The campfire crackled low as dawn painted the sky in hues of crimson and gold.

  Arjun sat apart from the others, cloak draped over his shoulders like a second skin. His fingers traced symbols in the dirt—fragments of the runes he’d seen in his dream. Each line hummed faintly beneath his touch, responding like a living thing. The air shimmered just slightly, and somewhere deep within the Vakya, a new page turned.

  > [Karmic Insight: Basic Glyphic Resonance Unlocked]

  You can now sense and interact with rudimentary runes of fate.

  It wasn’t just about power anymore. Each piece of the System was pulling him further into something older than kings—older even than gods.

  Ayra stirred beside the fire, rolling up her bedding with the calm efficiency of a warrior. She glanced at him.

  “You didn’t sleep.”

  Arjun shook his head. “Couldn’t. There’s something out there. Watching. Listening.”

  She didn’t press. She didn’t need to.

  They all felt it now—that creeping weight in the wind, as if the world itself held its breath every time he moved.

  Raaka stood, hoisting his axe over his shoulder. “So, what’s the plan, boss? We chasing ghost scrolls or heading toward that village we saw on the map?”

  Arjun closed his eyes for a moment. The choice clawed at him.

  The Interstice was calling. The System’s voice whispered like a siren in his bones, promising secrets, power, and perhaps the truth about the Karmic Throne itself.

  But the map they’d found in Udgir’s ruins marked something else—Sarnav, a remote village said to house a shrine devoted to ancient karmic monks who rejected the divine order. If the stories were true, that place might hold fragments of history even the System feared.

  “I say we go to Sarnav,” Arjun said, standing slowly. “We need knowledge, not just power.”

  Yumi beamed. “Ooh, secret monks and haunted shrines? I’m in.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  They left before noon, the road snaking through dense forest and uneven hills. The terrain was rough—just like Arjun remembered from his orphaned childhood travels. India’s forgotten wilds had taught him to read the sky, the soil, even the moods of birds. And though this land wasn’t his, it felt like echoes of it. As if part of Bharat’s soul had slipped through the cracks between worlds and found him again.

  Every step reminded him that his origin mattered.

  That Arjun—not some faceless chosen one—would rise.

  As the group climbed higher into the mountain path, strange symbols began to appear on the trees—etched in silver sap, pulsing softly. Faint chants rode the wind, speaking in a language none of them recognized, yet all of them felt.

  When they crested the final ridge, the village came into view.

  Sarnav was not abandoned. It was still alive, but not in any ordinary way.

  The huts were carved from obsidian and bonewood. Lanterns burned with fire that shimmered between colors. And at the village center stood a massive shrine: a spiral staircase leading up into the air, vanishing into the sky itself.

  A monk waited at the base.

  His eyes were blind. His skin was marked with swirling glyphs. But when he turned toward Arjun, he smiled as if seeing an old friend.

  “We have waited a long time, Flame Unnamed.”

  Arjun stiffened. “You know me?”

  The monk tilted his head. “No. But the wind does. And the wind never lies.”

  They were led through the village. No one else spoke. The villagers simply bowed—young and old alike. Some wept. One child ran forward and touched Arjun’s hand before running away, whispering “redeemer.”

  Ayra looked around uneasily. “This place feels... reverent. But not safe.”

  The monk, whose name was Taari, guided them to the base of the shrine.

  “The Spiral Stair does not go upward,” he explained. “It goes inward. Only one may walk it. The others must stay behind.”

  Arjun didn’t hesitate.

  He stepped onto the staircase.

  And the world changed.

  No sooner had he placed his foot on the first step than the sky vanished. The earth spun. His companions were gone. Darkness and stars and distant voices surrounded him like a dream.

  A voice spoke—not the System. Not Vakya.

  Something older.

  > “You seek the throne without knowing the war it cost. Walk, and remember.”

  With each step, visions slammed into him:

  —A battlefield soaked in karmic fire. Nine kings kneeling before a blinding light.

  —A throne of bone and ink, surrounded by mourners who could not die.

  —A child, screaming as their soul was ripped in two—one half bound to judgment, the other to rebellion.

  He stumbled but kept walking.

  Memories not his own burned through him. Lives from a thousand lives. Truths no mortal should carry.

  > [System Error: Memory Overload – Integrating Karmic Echoes…]

  Arjun fell to his knees at the final step, gasping. His mind screamed.

  But in the silence that followed, he heard one final voice.

  It was not divine.

  It was human. Familiar.

  His own voice.

  > “Your name is Arjun. And your fate is not written. You are the ink.”

  He stood.

  Not a god.

  Not a king.

  But something more terrifying:

  A man who remembers.