The descent was a lesson in torment and tenacity. The slope of the Corpse Mountain was no gentle incline; it was a chaotic jumble of skeletal remains, some still articulated into grotesque parodies of limbs, others shattered into razor-sharp shards. Loose skulls threatened to roll underfoot, sending him skittering, his arms windmilling for balance. Ribcages formed treacherous hollows, their broken points like waiting spears.
Each misstep sent a fresh jolt of agony through his reanimated frame. His ankles twisted, his knees buckled, and more than once he fell, his hands scraping against jagged bone, his face pressed into the cold, gritty detritus of death. Yet, each time, that borrowed, seething energy within him surged, pushing him back up. It was as if the countless souls, even in their disparate agony, collectively refused to let their vessel fail so soon.
Kaelen remained largely silent during this initial struggle, a watchful, judgmental presence in the back of his mind. But he could feel the general's impatience, a simmering frustration at his clumsiness. It was a goad, sharper than any physical pain.
Lyra's gentle voice occasionally whispered encouragement, or perhaps just shared sorrow. Careful now… the way is treacherous… so many broken things… Her voice was a counterpoint to Kaelen's harshness, a reminder of the grief that underpinned the rage.
He learned quickly, because he had to. He learned to test each handhold, each footfall. He learned to use the momentum of a slide, to absorb the shock of a fall. His body, though new to him, possessed an uncanny, almost instinctual understanding of its own limits and capabilities, a legacy of the many lives it now housed. It was a strange, disconnected kind of learning, as if he were a puppet master and a puppet simultaneously.
The air grew marginally less thin as he descended, though no less acrid. The wind still howled, but now it carried different scents – the sharp tang of rust from some unseen, decaying metal, the faintest hint of something sulfurous from the distant, pulsing orange glow on the horizon.
The cacophony within his mind never ceased. It was a constant barrage of fragmented memories, emotions, and sensations. He saw flashes of bustling marketplaces, of loving embraces, of quiet moments of prayer in sun-dappled temples, all juxtaposed with the searing terror of their final moments. It was like living innumerable lifetimes in every heartbeat, an experience that should have shattered any sane mind. Perhaps his was already shattered, merely held together by the sheer, overwhelming force of the Resentment.
He stumbled, catching himself on a jutting femur. Looking down, he saw that his hands were scraped raw, trickles of dark, sluggish blood – his blood? – welling from the abrasions. The sight was both horrifying and strangely fascinating. This body could bleed. It could be wounded. It was, for all its unnatural origins, undeniably physical.
"Do not dawdle, Vessel," Kaelen's voice cut in, sharp as ever. "The scent of fresh blood, however thin, will travel on this wind. And there are things out here that hunger."
The warning sent a fresh jolt of fear – a primal, animalistic fear this time – through him. He pushed himself onward, his movements becoming slightly more urgent, if no less clumsy.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of scraping, stumbling, and sliding, the angle of the slope lessened. The dense concentration of bones began to thin, giving way to larger patches of the gray, ubiquitous ash. He was nearing the base of the Corpse Mountain.
He took one last, lurching step and found himself on relatively level ground. He stood there, swaying, his chest heaving, every muscle screaming in protest. He had survived the descent.
The Kurukshetra Ashen Plains stretched before him, a vast, featureless expanse of gray under the bruised twilight. The Corpse Mountain loomed behind him, a silent, ivory sentinel. The silence of the plains was a stark contrast to the internal storm, yet it was not a peaceful silence. It was the silence of utter desolation, of a world bled dry of life and hope.
A tremor ran through him, not of cold, but of a profound, existential dread. The mountain of bones was a known horror, a defined prison. These plains… they were an unknown, an abyss of gray that promised nothing but more suffering. The wind, unimpeded now, whipped at him, carrying the fine ash that coated everything, a gritty reminder of countless incinerated lives. It stung his eyes, caked his lips, and seemed to infiltrate his very being.
"Do not stand there gaping like a stunned ox, Vessel," Kaelen's voice snapped, pulling him from his daze. "This is no sanctuary. The air itself is poison here, thick with the despair of ages. We move. Towards that glow."
He followed the implied direction of Kaelen's command, his gaze settling on the distant, pulsing orange light on the horizon. It was the only feature in this desolate landscape that wasn't a shade of gray or bruised purple. It seemed an impossibly long way off.
"What is it?" he asked, his voice still hoarse.
"Hope, perhaps. Or a different kind of damnation," Kaelen replied, his tone unreadable. "It is a sign of… something. Structure. Perhaps even a remnant of civilization, however twisted. Better than this open grave. Now, walk. And be ready. The things that scavenge these plains are not like the dead you just climbed over. They are alive, in their own wretched way. And they are hungry."
Alive. The word sent another shiver down his spine. What kind of life could persist in such a place? His mind, already reeling from the chorus of the dead, now had to contend with the threat of the living, or whatever passed for it in Kali Yuga.
