Ashes of Dharma

At sunrise, the temple square was full.

Not with soldiers, but with students.

Old men with stiff joints. Children barely tall enough to balance. Women with tired eyes and calloused hands. They came barefoot, unsure, carrying fear like a second skin.

Aarav stood before them in silence.

He drew a line in the dust with his foot. Then he dropped into Horse Stance.

No speech. No chants. Just posture. Breath. Presence.

One by one, they followed.

Some trembled. Some fell. Some wept from the strain.

But no one left.

By noon, their legs burned. Backs shook. A few passed out. Aarav taught them to fall. To rise. To breathe through it.

Not like an army.

Like a people waking up.

Fire flickered in their cores—not the fire of rage, but of remembrance.

Pagal Baba had once said: "Faith given to others is power lost. Faith kept within is power forged."

Aarav was helping them forge it back.

Outside the walls, the Seeker Host watched. Bhaktarakshaka stood at the edge of camp, arms folded.

He listened to the chants—not of prayer, but of breath rhythm. Footfalls. Practice.

He frowned beneath his mask.

"He's not fighting us," he said. "He's replacing us."

Inside the city, an old woman who hadn't stood straight in a decade held Mountain Rooting for three full breaths.

And her shadow grew long behind her.