Ashes of Dharma

The city held its breath.

Bhaktarakshaka walked alone through the front gate—no army, no flames, just his presence. His black blade was strapped across his back, humming with a low, metallic chant that only the faithful could hear. Each step he took etched a mantra into the ground behind him.

He stopped at the old shrine, where Aarav waited.

They stood a dozen steps apart.

Neither spoke.

Then, the Fang of the God drew his blade.

A single, fluid motion—whisper-smooth, like slicing air itself. The weapon wasn't metal. It was forged from condensed devotion. A sword of belief.

Aarav exhaled.

He didn't move. Just lowered into Mountain Rooting—the First Stance.

The villagers watched from rooftops and behind cracked doors. No one dared speak.

The Fang attacked.

Fast. Unseeable. His blade cut through air, through stone, through space.

But Aarav wasn't there.

He moved like smoke inside structure. Not faster—but emptier. His body a channel, not a shield. His breath carried him just beyond reach, again and again.

The dance began.

Blade met breath. Rage met rhythm.

Every clash carved silence into the air.

Then—Aarav struck.

One palm to the heart.

It wasn't powerful. It was precise. Perfect timing. Perfect intent.

Bhaktarakshaka stumbled back. For the first time in decades, he faltered.

He looked down at his blade.

It was cracking.

The faith it was built on—was doubting itself.

He stared at Aarav. "What are you?"

Aarav answered with stillness.

That night, the Seeker Host did not enter the city.

They camped outside, whispering prayers that no longer felt certain.

And Aarav lit a small fire at the temple steps—not to worship, but to teach.

The first class began at sunrise.