Mehung guided Arush through the darkness like a solitary vessel finding its way out of a storm, holding an anchor to leach onto a ship, or perhaps making the storm tremble at his legs, kissing it with a beauty that existed not only in power. Arush looked at his sword; it was red and black. A mascot-wrap of red thread moved over its guard, shaped like a bended Makar in a red of flames stocked within the soul. Arush opened his palm as the mirage of refraction surged around his hand, using gravity manipulation over Mehung to obtrude at him. But the light thought the fallen warrior was the darkness, and the light was wrong; the darkness was raised from the light. The shadow it cast was never less than, but never the pinnacle of, its own reflection of sin and mistake driven by him—the source was one: the Sun, aided by the darkness.
As the darkness faded into a graveyard where death lay in pieces, both were the only thrones who had won over the dead, making death feel pity for the Sun and his own mirror. Arush's flames grew stronger, for his red fire knew only one thing: the massacre at Shyamamrd. He took a few steps back. Looking at Mehung, he whispered, "To die was an obligation, and I gave my judgment upon that. I am killing you so… you finally know why you are still alive."
Mehung looked at him, kneeling, as the smell of ashes and Chita burning nearby smoked the air, turning the wind around him. The flames were burning flesh, streaming through the night across the vast land of peace. Then a whisper came: "An obsession to serve you until death, because I am your slave." Arush felt a sudden shock of lightning cutting through his head—a blade of lime grass forged by the fingertips of a smith to turn the beast into a human slave. The plumage of a bird came like a stroke as he raised his guard to defend against a spear. Arush's eyes turned crimson red as the sun came to the center. "Then what is the ramification of your service... monster?"
Mehung's eyes glowed black with a giggle from his sword. His Makar logo came to the front, representing his loyalty toward the empire and the emperor, as he spoke with the scent of newly forged armor and rags of thread: "Your Sagacious will be a vine for victory, or a poison for the loss of your soul."
Those words were like a chime. As Arush's flames shortened, he could not see a massacre; he could see an artist who didn't paint by mixing color with egg, but with blood—a vine in Alexander and a soldier in a corpse. Arush whispered, "Infanticide is not liked by many, but I have tasted my own blood, so sharing a legacy with someone like you will be a pleasure." Mehung chuckled as he pricked himself, putting his head down with the glory of being accepted by the lord he would serve until they both met their end—not for a crown, but for peace.
Arush whispered again, "Hugun... is your name." Hugun looked at Arush and said, "My lord, please... show me a sign that I can come through your soul to the world of the living and death." Arush moved towards Hugun and made a hand-sign: a half-C with an open palm below it, resembling the moon.
As Hugun dissolved into the air, he left the Sun between the Chita, which craved his soul; but his soul was a vessel that even the pyre could never burn. It was the abyss meant to burn everything that came in its way, because it existed beyond truth and falsehood.
At NSEA Headquarters.
Maya looked at the stars while holding a cigar, as the words of karma echoed in her head: "He is not a jukebox to smelt money; he will take care of our dirty work." Those words were smelted onto steel like the bruise of a wound. The smell of tobacco in that small gap felt like a burning rose, but with a hint of more tobacco to seduce the beauty of the poison—to drink life with a smoke and a smile on the mask of agony. She looked at the city toward the sea. Then, a man's voice called out her name; it was like horses running, his throat wearing the thorns of the house: "Maya." She turned toward the door; the light flickered, a bright white trailing over the land at the stairs as it sounded: 'buzz-tip-buzz-tip.'
Before it went off, it didn't only shut, but cut the gap that stood as a river between the living and the dead. Then, a small red light came from the side—a backup. In that glow, a figure laughed, stricken to the wall in a child's voice: "Hahaha... hah." Maya's eyes glowed purple.
Pulling a simple revolver from her pocket with eight bullets in the socket, the smell of gun oil came instantly into the air as she aimed at the figure. In that red light, a child-figure was stricken to the wall; his eyes were not visible, but a red-golden crown rested on his head. Then, "Maya... I am here," a whisper came again from the darkness, accompanied by footsteps running around. A sound—"tung"—came as glass hit thick metal but didn't break.
