Ashes of Dharma

The dreams returned.

Not dreams, really—memories, but not his. Visions passed through blood and breath, through the echo of ancestors, through the mark on his palm.

He saw a war.

Skies black with ash. Oceans turned to flame. Cities of light shattered like glass. And above it all, a figure sat on a throne of chanting voices—billions praying in unison, their faith twisted into chains.

The name came like thunder:

Vaikuntharaja — King of the Celestial Realm. Worshipped. Adored. Feared.But false.

Aarav saw behind the veil—this god, like many others, was not a divine being, but a creation. A construct born of mass belief, fed by rituals and offerings, shaped by stories repeated until they became truth.

And now, these false gods ruled everything. Not with armies. With faith.

"They are not gods. They are parasites," Pagal Baba said when Aarav told him. "And you, boy, have become the infection they fear."

Aarav felt it too—something changing in the air. The way the wind slowed when he walked. How animals watched him longer. How temples grew quiet when he passed.

A storm was building.

And he was at its center.

But he didn't want to save the world. He only wanted one thing:

To live without regret.

And for that, he would need strength the gods had long tried to bury.