"Cursed are those who fear death; blessed are those who cannot escape it."
---
Rain fell in whispers.
Not from the sky—but from the branches above, the Ashvattha's inverted canopy weeping dew like cold sweat. The droplets hit the earth not as water, but as black nectar—amṛta once divine, now spoiled, tainted by centuries of hunger.
Asma-Ra walked beneath this bitter rain, the talisman burning in his palm. It had begun to pulse with rhythm—like a heartbeat not his own, a memory deeper than the bones he now carried.
He did not yet understand what he was.
A thief of fire. A betrayer of the divine. A god's shadow.
The woman in the thorned throne had called him "child of flame."
But whose flame?
And why had it scorched so much?
The path led him into the Temple of Ekamukha, now nothing more than a husk of sanctity. Once, sages had gathered here to meditate upon the One Face—Brahman made whole in stillness. Now the temple was cracked, choked with roots, and haunted by ghosts who wore saffron robes soaked in ichor.
One such ghost stood at the altar.
Tall. Thin. Head shaved. Back turned.
"Asma-Ra," it said, voice low and kind. "You've come late. Again."
The ghost turned.
His face was full of sorrow, but he did not weep. Only his eyes shone with the weight of centuries.
"I waited," he said, "because you promised. You said death was just a veil. You told us you could burn the veil away."
Asma-Ra said nothing. He did not remember these promises.
"Do you remember my name?" the monk asked.
He shook his head.
"I was Mahadevan. I was the first you saved. And the last you cursed."
Suddenly the monk's robes writhed—turning to snakes of ash and fire. His face cracked open down the center, revealing another mouth, ancient and screaming.
"You gave us eternity!" the thing shrieked. "But it had no end!"
Mahadevan lunged.
The fight was not of swords or strength—but of memories. Every strike from the monk brought images flooding back: chanting deep underground, sacrifices made to stop time, a boy buried alive beneath gold to bind his soul to the Ashvattha.
With each parry, Asma-Ra felt a part of himself unravel.
The talisman shone brightly, and for a brief moment, Mahadevan hesitated.
"Was it ever real?" he asked. "Was your fire divine—or stolen?"
Asma-Ra struck.
A single blow—not from hatred, but mercy. The ghost dispersed into sparks, vanishing into the rain.
But in his place, a scroll lay on the altar. Bound in skin. Marked in flame.
Asma-Ra picked it up.
It bore a single glyph: Ajāmila.
A name.
Not his, but a destination.
The scroll pulsed, and suddenly—flames surrounded him. Not literal, but memories manifest. In the fire, a vision took shape:
A palace of gold deep in the earth. A king without skin. And a boy who could not die, buried alive while chanting the name of Yama, god of death.
Ajāmila, the Man Who Could Not Die.
He was still alive. Somewhere beneath the temple ruins. Still chanting.
Asma-Ra descended into the catacombs. Each step echoed with voices—some familiar, others not. Shadows whispered fragments of a forgotten pact, a deal struck between Asma-Ra and a god who no longer answered prayers.
At the base of the descent, a chamber waited—lit by no torch, yet bright with crimson flame.
There, suspended upside down by hooks of gold and vines of root, was a man.
Young. Ageless. Eyes closed, lips moving in constant repetition.
"Yama… Yama… Yama…"
His body was mutilated beyond recognition, yet still alive. Ajāmila.
He opened his eyes when Asma-Ra approached.
"So… you've come to end me?" he whispered. "Or to ask again… how to kill a god?"
"I don't remember," Asma-Ra murmured.
Ajāmila laughed, a hollow, broken sound.
"Good. Better that way. You'll lie better when you finally meet them."
Asma-Ra touched his shoulder.
Ajāmila's skin burned under the talisman's glow.
He screamed—not in pain, but in release.
As he disintegrated into ash, one final whisper echoed:
"Ashvattha remembers. But it does not forgive."
And then—nothing.
Only silence.
But in that silence, Asma-Ra remembered something:
A door of gold. A mask made of mirrors. A voice behind the veil saying:
"Burn the roots, not the leaves."
He looked to the scroll again. Now it bore two names.
Ajāmila. Mahadevan.
Two down.
Many more to come.
And still, no memory of why he had to kill them.
Only a feeling—rooted deep within—that every death was a debt.
And he was here to collect them.
---
END OF CHAPTER II
Next: Chapter III – "The King Beneath the Skin"