Ashes of Dharma

The tunnel led to an underground lake—still, black as oil, perfectly round.

At its center stood a small island with a single tree, bare and dead.

Aarav stepped onto the path of stones that led across the water.

Halfway there, he noticed it—his shadow was gone.

He looked behind.

Nothing.

No outline on the stones. No silhouette in the reflection. Just him. Alone.

A voice echoed from the lake, cold and amused:

"So the boy without worship arrives."

Across the water, a figure appeared. Bare-chested. Skin marked with holy ash. Eyes silver. A grin sharp as blades.

He was identical to Aarav in body—but he cast no shadow either.

"I am what you could be," the man said, stepping closer. "No gods. No ties. No past. Only strength. You can't save the world. But you can rule it."

Aarav didn't flinch. "I don't want a throne."

The man raised a brow. "Everyone does. Eventually."

They circled one another—mirrored movement, mirrored breath.

Then the man attacked.

Fast.

Faster than any enemy Aarav had faced. But Aarav didn't fight with speed. He fought with silence. Presence. Rooted breath.

Every stance landed with precision. Every step flowed with intention.

He wasn't stronger. But he was clearer.

When the final blow came—a palm strike to the chest—the man staggered.

Cracked.

And dissolved into smoke.

The lake rippled. A single lotus bloomed at the dead tree's base.

Aarav bowed—not in worship, but in recognition. The battle hadn't been about victory.

It had been about self-possession.