The night air was cold, carrying with it the quiet hum of cicadas and the faint crackle of a dying fire.
Shiva reached the small hut just as the moon slid behind a bank of clouds. The faint light from within glowed like a lantern in a sea of shadows. He paused outside the door, dust clinging to his boots, his cloak torn and frayed. For a long moment, he simply stood there — exhausted, hollow, breathing in the scent of earth and smoke.
"Come in, Shiva," came the old voice before he could knock.
He blinked. "You knew I was coming?"
Shyam Baba chuckled from inside. "I knew when you'd arrive, not just that you would. The winds carry whispers, boy… and the fire tells me stories."
Shiva stepped in.
The hut was as he remembered — simple, almost sacred. Shelves of herbs lined the mud walls. A single lamp burned in the corner, casting orange halos over the floor. On the small wooden table lay a bowl of steaming lentils and flatbread, as if waiting for him all evening.
"You… cooked for me?" Shiva asked quietly.
"Of course," Shyam Baba said, sitting cross-legged beside the hearth. "A traveler must eat before he speaks of battles and gods."
Shiva hesitated for a second, then sat down. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until now. Every bite felt grounding, pulling him back from the chaos of ruins, beasts, and burning temples.
The old man watched him with a smile that carried centuries of calm. "You've grown stronger," he said, eyes glinting. "And yet… I see restlessness in your aura."
Shiva nodded faintly. "I've seen too much lately. Fought more than I can count. But even now… I don't understand what any of it means."
Shyam Baba didn't answer. Instead, he gestured toward the corner where a bed of grass and a rolled mat waited. "Sleep first. You've carried too much on your shoulders today. The night will bring answers."
Shiva wanted to argue — to ask about the scroll, about Bhairava, about the strange hum still echoing in his head — but his body was already betraying him. His eyelids drooped. The warmth of food, the soft whisper of fire, and the rhythm of crickets outside pulled him into darkness.
He dreamt of Patliputra.
The sky above was golden, drenched in the warmth of dusk. The river Ganges shimmered like melted glass, reflecting towers that once reached proudly toward the heavens.
And beside him — laughter.
Aparna.
Her smile was exactly as he remembered — gentle, mischievous, alive. She sat beside him on the riverbank, their hands entwined, her thumb tracing circles over his calloused skin.
"You always work too much," she teased softly.
Shiva laughed. "Someone has to fix those temple bells you keep breaking."
She nudged him, mock offended. "You still think I broke them?"
He leaned closer. "If the bell falls the moment you enter, I'd say it has your name written all over it."
Her laughter was like a breeze — light, free, beautiful.
For a moment, everything felt right. The air smelled of jasmine, the world alive and whole again. No System. No ruins. No death.
Just her.
Then the scene wavered.
The water darkened, turning to ink. The sky bled red. The towers of Patliputra crumbled like dust into the river.
Aparna's smile faltered. Her hand tightened around his.
Her eyes shimmered with pain.
"Shiva…" her voice cracked, faint, almost distant. "You must help me."
He frowned. "Help you? Where are you?"
She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. "I am trapped. In pain. Find the scrolls, Shiva. All of them. Only then will you understand… only then will you find me."
"Where?" he whispered. "Where do I begin?"
Her lips parted. Her voice echoed like thunder and prayer at once.
"Deoghar… the third lies in Deoghar Temple."
The world shattered into light.
Shiva woke with a gasp.
The hut was still dark — only the first gray of dawn pressing through the doorway. Sweat drenched his back, his chest heaving. For a moment, he didn't know where he was. Then he heard the soft rustle of movement behind him.
Shyam Baba sat by the fire, as though he hadn't slept at all. His eyes were open, calm, watching.
"You saw something," the old man said quietly.
Shiva nodded, still trembling. "Aparna. I saw her."
He swallowed hard, trying to steady his breath. "We were… we were sitting by the Ganges. She was smiling, laughing. Then everything went dark — she said she's in pain. That I have to find her. That I'll find the answers only when I have all the scrolls."
Shyam Baba's expression grew solemn. "Did she say anything else?"
"Yes." Shiva's voice dropped. "The third scroll. It's in Deoghar Temple."
The flames between them hissed, bending as if stirred by unseen wind. Shyam Baba muttered something under his breath — old words, older than language.
After a long silence, he spoke again.
"It seems the time has come sooner than I thought."
Shiva frowned. "What do you mean?"
But before Baba could answer, the air around him shifted.
A faint static buzzed in Shiva's ears.
Then — voices.
Two of them.
One deep, steady like thunder.
The other sharp, quick, almost musical.
"So… he finally dreams," said the deep one.
"He remembers," whispered the other.
Shiva froze. "What—who said that?"
Shyam Baba looked up sharply. "Shiva?"
He glanced around — no one. The hut was empty except the two of them.
Then the voices again, softer this time.
"We are here," said the deep voice.
"Watching," added the shrill one, echoing with faint laughter.
"You carry us now, mortal. Ram and Deer — flame and wind — we are bound to your soul."
Shiva's eyes widened. His pulse raced.
He looked down — both tattoos, the ram on his right hand and the deer on his left, glowed faintly green and gold.
"Hello, Shiva," the two voices said together.
The sound wasn't loud — but it filled the room like thunder in his skull.
Shiva stared at his hands, breath caught between awe and disbelief.
The beasts were no longer just fusions. They were alive.
And now, they were awake.
End of Chapter 17 — "Whispers by the River"