The forest was quiet again—but not with peace. It was the hush that follows catastrophe, the breath before the next scream.
Vaidehi lay unconscious, the Watcher's mark now shattered into pale cracks that no longer pulsed. Her body was stable, but her presence felt faded. Like she had given up more than energy—perhaps even memory.
Astha stood over her, silent.
Luv knelt nearby, bruised and scorched from his clash with Vaagbhaksha. His silver armor flickered with divine static, repairing itself slowly.
"She spoke of a sea," Luv muttered.
"A sea of unspoken prayers. Do you know what that means?"
Astha looked toward the east, where the earth sloped downward into black mist.
"I do now," he said.
"There's a place the gods sealed off long before time—where abandoned prayers drown. A mythic place where even divine blessings go to die."
"It's not part of this world, is it?"
"No," Astha said.
"It's below it."
---
That night, they began their descent.
Astha carved flame-glyphs into the ground as they walked, embedding memory runes to resist divine detection. Smritidhaara slithered along his arm like a serpent of burning regret, its flame cooler now, but more focused.
Luv's armor adjusted—no longer radiant, but compact and dark, ready for deep combat. His thunder-laced spear now glowed dimly, reacting to divine suppression.
Eventually, they reached the Vale of Silence, a black canyon whispered about only in the oldest mantras.
Here, the Sea of Unspoken Prayers slept beneath the world—sealed by layers of sacred stone and divine treachery.
Astha knelt and placed his palm against the ground. Smritidhaara pulsed once. The earth moaned.
"Open," he commanded.
And the world split.
---
The Sea was not water.
It was liquid sorrow—ink-black prayers that had never been heard. Each wave whispered failed wishes, lost hopes, unanswered cries.
The deeper they waded, the heavier the air became.
Luv coughed.
"I can hear... my mother's voice. She died when I was seven."
Astha said nothing. But his eyes burned brighter. His lips moved.
"Aryan…"
For a brief moment, the sea around him froze, as if stunned by the name. Smritidhaara's flame shot out across the surface, defending Astha's memory from erasure.
And then the water rippled.
---
A ripple became a tremor.
A tremor became a quake.
From the depths of the sea, a shape began to rise.
Not a man. Not a beast.
A seraphic leviathan, hundreds of meters long, wrapped in divine scripture. Each scale bore the faces of forgotten worshippers—pleading, crying, gnashing.
Its eyes opened—hollow, but shimmering with hope devoured.
The Third Disciple had awakened:
"Shaanshaapa,"
The One Who Carries Regret.
It did not roar.
It wept.
And as its tears fell upon the sea, they turned the prayers to salt, petrifying the hopes of the dead.
Luv summoned his spear.
"We fight this thing?"
Astha's voice was calm.
"No… not yet."
"Then what do we do?"
"We let it rise. And follow it to the ones who created it."
---
As Shaanshaapa rose fully, the sea began to collapse inward, revealing hidden glyphs beneath.
They formed a cosmic map—etched into the very foundation of the forgotten ocean.
"These are the coordinates of the Pantheon Core," Astha said, shocked.
Luv looked closer.
"This is… a direct path into Swarnalok itself. Past the guards. Past the wards."
"This was no accident," Astha muttered.
"The third disciple was meant to guide us."
"But why?"
Astha stared up at the leviathan above—at the chains still wrapped around its soul, at the broken words carved into its spine:
"Because some gods want us to succeed."
---
As they prepared to leave, Shaanshaapa turned its gaze toward Astha.
And spoke—not aloud, but in prayer.
"Your name will burn brighter than any sun… but when it dies, it will take one hundred gods with it."