Ashes of Dharma

He sat alone beneath a dying tree, armor set aside, blade untouched.

For the first time in years, Bhaktarakshaka—the God's Fang—was not certain.

He had devoted his life to Vaikuntharaja. Not for power. Not for glory. But because the god gave him purpose. Order. Discipline.

He had believed.

But belief had become obedience. Obedience had become blindness.

And in Aarav, he had seen something else:

Freedom without chaos. Power without cruelty. Devotion without chains.

He remembered the villagers standing in formation—not perfect, but present. Not praying, but breathing.

He remembered Aarav not trying to win, but trying to awaken.

And he remembered a time—long ago—when he had once sought that path too.

That night, he did what no Seeker had ever done.

He removed his mask.

Then he walked into the center of the Seeker Host camp.

And he spoke:

"Our god is not false. But he is fed. And we—" he looked at them one by one, "—we have become his servants, not his students."

The camp murmured.

"I saw a boy who fights without weapons. Leads without lies. And I felt something I hadn't in years."

He drew his blade, held it out—not to strike, but to offer.

"I will not raise this against the Flamewalker again."

Some called it betrayal.

Others saw it for what it was:

Remembering.