Shreesh wiped a crescent of blood from his katar with the corner of a ruined banner, then slid the blade home. Three merchants lay where they had chosen their greed over sense; the fourth whimpered into his sleeve, wrists bound, cheek pressed to cobbles that steamed from fresh-spilled oil. Beyond them, the 3 carts stood in a staggered line, tarpaulins cut, chains dangling, locks shattered by the same precision with which Shreesh had disabled men all morning.
The cargo was not spice. Not arms. Not coins.
Slaves, effectively majority of them belonging to outcast communities of Shambhala with distinct features it is easy to recognize.
Gaunt faces peered from the shadowed bellies of the wagons, pupils widening at the open air as though the sky itself were a myth. Anklets without bells. Rope burns where bracelets should have been. Someone coughed like a broken instrument. Someone else prayed, syllables collapsing into each other for lack of water.
Saanvi stood apart, one hand pressed to the swelling around her eye. The bruise had bloomed angry and violet, a fist of pain smudged with ash. She refused to sit. Refused, too, to ask for a poultice. When Shreesh glanced her way, she only lifted her chin and kept counting heads, lips moving, throat tight.
"I will untie them," he said quietly. "All of them." Saanvi just went back to remorseful state but she nodded. Shreesh proceeded with the deed.
By the time the last knot surrendered, Nirvana had begun the slow return to Drona's base. They moved in a broken procession, Shreesh and Saanvi at the front, the newly freed forming a fearful, shuffling middle and few unable to walk in wooden cart hooved from the same carts as before at the end followed by other Raid leaders who joined in late after finishing off their assigned routes. Kanka and Anilat flanking with drawn bows, and empty quivering mace slung for show, Satyaki closing the rear with a walking spear and the calm of a lake. Satyaki and Anilat were like the right hand to Shreesh; their names carried clean edges. Kanka's gaze flitted like a swallow, fast, everywhere, watching for the wrong kind of silence.
"Report," Shreesh said over his shoulder as they crossed the river flats.
"Cart enroute Kankhala?" Satyaki answered first, voice steady. "Slaves. Women and girls. No ledgers, 5 women and 2 girls below 14 ."
"Kuru," Anilat added, anger suppressed into crisp syllables. "Slaves. The officers died too quickly to speak."
"Magadh farm road," Kanka said, his disgust unmasked. "Slaves. Crates packed to mimic grain stacks. All empty. How can someone do that to humans? It's.." A sharp gaze from Shreesh and Kanka reading the atmosphere fell silent.
Shreesh's jaw set. "Mine, Kupawara, slaves." He looked at Saanvi.
She swallowed. "And the Paithan route," she said. "Slaves again. No one spoke Saubal's name, but the routes weren't random; they were rehearsed."
"And Jishnu's?" Satyaki asked.
Shreesh exhaled through his nose. "Cobble stones. Weight for theatre. Nothing else."
No one replied. The reeds hissed at their ankles and the last flutter of daylight ran out along the river like spilt mercury. Below them the chambers of Drona's compound rose from the evening, lanterns lifting and lowering like careful breaths. The gate opened before Shreesh could knock. Drona himself stood there bearing the gravity of a mountain under cloth.
He took in the line, the freed, the bruised, the bodies being dragged for burning, and his hands curled until the knuckles flared. For a heartbeat Shreesh thought Drona would crush the doorframe to powder. Instead the old warrior stepped aside and let the tide enter, face carved with restraint.
Inside the courtyard, bedrolls appeared as if conjured, fires snapped awake, water jars changed hands. Satyaki and Anilat worked with the grace of those who understood triage; Kanka kept watch at the rear gate, a shadow threaded. Saanvi moved among the women slowly, whispering names back to them until the syllables began to sound like home.
Only when the freed were settled and counted did the talk resume. Drona stood beneath the prayer-flag pines, listening.
"All ," Shreesh said, voice even. "Every last one of them. How could this happen? How can the empire fall so low?"
Drona's mouth thinned. "Saubal writes in misdirection and spends life as ink." He looked past Shreesh to the courtyard's far corner, where a stillness had pooled. "And why did you bring the dead home?"
Shreesh just chose not to answer it.
In the shaded corner, Arzu's body lay upon a board sanded by many such farewells. His chest was bound where the blade had gone in. His face had been washed. A thin string of marigolds circled his wrists.
