The wind over ruined Bhutala carried a bitter scent—burnt soil, dissolving wood, and the metallic sting of blood long dried. Night had fallen, but destruction glowed beneath the moonlight like dying embers. The trio moved through the remains; none spoke.
The fire inside them had not settled since encounter. But now it began turning into purpose.
Walls were shattered into ribs of stone. Pathways cracked into broken veins. Statues once symbolizing balance had been toppled into pale rubble. What was once the first doorway to their journey now resembled a graveyard sculpted by hatred.
Ahaan slowed down near the old training courtyard—stones splintered, pillars fractured.
"They broke the roots," he murmured, voice low.
Aryan surveyed carefully.
Boot imprints—heavy, metallic indentation, marked in patterns of squads entering and dragging—seemed fresh enough to still whisper stories.
And scorch marks—dark, circular, layered—spread like infected wounds.
Abhi moved ahead without waiting. His steps were mechanical.
Their footsteps awakened a faint rustle.
Under a collapsed arch, a man—barely twenty—lay wrapped in torn cloth. His breathing was shallow enough to almost disappear beneath silence. His eyes snapped open the moment he heard them, and panic burst inside.
"Don't—don't come closer…"
Ahaan lowered himself, palms open.
"No one is here to hurt you," he said gently.
The survivor stared—then recognition struck him.
"You three… you returned… It was them… They came with fire…"
He coughed blood, his voice scraping inside his throat.
"They weren't here to subdue. They didn't imprison anyone. They didn't ask anything. They came to erase."
Aryan tightened his jaw.
"Who led them?" he asked.
"Three men…"
"Golden armor… and a mantle marked with six-sided overlaps…"
"They called him… Zane…"
The name hit exactly like it ought to.
Zane.
One of the three generals.
Alive.
Empowered.
And ahead.
Before anything further could be spoken, the boy gripped Abhi's wrist.
"Bhutala did not fall in battle… we were executed."
The grip loosened. Breath stopped.
He died before morning ever reached him.
Abhi sat still near him. He didn't blink.
The survivor's presence wasn't accidental.
Aryan found something etched beneath where he lay—symbol-markings, spiraled inwards, leading beneath the ruins. When dust was cleared, an index-shaped marking glowed faintly.
Ahaan pressed it.
Stone shifted. Earth vibrated.
A concealed opening yawned deep below—spirals descending into darkness.
The three exchanged looks.
They stepped down.
Below lay an underground chamber sealed away well before the attack:
Circular walls
Burn-proof plating
Preserved atmosphere
And six prism-shaped glass pillars—each containing scroll-like fragments.
Ahaan walked toward the center.
There was something else.
A slab of dark alloy. Carved with the symbol of their shared destiny.
A final message burned faintly into it:
"If Bhutala ever burns—know that its people died in silence so your path remains unbroken."
Abhi clenched his fist so hard his knuckles cracked.
Aryan turned toward the exit.
No more grief.
Purpose had replaced it.
Ahaan studied the scripts—the fractured fragments.
"They weren't attacked for rebellion," he whispered.
"They were attacked to prevent succession."
Aryan understood instantly.
Bhutala raised warriors.
Bhutala transmitted knowledge.
Bhutala forged lineages of protectors.
Removing Bhutala meant severing future resistance before it even existed.
"The Overlord doesn't tolerate continuity," Aryan said.
"He uproots the possibility of tomorrow."
Abhi responded quietly:
"Then we make tomorrow without asking permission."
They resurfaced.
Morning fog rose.
Ash turned pale gray under sunlight.
Aryan looked toward where Shambhala rested behind a distant haze—untouched, hidden, breathing still.
"We move now," he said.
Ahaan nodded.
Abhi did not speak.
But his presence alone was enough.