Maya looked in that direction, her boots scratching over the surface. She breathed heavily, tightening her grip on the gun and dropping the cigar to stomp over it. A voice in her head came: "This is a high-level sinner." Inhaling the air, she thought, "Why hasn't he attacked me... is this bastard playing with me?" She could smell the rotting meat and soldiers created by her mirage power, but why wasn't the figure scared? Even for a high-level sinner, it must expose itself, but it didn't. Why? As someone touched her back, Maya turned, jumping back and firing.
"BANG—BANG—BANG."
The figure moved his hand, holding the caught bullets and giggling: "Hahaha." The figure's hollow eyes and scrapped skin, adorned with a golden crown, stood in front of her. The figure muzzled, "Maya... don't be foolish. I will not hurt you."
Maya was stunned, her body going cold while her knuckles went white. She looked at the figure, who was breathing heavily. The smell of ionized blood came from his body as a voice spoke like glass rubbing against an old bottle: "Maya, I won't take your time for free. This is the wine I brought from 7th-Century Alpa Sapka." He forwarded his hand as if a devil were gifting a small child a present for being a good girl.
Maya moved a step back and asked, "Who are you?" She looked into those devilish eyes as a song played in her head: "Me and the devil, seeing the hair of mine and saw his heart pounding outside his body."
The figure giggled, taking a step down and pouring into her soul. He replied in a voice conversing prominently with a man's voice, his body covered in blood and wearing old cloth pants that barely moved with the wind: "You can relax... I am Avaksham."
Maya looked at him, taking a cigar and a lighter from her pocket and igniting it. The smell of a dried rose came from the cigar for a minute, turning into the smell of a heart burning with tobacco. "Do the work for me," she said, taking the bottle and opening the cap. A haze of pasteurized grapes came out. A punched smell—creamy and soft—emerged. Only a person who knows the value and would spend millions on women and alcohol knows knowledge more than anyone. Avaksham stared at her and said, "Let me have your inferno."
Maya took a sip. A slurry of grapes, forged for a century, ran through her throat. She asked, "You are a top-tier sinner; why do you need Arush?"
Avaksham looked at her and replied, "To teach him to forgive."
As both blades clashed—one forged by a smith in a machine, the other handmade centuries ago to see which would sustain more—Avaksham continued: "Send him to Bengal... Tomorrow, to Ranai Desai Chowal."
Maya looked into his eyes, which glowed like obsidian. "Why there?"
"The sun must rest," Avaksham replied, walking to the railing. "This is an abandoned old Marathi living sector, set up centuries ago. There, he will meet me." These words didn't move her ground but shocked her as if tectonic plates had moved within her legs—an earthquake enough to force death to come to the living to collect the debt of a generation.
Maya took another sip and replied, "You want to kill him, or do you want him dead?" Avaksham replied instantly: "If death calls him, I will dive with him to hell."
As he disappeared into the air, he left Maya to wonder about the Sun. A hawk looked at them as its claws dug deep into the wood. Her eyes showed a precision that had stepped up—not from beauty, but from words that couldn't be reversed. In the world of the living and the dead, to sustain, they needed the Sun alive.
मम नाम जानन्ति छायाः, ताभिः सह चरामि अहम् ।
न किञ्चित् पृच्छन्ति ताः, मयि एव तिष्ठन्ति ।
निशा अपि न शङ्कते, कुतः चन्द्रं पश्यामि इति ॥
परस्वं न वाञ्छामि, न च निन्दामि दैवम् ।
मौनं बिभर्मि अस्त्रम् इव, तीक्ष्णं गुप्तं च सर्वदा ।
यदि न पुनः मिलामः, तर्हि तिमिदं भविष्यति ।
किन्तु एतत् जानीहि— केचन प्रकाशाः न त्यजन्ति अस्मान्, केवलं प्रत्युत्तरं न यच्छन्ति ॥
"I walk with shadows that know my name, they ask nothing, they stay. Even the night doesn't question why I still look at the moon. I don't reach for what isn't mine; I don't curse fate aloud. I carry silence like a blade, kept sharp, never shown. If our paths never cross again, this darkness will survive. But know this—some lights don't leave us, they only stop answering."
