The ocean doesn't forget.
It buries. It hides. But it never forgets.
That was the first thing Arjun felt as the boat skimmed over the dark waters off the coast of modern Dwarka. The town behind them was awake with noise and color — temples, pilgrims, seafood stalls, saffron flags. But out here, on the water, it was only silence.
And beneath that silence — the bones of a city.
Dwarka, drowned centuries ago.
The Spiral pulsed against his palm, steady and insistent.
Somewhere below, in those salt-choked ruins, walked a man who couldn't die.
A man whose body still bled every day.
Ashwatthama.
Cursed by Krishna to wander the Earth, never to be healed, never to be remembered without pain.
Ishaani stood beside Arjun, her arm still bandaged. The reversed Spiral branded into her skin had not spread — but it hadn't faded either. Whatever the Watcher had planted in her at Dronagiri, it was dormant for now.
But not harmless.
She said nothing as the boat slowed near a blinking red buoy.
This was the marker.
A government research expedition had been here six weeks ago.
No one had returned.
Just a log file, transmitted once before silence.
It contained two words.
"He's waiting."
The sea was calm.
Too calm.
Arjun fitted the rebreather onto his mouth and helped Ishaani tighten the straps of her suit. They wore reinforced pressure gear — modified by a Spiral Guard cell hidden in Odisha.
Arjun took one last breath.
And jumped.
The descent was colder than expected.
Light vanished in seconds.
Below them — shapes emerged.
Not coral. Not rock.
Pillars.
Stairs.
A temple spire split in half.
Dwarka wasn't myth.
It was stone.
And it was still alive.
They landed on the ocean floor.
Visibility: 6 meters.
Movement: none.
But the Spiral began pulsing faster.
Then — a flash.
A shadow darted between columns.
Too fast to follow.
Arjun activated his wristlight.
The seabed shimmered with etchings.
Symbols in spiral patterns.
Not just inscriptions — coordinates.
The Spiral on his palm aligned.
They followed the path into what looked like an old mandapa, now hollowed by salt and time.
Inside, scattered on the floor: bones.
Modern.
Suits torn.
One still had a hand pressed against his helmet, as if dying mid-scream.
A voice echoed in their earpieces — not from outside.
But from within the suits.
"Welcome to the curse."
"Do not ask questions."
"You'll remember when he bleeds on you."
Ishaani spun around.
"Did you—?"
"I heard it," Arjun said.
The Spiral was glowing white-hot.
Ahead, a narrow shaft plunged deeper.
No air pockets.
No light.
Just… depth.
They followed.
It ended in a chamber of mirrors — broken reflections carved into obsidian walls.
Not natural.
Not religious.
Scientific.
This was a lab.
Ishaani found a metal tag on the wall: "Govt. Survey Station #13".
Files floated across the console — waterlogged, glitching.
Fragments played back.
"Subject shows high resistance to pressure, time lapse inconsistencies…"
"Self-healing process is… reversed."
"He bleeds… to remember."
"Blood activates Spiral relics."
Then: a crash.
Footsteps.
Behind them.
But the water didn't move.
Something was here.
And it wasn't swimming.
It was walking.
Arjun turned slowly.
In the corridor behind them, lit by the flickering helmet cam, a shape appeared.
Broad-shouldered.
Half-armored.
Eyes glowing amber.
A wound across his forehead — gaping, black, and fresh.
Still bleeding.
Ashwatthama.
He moved like someone fighting gravity with every step.
As if life clung to him by force.
As if he'd tried to die… and failed.
He spoke through the water, and the sound tore into their skulls.
"I was made to remember."
"But I only want to forget."
He raised one arm.
Blood drifted from his wound — and twisted into a shape.
A Spiral.
But broken.
Backwards. Fused. Diseased.
It mirrored the Spiral on Ishaani's arm.
Arjun stepped in front of her.
"I don't want to fight."
Ashwatthama tilted his head.
"Then bleed."
"Only pain is real. The rest is memory."
He lunged.
The chamber exploded.
Arjun ducked.
Ishaani threw a flare — light distorted the water, buying them seconds.
Arjun tackled Ashwatthama — and was thrown back against the wall.
But as they touched, the Spiral linked.
Arjun screamed.
He saw visions.
Thousands of years of wandering.
Ashwatthama walking through ash. Through plague. Through every war of man.
Each time bleeding.
Each time surviving.
Until even the meaning of his pain was gone.
And all that remained… was madness.
But beneath it, one memory stood unbroken.
His father's death.
Drona, beheaded.
A lie whispered into the wind.
And Ashwatthama's guilt, never forgiven.
Arjun gasped.
Ashwatthama stopped.
Something shifted in his eyes.
Recognition.
"You are… him."
Not Arjun.
But the name behind the name.
A reincarnation.
A spiral inside the Spiral.
Ashwatthama stepped back.
His breath shook the walls.
"You don't deserve the fragment."
"You haven't earned pain."
He collapsed.
And from the bleeding wound on his head — a small shard floated free.
Black and silver.
Shaped like an arrowhead.
The fifth Spiral fragment.
Arjun reached for it.
As his fingers touched it, the Spiral burned his ribs.
A second Spiral began forming on his chest.
The fragment fused.
Fragment 5: Ashwatthama — Acquired.
Ashwatthama didn't move.
Just whispered.
"The next will try to kill you."
"Because he knows what you're becoming."
"And so do they."
He smiled.
And walked into the darkness.
Gone.
Arjun helped Ishaani up.
Her bandage was soaked.
The reverse Spiral had grown — just slightly.
But enough to feel like a warning.
They surfaced by nightfall.
The boat was gone.
But a Spiral Guard skiff waited.
A boy no older than seventeen greeted them.
He bowed.
"The sixth fragment awaits."
"But the Mirror is stirring."
Arjun looked east.
Toward the desert.
Toward Bikaner, where legends spoke of a man who could kill with a whisper — and never died doing it.
The legend of Bhishma.
And if he was alive…
Then the Spiral wasn't just a memory anymore.
It was a weapon.
And Arjun was running out of time to learn how to wield it.