around him refused to slow. Life at Nalanda moved on—even if his didn't, two younger disciples walked by, barely old enough to wear their robes without tripping over the folds. One of them was practically bouncing with excitement.
Young Disciple (wide-eyed): "Did you hear what happened last season? I swear on the temple goats—Dharmganj was attacked."
Other Disciple (skeptical): "You say that every season."
Young Disciple (insistent): "No, really! A bunch of scroll-thieves tried to break into the Sealed Vault. But before they even touched the inner doors—boom! The sky cracked, and the wind froze. Dharmpal Ahaman walked out holding nothing but a copper staff… and they ran."
Other Disciple: "That's not how I heard it."
They faded into the crowd, and before Pralay could fully process what he'd just overheard, Ravi leaned in with a grin that stretched ear to ear.
Ravi (grinning): "Heh. You hear that? These kids eat up anything with 'crackling sky' and 'heroic staff moves'."
Pralay: "Is any of it true?"
Ravi (with theatrical seriousness): "Oh, you want the real tea? Buckle in."
He adjusted his robe like a storyteller settling before a fire.
Ravi: "So, eight years ago, Nalanda was hit hard. A rogue yogi—no one knows his real name—though famously known as "Bloodborn King" broke through the southern perimeter. They say he was once part of the Bhuj Chakra division—the elite spiritual militants who guard elemental nodes."
Pralay: "That's a thing?"
Ravi: "Oh yeah. Most of them go nuts from overload. This one? He didn't just go rogue—he slaughtered three junior yogis, crippled two instructors, and was this close to burning down the Dharmganj eastern wing."
Pralay: "What did he want?"
Ravi: "Some say revenge. Others say a forbidden scroll. Or maybe just madness. But what he did... was kill three junior yogis. Two more never walked again. Even the inner flame at Tattva Bhawan flickered that night—they say that's never happened before."
Pralay (quietly): "And Ahaman stopped him?"
Ravi (leaning closer): "Not just stopped him. Outplayed him. What happened next? It's one of the only times anyone's seen Ahaman unleash the God Stone."
Pralay's head snapped toward him.
Ravi (grinning): "Yeah. That's right. The real thing. The air changed. Some disciples say their breath stopped. Others said it felt like the world held still to watch."
Pralay (quietly): "How did he win?"
Ravi (grinning wider): "Cut off the rogue's Kundalini Shakti flow mid-fight—just using breath control and mantra seals. Didn't draw a blade. Didn't raise his voice. Just sealed the man with a wave of his hand and left the battlefield like a monk walking out of morning meditation."
Pralay: "That sounds…"
Ravi (grinning wider): "…completely bonkers? I know! But here's the thing—Yogini Maitri was just a student back then. And her father—the previous Dharmpal—was the one defending the vault. He died in that battle. Ahaman took up the post after. The guy didn't even want it. He just... stepped in."
There was a pause, unusually quiet from Ravi.
Ravi (softer now): "Some say he still visits Maitri every year on the anniversary. Doesn't talk. Just lights a lamp and leaves."
Pralay: "And the rogue yogi?"
Ravi (voice low): "Escaped. Two years ago. Some say he tunneled out using a corrupted muladhara seal. Since then, Ahaman's been constantly moving—leaving Nalanda for months at a time. They say he's hunting him. Others think he's trying to prevent another breach."
Pralay (processing): "So he's…"
Ravi (with flair): "...the only librarian in the world who can bench press a mountain and silence a riot with a single mantra. Legend."
Pralay managed a faint smile—but it didn't reach his eyes. The story only made the weight in his chest heavier.
Pralay walked with them, yet not among them. His mind spiraled inward.
How do you speak to a man the world bows to?
Could he just walk into Dharmganj and say, "I carry a stone your silence once protected?"
Would that even be enough?
Ravi's voice cut through the fog.
Ravi: "Come on. We've got chakra mapping with Yogi Agnivesh in ten minutes. You know—he'll probably turn us into fireworks if we're late again."
Pralay (distracted): "I… I need air. Go ahead. I'll catch up."
Ravi (raising a brow): "Skipping already? Bold move. Alright, your funeral."
He jogged off, tossing a lazy salute over his shoulder.
Pralay walked aimlessly at first, then with purpose, his legs carrying him through the courtyard, past the meditation groves, and toward the southern edge of the campus.
There, looming like a forgotten citadel, stood Dharmganj.
The gate that kept the world's oldest secrets.
And maybe, just maybe, held the answers to the one thing Pralay could no longer live without: why.
Its domes shimmered faintly in the morning light, and the tall gates, etched with mantras in silver thread, stood closed. Stone lion guardians flanked the entrance, their eyes seeming to follow him.
Its arched doors were flanked by statues of Garuda and Shesha, their eyes carved with inhuman clarity. Above them, a phrase shimmered faintly in golden script:
"That which is remembered cannot be erased."
Two elder disciples stood guard, robes maroon and gold, staffs crossed.
Guard (stoic): "Library's closed to underclassmen until the evening bell."