Saanvi led the lady to her husband's lifeless form and helped her sit beside her only support, Her shoulders straight, eyes dry. Dry not for lack of sorrow but because something in her had burned past tears into white heat. Their daughter pressed her cheek to her mother's arm, crying in low, continuous hiccups as if tears were a discipline she had not yet learned to hold back.
Saanvi knelt without speaking. Shreesh just zoned into his thoughts and remembered if this will become of him one day. The episode of his death rang like a silent buzzer inside his mind. Drona brought him to senses with a little shrug to his shoulders.
"We will follow all the rituals to see him off." Shreesh spoke with a low hum.
"Isn't he the one who was with the empire helping them smuggle us outside this country?" Silence broke as soon as among the victims one chooses to speak up.
"We should feed him to the wild animals" another voice rose and the hum of rebellion was stirred into the atmosphere.
"Enough" Arzu's wife screamed on top of her voice. "Arzu, I know, was a man of principle. I don't care what you think of him but for me he is a good father, a caring husband and a loving son. That's all I know. I can't imagine him doing it in his senses, being a partner in crime. No matter what fate he has to face, he absolutely will not do it, have done it himself." She started sobbing finally.
"That settles, if anyone has any problem I can see them off to the woods and they will be on their own" Shreesh made a chilling statement and silence followed.
Silence folded around, thick as a winter cloak.
Shreesh looked at Drona. Drona's eyes closed, then opened again, as if he had
"We have no cemetery to rest Arzu here in Shambhala, what would you like us to do?," Drona reeled the voice low and directed the gaze for an answer from Arzu's wife.
"His faith is not fragile but he believed in Dharma, the path of righteousness that 'that man' paved for the generations to follow, I want to believe in and send him off seeking blessings from heaven. So when he returns back to dwitansh, He doesn't carry the weight of retribution but bundle of joy with him" the wife replied. A low murmur and the weight on those words .
Saanvi's ruined eye pulsed once in pain; she steadied her breath. "We can carry him at just before dawn," she offered, though the thought of escort, of risk, of leaving the freed undefended, rose like thorns around the idea.
The wife lowered her gaze to Arzu's hands, the calluses that had held tools and blades and the small palm of a child. When she spoke again, the words came like stones set carefully into a river, each one a crossing she had chosen knowing the weight.
"Then let him rise in fire," she said. "Let his smoke find the gods that know him, even if the road does not. He always said the path matters less than the foot that walks it. He learned that from the man he never ceased to name with gratitude."
She looked up, and for the first time her eyes shone, not with tears but with something that remembered light. "Devaratta," she said. "If Arzu reached where he did, it is because Devaratta once reached a hand back."
The name moved through the courtyard like a wind that knows the old doors. Satyaki glanced up; Kanka's fingers loosened subtly on his bow; even Drona's shoulders altered as if memory had added a weight and then made him stronger for bearing it.
That night, under pines that had listened to many vows, Nirvana built a pyre from sandal and cedar. They dressed Arzu in the linen kept for vows and victories. Shreesh placed Arzu's blade, cleaned, oiled, wrapped, across his chest. Saanvi tucked a thread of marigold into his palm and then, with trembling care, pressed his daughter's tiny hand over it so that the flower touched both their skins.
"Finally you are free" Shreesh murmured, voice carrying without strain. "Choose something happy and worth enduring for, this time. See you someday again.. Until later"
The torch kissed the kindling. For a breath nothing happened, then the flame found its language and began to speak. It climbed slowly and sure, took Arzu into its geometry, lifted what had been heavy into a light that did not hurt to hold.
Shreesh did not close his eyes. He had spent too much of his life learning to look at what men preferred to leave behind their lids. He stood present, letting smoke write in his hair, letting heat press the ache out of his bones. When it was time, he stepped forward and bowed. Not the bow of a commander to a soldier, nor of a man to a friend, but of a witness to a life that had refused to become smaller than itself.
Behind him, the child's crying softened until it was a thread, then a whisper, then a memory. The wife's hands never left her lap. If there were tears, they burned where only she could feel them.
When the pyre settled into embers, Drona lifted a palm. "We will watch until dawn," he said. "Then we carry what remains to the river stone and let the last ash decide its own path."
The courtyard thinned to quiet stations, watches set, bows oiled, water kept warm. Satyaki, Anilat, and Kanka took turns at the gate, Saanvi sat against a pillar, fingers resting near her eye without touching it, counting breaths until the pain and the night reached an agreement.
