Ashes of Dharma

The stairs were cold.

Carved deep into the bedrock beneath Asthimat Nagar, they spiraled endlessly downward. No torches. No light. Only the faint blue glow from the mark on Aarav's palm.

Each step felt heavier.

Each breath louder.

This wasn't a place made by hands. This was carved by time, faith, and something older than both. The silence wasn't empty—it watched.

At the bottom, he entered a chamber. Circular. Empty, except for a raised stone platform in the center. Symbols ran along the walls—some he recognized from the scrolls, others made his skin crawl just to look at.

On the platform sat a figure.

Dead? Sleeping?

Wrapped in ceremonial robes, its face was a polished obsidian mask. No mouth. No eyes. No voice.

Aarav approached slowly.

The mask turned.

"Name your regret," the figure said. Its voice echoed inside his skull.

Aarav's jaw tightened. "I don't carry regret. Not anymore."

"Then you are not ready."

The walls began to move. Shadows peeled from stone. Figures rose—dark silhouettes of himself, each twisted by a different path.

One was a version of him who had begged for power.

One who had killed without thought.

One who had worshipped the false gods for safety.

They attacked.

He fought—not with rage, but rhythm. Breath. Posture. He moved through the stances he'd trained under the sun, in the ruins, by the ash fields.

The illusions faded.

The figure stood. Removed its mask.

It was his face—older, worn, but clear-eyed.

"Then perhaps you are ready."

The stone beneath Aarav glowed. The wall behind the platform opened, revealing a tunnel lit by blue fire.

A voice whispered:

"The First Gate is passed. Now learn why you were chosen."