Ashes of Dharma

When Aarav climbed out of the tunnel, the sky had changed.

The sun was hidden behind thick gray clouds. The air crackled—static, tense, like the world itself was holding its breath.

Asthimat Nagar was no longer quiet.

Smoke rose from the northern quarter. Soldiers in bronze masks marched through the streets, dragging monks in chains. Banners of Vaikuntharaja fluttered from rooftops—freshly hung, freshly stained with blood.

A cult had moved in.

Not a cult of madmen—no. These were priests, scholars, warriors. Organized. Funded. And beneath their rituals and smiling sermons, they carried weapons carved with mantra-sigil blades.

Aarav kept his head down as he moved through the crowd, heart steady, senses sharp. He could feel it now—fear in the people, heavy like smog. Not just fear of death, but fear of questioning. Of doubting.

He stopped at a small square where a makeshift altar had been erected. A woman knelt, weeping. Her child had been taken—"to be blessed," they said. To be made pure.

Aarav watched as a robed man dipped a torch in oil, lifted it to the sky, and cried out:

"May our faith feed the flame! May doubt burn with it!"

The crowd cheered. The mother sobbed.

Something inside Aarav snapped—not with anger, but resolve.

He stepped forward.

The priest turned. "You there—do you come to offer faith?"

Aarav met his eyes. Calm. Cold.

"I come to end the famine."

The torch flickered.

The sky growled.

And the storm began to gather—not outside, but within him.