Shreesh remained where he was, the emberglow drawing a map across his face. Jishnu's empty box lay nearby, lid open to the stars as if to confess its fraud to witnesses that could not be deceived. Somewhere beyond the compound a jackal called once and then thought better of it.
By first light the pyre was a bowl of red sand. The last smoke rose thin and white, an unbroken line.
Arzu's wife stood. She looked toward the east, where the sun was gathering itself behind the ridge, and whispered a farewell in a cadence. Then, very gently, she took her child's hand and led her to the threshold where day begins. They paused there between shadow and light, not crossing, not retreating, simply existing at the precise point where choosing becomes possible.
And far from the scent of cedar and the hush of vows, beyond the ridgelines and the river and a hundred patient miles of rock and road, the man whose name had been spoken was already moving.
The borderlands of Shambhala stretched barren beneath the dusk, a wasteland of jagged ridges and dust-veiled plains where even the wind carried unease. A thin line of travellers trudged slowly, their sandals worn to strings, robes caked in mud. At the head walked a saint draped in ochre, his wooden staff clicking against the stones, voice humming mantras that hung fragile in the air. Behind him, three young men carried sacks and water-skins, their faces sunken with hunger but their eyes darting far too sharply for men of faith.
Crossing into the Kuru kingdom on foot was unusual, almost a declaration in itself. Most pilgrims avoided this treacherous route, the patrols, the bandits, the silence that felt heavier than night. But these men seemed unbothered, as though their destination justified the risk.
And then, without warning, the air shifted.
From the mist of the ravine, a figure appeared. Neither hurried nor hesitant, he walked with the calm of someone who did not need to prove he belonged. The travellers froze. Even the saint's chant faltered into silence.
His frame was massive, every step balanced with a grace that belonged more to a blade than a man. His hair streaked with silver, his eyes deep, unreadable—like wells holding the reflection of storms. The faint sigil burned onto his wrist was enough for any who knew to tremble.
Devaratta.
The D-11 warrior. The only man in Shambhala's long memory to carry that title. To some, a ghost of old wars. To others, a god who had once walked among men.
The travellers instinctively lowered their gazes, though their fingers curled tighter around the hilts of blades hidden beneath their cloaks.
"At this hour?" Devaratta's voice was low, unhurried. "You've strayed far into these ridges. Pilgrims avoid this path. The saint walks with you, yet his feet drag as though forced. Tell me one thing, what do you seek in Kuru, and why without a steed or cart?"
One of the younger men forced a laugh, his tone too quick, pride bleeding through it. "We are not entitled to give any information to some stranger. Try anything foolish, and I'll see to it myself." He jabbed a finger at the ground. "You'd better not meddle with us."
Another henchman stepped in, voice sharp. "We don't want anyone prying into our business. So state yours first."
The saint shifted uncomfortably, eyes fixed on the ground, lips quivering as though he had recognized a god.
Devaratta's gaze narrowed. "Hey, priest—why so intimidated? Did I do anything to offend you?"
The third traveller blurted before the others could stop him, anger flashing in his eyes. "You speak as though you know everything. Who exactly are—" He froze mid-sentence, realization crashing into him. The man before him knew no bounds. Terror flickered across his face. He bit his tongue.
Devaratta's expression did not change. Only his eyes hardened, recognition cutting through the dusk. "So. You're coming from Shambhala, aren't you?" His tone carried a weight of certainty.
That single word unsettled them.
The three dropped their sacks in unison, steel flashing from their sleeves. No more lies—only violence sharpened into intent. Yet even as they lunged, some part of them seemed to accept they would not return alive.
But before a single strike could land, the sky itself betrayed them.
A rumble cracked through the heavens, rolling like the growl of a beast too vast to be seen. Black clouds gathered without horizon, swallowing the stars. The air pressed heavy, thick with static. Dust swirled upward instead of down, leaves whipped against the ground, and the temperature fell with an unnatural chill.
The men froze mid-lunge. Their blades shook in their hands as if the metal itself feared what was coming.
Devaratta had not moved. His eyes lifted once to the clouds, then back to them. "You should not have tried."
The first scream was drowned by thunder. The second never left a throat. When lightning fell, it was not white, it was violet, unnatural, curling like a serpent through the earth. And in that single blink of light, the men were gone. No blood. No bodies. Only shadows scorched into the stones where they had stood.