He took a step onto the ashen plain. The ground was soft, yielding, like walking on centuries of compacted dust. Each footfall raised a small puff of gray that the wind immediately snatched away. The silence here was different too. On the mountain, there had been the constant, dry rattle of bones. Here, there was only the mournful sigh of the wind and the frantic thumping of his own reanimated heart.
And the voices. Always the voices.
Hunger… so cold… a chorus of faint whispers seemed to rise from the ash itself, mingling with the multitude within him.
They come… they crawl… another set of fragmented thoughts, laced with ancient terror.
He stumbled, not from the uneven ground, but from the sheer weight of these externalized sorrows, these echoes of the land's own torment.
Lyra's gentle voice was a counterpoint. Listen, Vessel. The land itself weeps. The very air remembers their suffering. This is the legacy of the Asuras.
"Enough, Scholar!" Kaelen's command was sharp. "He needs focus, not poetry. Vessel, your senses. Use them. What do you see? What do you hear beyond these damned whispers?"
He tried to obey, to push past the internal and external chorus of despair. He scanned the plains. Nothing but gray, stretching to a horizon lost in hazy twilight. The wind. The distant, ominous pulse of orange light. And… something else.
A scent, faint at first, then stronger, carried on a gust of wind. It was acrid, like burnt hair and something else, something rank and animalistic. And with it, a sound – a skittering, dragging noise, like claws on stone, though there was no stone here, only ash and bone.
His head snapped in the direction of the sound. For a moment, he saw nothing. Then, a shape detached itself from the gray monotony, a low, hunched silhouette, loping towards him with an unnatural, jerky gait. Then another, and another.
They were not large, perhaps the size of starving wolves, but their forms were wrong, twisted. Limbs too long, bodies emaciated, heads lolling at odd angles. Even from this distance, he could see pale, sightless eyes and rows of needle-sharp teeth in gaping maws.
The carrion eaters Kaelen had warned of.
A primal fear, raw and undiluted by the other emotions, surged through him. His newly acquired body screamed at him to flee, to hide, to become one with the ash and bone once more.
But Kaelen's voice was there, a rod of iron in his mind. "Stand your ground, Vessel! This is your first test. You are not prey. You are the reckoning. Feel the rage. Feel their rage. Let it become your strength!"
The internal chorus of fury, which had momentarily been overshadowed by fear, swelled in response to Kaelen's call. The images of the Asuras, of the green fire, of the slaughter, burned anew in his mind. The borrowed power thrummed under his skin, hot and volatile.
His hands clenched into fists. His stance, moments before that of a terrified survivor, shifted, settling into something more solid, more rooted, an echo of a warrior's discipline he didn't know he possessed.
The creatures were closer now, their skittering growing louder, accompanied by guttural, slobbering growls. There were three of them, fanning out as they approached.
He had no weapon. He had no skill. He had only a broken body, a mind full of ghosts, and a core of borrowed, burning resentment.
It would have to be enough.
The first creature, more reckless or perhaps more starved than its companions, lunged. It was a blur of matted fur and snapping teeth, its movements disturbingly fast despite its emaciated frame. He reacted on an instinct that was not his own, a sudden, violent surge of the power Kaelen had spoken of.
He didn't think; he moved. His left arm, seemingly of its own accord, shot out, not in a clumsy block, but in a brutally efficient strike. His fist, hardened by the resentful energy, connected with the side of the creature's lolling head with a sickening crunch. The impact sent a jolt up his arm, a shockwave of pain and power.
The creature yelped, a high-pitched sound abruptly cut short, and was thrown sideways, its limbs flailing. It landed in a heap, twitched once, and lay still.
Silence, for a heartbeat. Even the internal chorus seemed to pause, stunned. He stared at his fist, then at the fallen creature. He had… killed it? Just like that? The ease of it was as terrifying as the attack itself. This body, this power…
The other two carrion eaters, momentarily checked by their companion's sudden demise, now circled him warily, their sightless eyes fixed on him, their growls deepening. They were more cautious, but the hunger in their posture was undeniable.
"Good, Vessel!" Kaelen's voice was a roar of approval in his mind. "You see? The rage of the fallen is your weapon! Again! Do not let them surround you!"
Rage. Yes, it was there, a searing inferno. But beneath it, a cold wave of something else washed over him – a detached horror at his own capability for violence. Was this him? Or was it the legion within, Kaelen their drill sergeant?
There was no time to ponder. The remaining two creatures attacked simultaneously, one from the left, one from the right, their movements a desperate, hungry scuttle.
He sidestepped the first, the creature's claws raking the air where he'd been moments before. The movement was clumsy, almost a stumble, but it was enough. As he turned, the second creature was upon him. He brought both arms up in a crude block, its snapping jaws inches from his face, its fetid breath washing over him. The impact jarred him to his core, but the borrowed strength held.