Pralay (steady): "I'm not here to borrow a scroll. I… I need to see the Dharmpal."
The guards exchanged a glance.
Guard (measured): "And on what authority do you request an audience with the guardian of Dharmganj?"
Pralay stiffened. His hands balled into fists at his side.
Pralay (urgent, low): "I don't need permission. I just need to see him."
The guards didn't move.
Guard (calm): "The Dharmpal is not within these walls at the moment. If you're searching for a scroll, or a specific scripture, we can assist—"
Pralay (stepping forward, voice rising): "I told you, I'm not looking for a book! I was told to find him.I nearly died getting here!"
One of the guards stiffened, while the other narrowed his eyes, subtly shifting his staff.
Pralay (shouting): "I came because he's the only one who can tell me why everyone I love is gone!"
Guard (warning): "Keep your tone, disciple."
Pralay (angrily): "You don't understand! I don't care about protocol—I need to see Ahaman, now!"
The courtyard trembled with tension. A few elder disciples nearby turned their heads.
The guards stood still, their eyes hardening.
Guard (stern): "Step back, disciple. This is not how you're heard at Nalanda."
A charged silence followed.
And then—
Voice (firm, composed): "That's enough."
The voice came like a soft bell in a war zone.
Pralay's head turned instantly.
Naimisha stood a few steps away, her arms relaxed, but her gaze precise—like someone who had seen emotional fires before… and walked through them untouched.
She approached without urgency, but with purpose.
Naimisha: "He's new. The day's been heavy."
One of the guards gave a slow, respectful nod and returned to standing position. The other stepped back silently.
Naimisha (to Pralay, quietly): "Come with me. You'll breathe better away from this stone."
Pralay didn't move at first—his shoulders still heaving, eyes locked on the sealed gates.
He gave a slow, bitter nod… and followed.
As they walked, silence hovered between them for several paces.
Then:
Naimisha (gently): "They weren't lying. Dharmpal Ahaman isn't here."
Pralay (still shaking): "Then where is he?"
Naimisha (softly): "You know who he is."
Pralay (hoarse): "I know I need him."
Naimisha: "You will. But not like this. Not yet."
Pralay: "Why not?"
Naimisha (calmly): "He's away… on a diplomatic journey to the Vijayanagar Empire. It's important business for Nalanda. He'll return in a few days—maybe less."
Pralay: "I can't just wait—"
Naimisha (interrupting softly): "Yes. You can."
She stepped closer, her voice lowering—not with authority, but with something that felt quieter than empathy, heavier than sympathy. Like she knew the weight he carried, and had once carried her own.
Naimisha (softly): "And maybe you should. You've crossed realms, lost people, carried power you still don't understand. The best thing you can do now… is become someone worthy of what's coming."
Pralay let out a bitter breath, shoulders tense.
Pralay (flatly): "I didn't ask for any of this."
Naimisha (quietly): "None of us did. But that doesn't make it smaller."
There was silence between them—brief, brittle. Then Pralay turned sharply, eyes narrowing.
Pralay: "Wait… how do you know that?"
Naimisha blinked, the shift in tone catching her off guard.
Pralay (tense): "I've never told anyone here I came from Bhoolok-Mool. Not the disciples. I only told the University heads. So how do you know?"
A flicker crossed Naimisha's face—too fast for fear, too subtle for guilt. But it was there. A crack in the calm.
She recovered quickly, but not fast enough.
Naimisha (exhaling): "News travels fast at Nalanda, especially when it doesn't want to."
Pralay took a step back, eyes narrowing further.
Pralay: "You were listening."
Naimisha (defensive, but poised): "You just told the guards you 'nearly died' and that everyone you love is gone. To monks trained to listen, that's not just anger—that's origin."
She turned slightly, gesturing with one hand toward the campus beyond.
Naimisha: "Besides... some of us are trained to notice more than what's spoken. You wear Bhoolok-Mool like a second skin. You flinch at silence, and your aura burns like it's been dragged through grief."
Pralay didn't respond. He didn't know how. She wasn't wrong—and that only made it worse.
She gestured again—this time fully, her hand sweeping across the wide expanse of Nalanda. The wind curled through the stone archways. Bells chimed in rhythm with the rustle of peepal leaves. A trail of disciples in white moved in soft procession around the banyan grove, where others sat in quiet meditation, their faces turned upward to the slow-turning sky.
Beyond them, monks painted mandalas with peacock feather brushes on the ground, each color glowing faintly with chakra resonance. A group of disciples recited mantras in unison under a banyan tree, and from the Dhyanaalayam, soft flute music drifted like a river in the air.
Naimisha (firmly, but gently): "This place? It's not just a school. It's a forge. It will burn you, shape you, strengthen you—or destroy what doesn't belong. Let it do its work. Learn. Train. Breathe. When Ahaman returns… be ready for the answers."
Pralay stared at the banyan grove in the distance.
The anger was still there—coiled in his ribs, raw in his throat—but something about her voice made it quieter. Like the ringing of a bell you couldn't unhear.
He looked down, fists loosening.