The saint collapsed to his knees, muttering prayers with the desperation of a man who had glimpsed both miracle and apocalypse.
Devaratta looked past him, into the dark where the borders stretched endless. He did not gloat. He did not speak again. Only his silence remained, a silence heavier than storm, carrying with it the certainty that something greater had stirred.
Far away, beyond the clouds now rolling back into emptiness, a page floated in mid-air, bearing the name Matang and sealed with Saubal's crest.
"So, I was right about my hunch." Devaratta smirked as the world around him seemed to wither, and the moon broke free of its veil. His silver hair glistened, adorned by the cold, merciless light.
Back at Drona's base, Shambhala
The embers of Arzu's pyre glowed faintly, casting long shadows that writhed against the courtyard walls. The fragrance of sandal and cedar lingered, heavy and clinging. Shreesh stood silently for a long while, then bent forward, letting a single marigold fall into the ashes.
"Sleep well, brother," he murmured. "Your path is walked."
Drona waited nearby, arms folded, his voice carrying the weight of command.
"You gave him his due. Now, what of the captives? They are not soldiers. Most are women, untrained in any art of survival save the hearth. What will you do with them?"
Shreesh's gaze drifted to the freed, curled in blankets, their eyes hollowed by fear. The silence stretched until it threatened to break.
Finally, he said, blunt as iron: "Let their Dharma guide them. Not me."
Before Drona could press further, the sound of hesitant footsteps stirred the air.
A young man entered the courtyard, pausing under the torchlight. His stride was careful, but his presence carried a weight that drew every eye.
Everyone from Nirvana froze.
It was Shreesh.
And yet… not.
The same lean frame. The same sharp jawline. The same skin weathered by long journeys. Only one thing was missing—the scar that slashed across Shreesh's cheek. This guy's face was whole, untouched.
Weapons shifted. Whispers crackled in the silence and everyone was thrown into utter confusion. They are not able to believe their eyes.
Kriday's gaze swept across the crowd, and then his eyes caught on a single face. His chest tightened. His lips almost formed a word "Shis—" before a voice cut him off.
"What trickery is this?" Satyaki's hand went to his spear.
Anilat muttered, suspicion low in his tone. "A twin? No. There was never mention of one. Rare, almost unheard of."
Kanka's eyes narrowed. "An infiltrator. Someone from the empire sent to break our ranks."
The murmurs swelled and all point to the eerie presence of an entity that shouldn't have existed in the first place because it is very rare to have a doppelganger or twins in Dwitansh.
Kriday held his ground, though unease flickered in his eyes. His voice was steady, cautious, while inside his mind reeled.
'Shishta 'or someone else? Has she also transmigrated like me? No, her eyes are colder, darker. Shishta would have come to me, smiled, teased, even if we weren't close. She is a bit more dark for a character like her and somehow I can't exactly sense the same vibe as her. Shishta I Know will come and say hi to me at least.She would've asked where I've been. It's been a week since I ended up here, and yet,nothing. Clothes may differ, but the heart? The attitude? It isn't her. She's giving me the cold shoulder.
Saanvi shivered under the weight of his stare. She couldn't decide what to make of it, so she turned and slipped away, breaking the tension rather than endure it.
As this was happening Shreesh was quietly observing Kriday from a distance. Shreesh was dumbfounded and stunned too but he didn't feel any ill intent from Kriday. And he noticed that he has not noticed him as of yet.
Shreesh stepped forward, scar catching firelight, his stare cutting deep into him.
"Nice face you have" he said evenly, hoping to break the ice.
Anilat scoffed, smirking at Shreesh. "It's your face. Just not as damaged as yours."
Kriday slowly turned his gaze toward the scarred man. The laughter died in his chest. A chord struck deep inside him, not mere shock, but something heavier, a mix of fear and awe. His eyes locked on Shreesh, and a single thought gnawed at him: What exactly is Dwitansh?
Having witnessed both Shishta and his doppelganger. Kriday was thrown into an eerie.
First Shishta. Now me. Doppelgangers… in a single week. On Earth, it's nearly impossible. Here, it's the norm? Or is this world some cruel mirror?
His eyes flicked to Drona, standing calm, unreadable and just keen on observing everyone around them.
