Ashes of Dharma

Word spread fast.

Whispers flew from mouth to mouth, town to town: a boy with no god, no army, and no temple had stood against the Priests of Vaikuntharaja and walked away untouched.

They called him the Flamewalker, the boy who breathed like a yogi and moved like a storm. But titles didn't interest Aarav.

Only truth did.

He stood before the villagers of Asthimat Nagar that night, where the altar had once stood. They gathered not because they were told to—but because they wanted to. Not to worship, but to witness.

He spoke plainly.

"No god will save you."

Murmurs. A few gasps.

"Not because they can't. But because they no longer remember how."

The crowd listened, quiet and still.

"You've been fed on fear. Kept weak so your prayers feed them. But there's another path. A harder one. Slower. With no miracles."

He lifted his hand. The mark glowed faintly.

"Discipline. Breath. Awareness. This is your temple now."

He didn't promise salvation.

He promised struggle. Effort. Sweat. Training. Pain.

But the kind that meant something.

And for the first time in generations, the people of the City of Bones stood tall—not as followers, but as seekers.

Far beyond the valley, in a fortress cloaked in golden mist, a god opened his many eyes.

He saw the flame rise.

And for the first time in an age, he felt hunger.