Pralay (quietly): "And if I'm not ready?"
She turned to him again.
Naimisha (with a faint, unreadable smile): "Then Nalanda will make sure you are."
Naimisha let the silence stretch just long enough for the tension to settle. Then she tilted her head, just slightly.
Naimisha (lightly): "Come on. The morning cycle isn't going to wait forever."
Pralay raised an eyebrow.
Pralay: "You're asking me to go to class?"
Naimisha (smirking faintly): "No. I'm telling you. Let's go."
She turned without waiting for a reply, her ochre robes catching the breeze. Pralay, still emotionally raw, hesitated for just a breath—then followed.
The path to Dhyanaalayam wound through Nalanda's inner sanctum—where sound grew softer and every step seemed to echo just a little longer. The building stood like a breath held in stone—domed, circular, with lotus motifs carved into its archways. A single, giant chakra wheel was embossed above the entrance, humming faintly as if it responded to thought.
Inside, the air was thick with frankincense and silence.
White-robed disciples sat in low circles, palms open, breaths synchronized with the rise and fall of a single bronze bell that chimed every thirty seconds. A cool breeze moved through carved ventilation shafts high in the dome, spinning the scent of earth, oil, and old wisdom.
And at the far end, Yogi Satya Suryavanshi stood with arms behind his back, his silhouette outlined by the pale gold light pouring through a skylight above the central meditation pit.
Ravi Gupta sat cross-legged near the front, trying very hard to sit still—his brow furrowed in concentration, eyes sneaking open every few seconds before shutting again as if scolded by invisible discipline.
He spotted Pralay and instantly perked up.
Ravi (whispering with a grin): "Hey! Look who finally stopped brooding in shadows. Took you long enough."
Pralay (deadpan): "I was having a spiritual crisis."
Ravi (smirking): "Well, welcome to Dhyanaalayam. We all suffer in silence here—on purpose."
Before Pralay could reply, Yogi Satya Suryavanshi turned to face them.
His eyes were calm. Too calm. Like still water that might hide great depth—or a storm waiting for breath.
Yogi Satya Suryavanshi: "You're late, Pralay."
Pralay bowed slightly, not with guilt, but with newfound steadiness.
Pralay: "I'm ready now."
Satya studied him for a long moment—then gave a small nod.
Yogi Satya Suryavanshi: "Then take your place. And begin by breathing—not just through the body, but through what's wounded inside you. Here, the first step is not strength. It is stillness."
Pralay walked forward and lowered himself into the empty space beside Ravi. As he crossed his legs and closed his eyes, he heard the faint hum of the chakra wheel above. His heart still beat unevenly, his mind still restless—but somewhere inside, something settled. Just a little.
This was the first stillness he had allowed himself since the fire. Since Valli. Since the ring.
And in the center of the dome, the bell rang once more.
Somewhere in Avanti Empire -
Far from Nalanda, the sun sank red and slow behind the black spires of an abandoned Shaivite monastery, its once-sacred walls now cracked by roots and silence.
Within its ruined sanctum, where old mantras clung to stone like ghosts, the air shifted.
The first to arrive twitched through the doorway with a grin carved into his face like a ritual scar. Bone beads clacked around his neck. He was barefoot, bloodstained, whispering to things that weren't there.
Aghori (giggling): "Hehehe… the rats told me. The stars, too. Said the smell of return was in the wind. Mmm… I like this place. It remembers pain."
The second figure glided in moments later, silent as shadow. Draped in a long cloak of black feathers swept behind him, not a single sound escaped his feet on the stone. He said nothing. He merely stood at the edge of the ruin, eyes half-lidded, unmoving.
Aghori (tilting his head, whispering): "Ahhh, Sauri, as broody as ever. Say something, won't you? No? Of course not…"
The third entered like a war hymn. His stride was sharp, his eyes calculating. Copper-bound robes brushed the dust with authority. He didn't look around—he didn't need to.
Vaashisht (authoritative): "We weren't supposed to gather again until the eclipse."
Aghori (grinning wider): "Ooooh, Vaashisht speaks! Does that mean the stars were right? Are we… summoning him?"
A final figure arrived last, munching lazily on dried tamarind, robes half-fallen from his shoulder, an easy swagger in every step.
Lazy One (stretching): "You all get so dramatic when we meet. Can't we have one reunion without the whole 'ancient doom' vibe?"
Vaashisht (coldly): "Discipline, Netraksha."
Netraksha (grinning): "Discipline? Please. We're cultists, not clerks."
Aghori (snorting): "Hahaha! He's gonna love that."
Then—
it happened.
The air around them changed. The wind dropped. The temperature shifted without warning.
And from the shadow behind the shattered idol, a presence pulsed outward. Heavy. Calm. Infinite.
All four stopped mid-motion. Even Aghori went still.
They turned, slowly, reverently. And knelt.
Vaashisht (softly, eyes lowered): "We never thought the time would come this soon…
Bloodborn King."
Silence.
Then—
from the heart of the dark—
a smile emerged.
[End of Chapter]