'Doesn't seem Drona has as much idea about this. But I am not exactly sure about it. Does he intend to tell me at some point of time? Right now I can't feel any ill intent towards me from him but is he keeping secrets on purpose? What is your true goal, Drona?'
Lost in thought, Kriday didn't notice Shreesh stepping closer again until a question broke through.
"Do you believe in Dharma?"
The word caught Kriday off guard. His mind scrambled and his focus now shifted to Shreesh. 'Dharma? What is it?' Is he asking me about my religion? Or my Varna?' Is it common here?' Kriday got again trapped in his thoughts as it was too much for him to process.
"I—" Kriday began, but Shreesh cut in gently. "I believe in Dharma, Dharma to protect the less fortunate and the weak." He added " I think I bombarded you a question which I kinda get that you do not resonate with yet. I Believe getting a direct answer right away from you is too much right now"
As Shreesh is about to brush off the topic. Kriday's lips finally shaped the words"I want to protect people dear to me. If you call it Dharma, then this is my Dharma"
Shreesh's eyes flickered. For an instant, Arzu's face flashed in his memory. My Dharma is to protect the tranquility of my family. The echo struck him hard.
'He is similar to Arzu, just hope he does not have to face the same hardships as Arzu had' Shreesh thought, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Would you like to join Nirvana?" A Stern question as Shreesh felt the vibe and offered him anyway.
The courtyard erupted.
Everyone was stunned. "Don't go recruiting anyone on whim. This is what has costed us in the past." Anilat rejected the idea then and there with an affirmative voice.
"It's alright, I don't have any lingering doubt about him and rest will leave it to fate." Shreesh affirmed his decision.
Satyaki stepped forward and supported Anilat "Shouldn't we be more stringent in our recruitment? Asking just anyone to join our ranks will also hurt morale of other people who were clearly cut above others and secured it through determination and objective"
"We have support for our cash flows, we need their approval as well." Kanka added to the voices.
Drona's calm voice cut through. "On that part, he has my approval. But first, Kriday must undergo lessons, he must understand the very basics of this world."
Kriday blinked, still disoriented. "If I may… What is Nirvana?"
A pin-drop silence followed. He shifted uneasily. Wait… was that the wrong question?
"Apologies, I think we skipped our introductions. Let me introduce ourselves. Starting from me: I am Shreesh, General of Nirvana, I am not the strongest in this group but still this position is bestowed on to me" Shreesh exhaled and straightened. " We operate across Jambudwipa. Shambhala is one of twelve kingdoms, and we hold ground here, in Matsaya, and in Kuru. We move in the shadows to hold rulers accountable."
He further added and started adding a layer to the overall existence "Nirvana is part of an Anti-Government organization, named Chalisa whose aim is to overthrow corrupt powerhouses. We are spread across 'Jambudwipa' at scale and in patches across the globe. Shambhala is one of the key states out of 12 Kingdoms across Jambudwipa and we are operating in three Kingdoms: Matsaya, Kuru and Shambhala. We have been in and out of shady businesses and our motto is clear, we work behind the shadows to keep a check on all officials of these kingdoms."
Kriday frowned. "Aren't you more like terrorists then?". This was enough to agitate everyone there but Shreesh held not his composure but also signaled others not act rashly with just wave of his hand and just to quench his curiosity answered " We are labelled terrorists if you talk in more legals and from government perspective but our structure and reach is more unified, we are backed by few kingdoms already and only one branding us as terrorists are the one who feared that we might topple their current government."
"I can't do it." Kriday blurted, voice firm.
This answer sent chills across and a fury of rage as well. The words struck like a whip. Rage rippled through the courtyard—not because he refused, but because he had dared to reject Shreesh so bluntly.
Shreesh inhaled deeply, then turned without anger. From a nearby chest, he drew out a midnight-colored cloak, its brooch a lotus—etched with care, the size of a child's palm.
He placed it in Kriday's hands. "I hear that often. Keep this. When you are ready to choose your path, tell me. I am not rushing you. Not yet."
Shreesh tapped Kriday's shoulder, turned, and walked away, leaving the weight of the cloak heavy in Kriday's palms and his thoughts spiraling as he stared at Shreesh's back.
Kriday's fingers tightened around the midnight cloak, its lotus emblem gleaming faintly in the torchlight. Around him, Nirvana's voices still whispered with doubt, but all he could hear was the echo of his own thoughts.