he pendant Meera gave Aman glowed faintly as he connected it to his old laptop. The map bloomed to life—red dots pulsing like heartbeats across the screen: Kerala, Uttarakhand, Sri Lanka, Morocco... even a faint flicker near Machu Picchu. All places, it seemed, where his grandfather—or those like him—had planted pieces of something bigger.
For weeks, Aman prepared. He studied, packed seeds, collected soil samples, and left his grove in the care of a trusted friend. Before leaving, he visited the Suryansh sapling once more. Its leaves brushed against his shoulder like a blessing.
His first destination: Uttarakhand.
Nestled in the shadow of the Himalayas, the village of Kalap was known for its elusive black mango—a fruit spoken of in whispers, believed extinct. Guided by the pendant, Aman reached a crumbling monastery high in the hills. Inside, he found murals painted in mango bark ink—scenes of ancient rites where mangoes were used not just as food but as offerings, as oracles.
At night, the pendant pulsed, and Meera's voice rang through a hidden speaker embedded in it:
"The mangoes are conduits, Aman. They grow where energy sleeps. You're not just a grower now. You're a guardian."
As Aman knelt before an old tree with roots knotted like prayer beads, the ground trembled. A single black mango dropped into his hands—cold, heavy, and pulsing gently.
Behind him, a figure emerged from the shadows. Not Meera. Not a villager.
A man in robes stitched with gold threads and bark symbols.
"You found the first key," he said.
"But now the others will be looking for you."
Ready to see where Aman heads next—and who's really hunting these sacred seeds? Chapter 7 is going to turn up the heat 🍂
Nestled in the shadow of the Himalayas, the village of Kalap was known for its elusive black mango—a fruit spoken of in whispers, believed extinct. Guided by the pendant, Aman reached a crumbling monastery high in the hills. Inside, he found murals painted in mango bark ink—scenes of ancient rites where mangoes were used not just as food but as offerings, as oracles.
At night, the pendant pulsed, and Meera's voice rang through a hidden speaker embedded in it:
"The mangoes are conduits, Aman. They grow where energy sleeps. You're not just a grower now. You're a guardian."
As Aman knelt before an old tree with roots knotted like prayer beads, the ground trembled. A single black mango dropped into his hands—cold, heavy, and pulsing gently.
Behind him, a figure emerged from the shadows. Not Meera. Not a villager.
A man in robes stitched with gold threads and bark symbols.
"You found the first key," he said.
"But now the others will be looking for you."