Ashes of Dharma

Dusk bled across the sky in shades of rust and crimson.

The training had ended. Bodies ached. Palms blistered. But no one left the square. They stayed—not for worship, not for Aarav, but for themselves.

That's when he returned.

Bhaktarakshaka.

The God's Fang.

He walked through the same gate, same path, same silence—but this time, he was not alone. Ten Seeker warriors followed, cloaked in veils of mantra smoke. Their blades hummed with binding prayers, each forged to chain not the body—but the will.

Aarav stepped forward.

The villagers didn't stop him.

They stood behind him.

No fear. No bows. Just quiet, grounded presence.

Bhaktarakshaka removed his mask.

His face was not monstrous. It was calm. Human. Tired.

He studied Aarav. "You've turned laborers into disciples."

"I've turned fear into spine," Aarav replied.

Bhaktarakshaka nodded once. "Then let's see if their spine holds."

He gestured. One Seeker stepped forward. Sword drawn.

Aarav raised his hand—not to block, but to breathe.

The villagers didn't scream. They didn't run. They entered stance.

As the Seeker struck, three villagers moved—clumsy, imperfect, but aligned. The blow missed. The attacker fell.

Not to strength.

To coordination.

To awareness.

To breath.

Bhaktarakshaka stared at the scene—his soldier bested not by warriors, but by people who had remembered their bodies, their presence, their selves.

For the first time in years, the Fang of the God lowered his sword.

And quietly, he said:

"You've started a fire I can't extinguish."