Ashes of Dharma

The pilgrim arrived at dusk.

Wrapped in gray robes, face hidden behind a wooden mask shaped like a crow. He walked with a limp, yet each step felt deliberate—measured, as if the earth gave him permission to move.

No one knew where he came from.

He asked no questions. Bought no food. He simply sat at the edge of the village square and began chanting. Not loudly. Not like the temple priests. This was deeper—older. A vibration that made teeth ache and wind stall.

Aarav watched from the shadows.

He felt the pull. A strange familiarity, like meeting someone from a forgotten dream.

That night, Aarav approached.

"You're not a pilgrim," he said quietly.

The crow-mask tilted. The voice that answered was like gravel over wet stone: "And you're not a boy."

Silence.

Then the masked one reached into his cloak and tossed a bundle to Aarav's feet. A scroll, sealed in wax, marked with the same chakra emblem branded on his palm.

"Your path doesn't start here," the pilgrim said. "It was delayed. You were born late."

"Late for what?"

"For war."

The next morning, the pilgrim was gone. No footprints. No trail. Just the scroll.

Aarav broke the seal.

Inside: instructions to leave the village. Coordinates written in ancient Sanskrit. And a final line:

"Seek the Hall of Mirrors in the City of Bones. The First Gate will open there."

He knew, somehow, that Pagal Baba would not follow him.

The training wheels were off.

Now came the path of action.