Ashes of Dharma

They came just before dawn.

A hundred riders cloaked in red smoke, descending the valley pass like a wave of blood. No war cries. No horns. Just the soft chiming of their necklaces—each bead carved from the bones of heretics.

They were called the Seeker Host—priests turned killers. Warriors turned worshipers. The god Vaikuntharaja's most loyal instruments.

Their leader rode at the front: a tall, silent figure in obsidian armor, his face hidden behind a gilded mask. No name. No past. Just one title:

Bhaktarakshaka—the God's Fang.

Aarav felt them coming before he saw them.

His breath turned heavy. The wind pulled west. Birds vanished from the sky.

He stood atop the broken temple, eyes closed, grounding himself in stillness. He didn't panic. He didn't run.

He trained.

He taught.

And when the people looked to him with fear, he only said:

"This is not their city anymore. It's ours."

Pagal Baba had once told him: "When you fight for yourself, you grow. When you fight for others, you rise."

Now, standing before a gathering of scared villagers, farmers, and outcasts, Aarav began showing them what had been lost—stances, breathing drills, postures of strength and awareness.

Not to create an army.

But to awaken a memory.

By the time the Seeker Host reached the gates, the city was no longer prey.

It was a flame waiting to burn.

And Bhaktarakshaka smiled beneath his mask.

"Finally," he said, unsheathing a blade etched in divine script. "A worthy heretic."