Next day, the sunrise. Arush slept, having returned late from the graveyard, and slid off his bed as the alarm rang. Arush banged his hand against the clock as it read 6:00 AM. Putting his hand on the snooze button, his hand moved near the table and felt a piece of cardboard. Opening his eyes, he rubbed them and looked at a file, turning on the lamp. In bold letters, it was written:
"ARUSH: NEW MISSION ASSIGNED BY MAYA. LOCATION: WEST BENGAL, RANAI DESAI CHOWAL."
Arush looked at the file, groaning as he whispered, "A man like me..." Turning the page, it showed no teammate approved. The investigation was for any negative reading per nm/k; if any threat came forth, it must be eliminated.
As Arush went to Karma at the cafeteria, he showed him the file. Karma looked at it, turning the page as the smell of coffee drifted over the cafe. Taking a sip of his hot coffee, he asked, "Why did Maya assign you this?" looking at Arush's face with a giggle. "No teammate... why? I don't think this is a major problem, but you must go," Karma said to Arush, looking at him as the voice of an old mantra from the previous night's dream echoed in his ears:
जीवनं न वाद्ययन्त्रम्, अपि तु अश्वाकारं दोलनम् ।
आदौ तव माता तद् दोलयति, गीतेन शान्तिं ददाति ।
किन्तु प्रौढत्वे न कोऽपि दोलः, केवलं युद्धरथः अस्ति ।
यः बाणानां वृष्टौ अपि त्वया सारथ्यः ॥
प्रेम्णा विनाशः भवति, द्वेषेण च विनष्टस्य कर्मणः चिकित्सा ।
प्रतीक्षस्व, तव धर्मः आगमिष्यति ।
अन्धकारे बाणप्रहारस्य अवसरं प्राप्नुहि ।
यथा बीजं वर्धते, तथा फलं ज्ञास्यसि ।
अहम् अवक्षम्, सूर्यम् मह्यम् अर्पय, तम् अभेद्यं कर्तुम् ॥
Life is not a jukebox; it is a cradle in the shape of a horse. At first, your almighty mother pushes it back and forth, singing songs to give you peace. But when you grow, there is no cradle—there is only a war-chariot. It is a chariot you must ride, even through a storm of arrows. Love is what destroys, and hate is what heals destroyed karma. Wait for your Dharma to come; take your chance to strike your arrow in the darkness. As the seed grows, you will know the result of what you have planted. I am Avaksham. Lend me the Sun, to make him unbreakable.
Arush looked at Karma, exclaimed, and replied, "I will get my backpack for the flight." Karma looked at Arush as he took another sip of coffee and spoke: "You are something beyond my expectation."
पुरा इन्द्रसुरेण सर्वशक्तिमता राज्ञा अश्वमेधयज्ञः कृतः ।
तेन अष्टपञ्चाशत् राज्यानि जित्वा वर्णपुरस्य विस्तारः कृतः ॥
अहम् अवक्षम् मम भ्राता वैशासुरश्च तम् अश्वम् अनुसृतवन्तः ।
सः अश्वः सुवर्णकवचेन आवृतः आसीत् ।
तस्य ध्वजे रज्जु-हस्तिनः चिह्नं विराजते स्म ॥
In ancient times, the almighty King Indrasur performed the Ashvamedha Yagna. Through this, he conquered fifty-eight kingdoms, spreading the reign of Varnaspur across the land. I, Avaksham, and my brother Vaishasur followed that horse. The stallion was encased in golden armor, carrying a flag that bore the symbol of the Rope Elephant.
-ARUSH SALUNKE