Not enough! a chorus of desperate voices screamed within him. Too weak!
He felt a sharp pain in his forearm as teeth grazed flesh, drawing a fresh trickle of dark blood. The scent of it seemed to drive the creature into a greater frenzy.
"Use your legs, fool!" Kaelen bellowed. "Break its stance! Drive it back!"
Again, instinct, or perhaps Kaelen's direct influence, took over. He stomped down hard, his heel connecting with the creature's exposed flank. It yelped, its grip loosening. He shoved, pushing it away, and as it stumbled, he lashed out with a kick, a raw, untrained movement, but fueled by the desperate energy of the souls within. The kick connected with its ribs, and he heard a distinct crack. The creature whimpered and collapsed, writhing in the ash.
The third creature, seeing its packmates fall, hesitated. It backed away a few steps, its head twitching, its growls now tinged with something like fear.
"Do not let it escape!" Kaelen urged. "It will bring others. Finish it!"
Finish it. The words echoed in his mind. He looked at the whimpering creature, its twisted body a monument to the world's decay. A flicker of something – pity? revulsion? – stirred within him, a feeling distinct from the rage and sorrow.
Lyra's gentle voice surfaced, a soft counterpoint to Kaelen's harsh command. Must all things end in death, Vessel? Even these wretched beings are victims of this age… It suffers.
The word "Vessel" from Lyra still felt like a label, but her tone was different from Kaelen's – less a tool, more a recognition of his unique, burdened state.
But Kaelen's will was a torrent, a force of nature within him. "Sentiment is a weakness we cannot afford! It is us or them! It is a beast, a mindless scavenger! End it, Vessel, before its kin descend upon us!"
The creature, sensing his hesitation, the internal conflict that held him momentarily frozen, tried to scramble away, dragging a wounded leg. Its whimpers were pathetic, animal sounds of pain and terror.
He took a step, then another. The rage, the power, the chorus of vengeful cries – they surged through him, urged on by Kaelen's relentless will. He raised his foot, poised to bring it down with crushing force. The memory of the green fire, of the slaughter, of the Asuras' indifferent cruelty, burned bright. This creature was a product of that cruelty, a twisted echo of a life that once was.
His leg tensed.
But Lyra's whisper, "It suffers…," echoed just as strongly, a quiet note of compassion in the symphony of hate. And with it, a flicker of something else – a memory, perhaps his own this time, or perhaps just a fundamental human instinct: revulsion at causing needless pain, even to a monster.
He hesitated, his foot hovering. The creature lay splayed in the ash, its pale eyes wide with a terror that was almost… understandable.
"Now, Vessel!" Kaelen roared, the fury in his voice promising its own kind of internal torment if he disobeyed.
The pressure was immense. To crush. To end. To obey the dominant will that promised survival.
Yet…
With a ragged gasp that was entirely his own, he lowered his foot, not in a killing stomp, but to the side of the creature. He was shaking, his breath coming in harsh pants. The internal battle was as exhausting as the physical one.
"No," he rasped, the word a defiant spark against Kaelen's inferno. "It's… beaten. It's no threat."
A stunned silence fell within his mind. Even the ever-present chorus of the multitude seemed to hold its breath. Then Kaelen's voice, colder and sharper than before, laced with a dangerous quiet.
"No threat? Vessel, you are a fool. In this world, a moment's weakness is an invitation to death. That creature, or its pack, will remember. They will hunt you. Mercy here is a luxury that will get you, and all of us within you, killed."
Lyra's voice, though still gentle, gained a surprising strength. Or perhaps, it is a sign that even in this desolation, something of Dharma, of compassion, can still endure. A choice was made. Not by the Vessel, but by… you. You who are yet nameless to us, but not without a nascent will.
She paused, and her next words were softer, imbued with a profound melancholy and a sliver of hope. This world is harsh, yes. But a name… a name is a beginning. A seed. You have risen from the ashes of countless endings. Perhaps you are meant for a new dawn. I would call you Uday (oo-DHY). For in you, however burdened, there is the faintest promise of a new day.
Uday. The name settled into his consciousness, a single, clear note amidst the storm. It felt… right. Foreign, yet fitting. A name given not in command, but in quiet hope. He didn't know what Dharma was, not truly. But he knew that the thought of crushing the already broken creature had filled him with a profound sickness, a revulsion that warred with Kaelen's pragmatic fury.
He turned away from the whimpering carrion eater, which, sensing its reprieve, began to drag itself painfully into the gray haze of the plains. He felt Kaelen's disapproval like a physical weight, a cold anger settling in the core of his being. But alongside it, there was a faint, almost imperceptible lightening, as if Lyra's quiet approval, her gift of a name, and perhaps the silent agreement of a few other, gentler souls within the multitude, had created a tiny pocket of peace in the storm.
He had made a choice. His first real choice in this new, terrifying existence. And he, Uday, would have to live with its consequences, whatever they might be.