Ashes of Dharma

They surrounded him instantly.

Four armed guards, two priests, a circle of onlookers too afraid to speak. The square went silent, save for the crackle of the torch in the priest's hand.

"You dare blaspheme in the holy quarter?" the head priest hissed. His voice carried the smug confidence of a man backed by an army—and a god.

Aarav didn't flinch.

He stepped forward. Slowly. Deliberately.

The guards raised their weapons.

Aarav exhaled—long, slow, through the nose.

And then, he moved.

One step, rooted.

One twist, seamless.

One breath, directed.

He disarmed the first guard before the others even reacted. A staff in his hands now—a movement of memory, not thought. He flowed between them like wind between blades. One down. Two. Three.

He never struck to kill. Just hard enough to break rhythm. End violence without feeding it.

But the last priest reached for a pendant around his neck—chanting a binding mantra.

Aarav closed the distance and crushed the pendant before the word could finish.

Silence.

Smoke drifted across the square.

The mother wept—not out of fear, but something closer to relief.

Aarav turned to the crowd. "Faith given under fear is not devotion. It's debt."

The villagers stared.

Someone dropped to their knees. Then another.

Aarav shook his head. "Don't kneel. Stand."

That night, the wind returned to Asthimat Nagar.

Old winds. Uncontrolled. Unafraid.

In a temple far to the east, a high priest opened his eyes in panic.

"The Ash-Born," he whispered. "He's awake."