The road to Puri was not a road anymore.
It was a scar carved through a dying world.
They walked for hours — maybe days — beneath skies that never brightened. Bronze clouds rolled endlessly above them; the air smelled of rust and ash. The once-lush fields had become dunes of cracked soil. Windmills creaked without turning.
Here and there stood the skeletons of trees — pale, leafless bones against the metallic horizon.
The world looked advanced — painfully so. Broken drones still buzzed in the air, their red lights flickering like dying fireflies. On the sides of the path lay shattered signboards, half-digital, half-stone. One still blinked weakly:
> "AI-Controlled Security Zone — Entry Restricted."
Aarav muttered, "It's like someone mixed a warzone and a museum."
Sia walked silently , her expression unreadable.
By the time they reached the coast, the sun had long vanished behind thick clouds. But there it was — rising above the chaos like a stubborn heartbeat — the Jagannath Mandir.
It stood crooked, its upper spire fractured, carvings eroded by time and salt. Yet, despite the ruin, the flag still fluttered on top — tattered, but alive. Around it were the remains of a city — half-buried houses, broken pillars, streets drowned by the sea.
Meera whispered, "It's still here…"
The temple bell was cracked, the doors blackened, but a faint fragrance of sandalwood still lingered in the air — a ghost of devotion refusing to fade.
As they stepped closer, a voice called out sharply.
> "Stop!"
An old man appeared from the side steps, dressed in saffron robes too large for his frail frame. His hair was silver, eyes fierce, but his stance was unyielding — like someone guarding something sacred.
> "No entry beyond this point. Outsiders are not allowed here."
Parth was about to speak, but Sia moved ahead first.
She folded her hands, her tone gentle, respectful.
> "Please… we've come a long way. We only wish to visit once."
The old man's gaze lingered on her for a moment — and something in his expression softened.
The air shifted. A quiet breeze swept across the broken courtyard.
His eyes glimmered faintly — not with suspicion, but with recognition.
> "Come," he said at last, his voice suddenly warmer. "Follow me."
They entered through the cracked gates. The air inside was still, filled with faint echoes of chanting. A few people were sweeping the floor, lighting small lamps that barely stayed lit against the wind. There were no gold decorations, no crowd — only simplicity and faith, holding on by a thread.
And there, near the sanctum, sat Mahavir Pandit — the head priest.
He was old, yes — his beard long and white, his robes plain — but his presence carried a weight that no years could dull. When he lifted his gaze toward them, it was like a sunrise hidden beneath human skin.
He raised his hand slightly, and the few devotees nearby bowed and quietly left.
The hall grew silent.
Then, with a slow smile, he looked at Parth.
> "It has been a long time," he said softly. "I once stayed upon your chariot's flag, when the world still knew righteousness. And now, I stay here — waiting, once again — for my Lord's final call."
Parth froze. His eyes widened with recognition — that eternal energy, that warmth, that unshakable calm.
> "Hanuman ji…" he whispered, bowing deeply.
The others followed suit, awe washing over their faces.
Hanuman's smile deepened. "Rise, Mitra Phalguna. The time for humility never ends, but the time for despair must."
Parth lifted his head, his voice thick with questions.
> "What's the next step, Hanuman ji? Where do we go now? What are you doing here… and who are these people that live around this temple?"
The divine man chuckled softly — a sound that made even the cracked walls hum.
> "That's quite a lot of questions," he said. "But I shall answer. I stay here, at my Prabhu's mandir, for He shall return in His final form soon. These people —" he gestured to the quiet devotees outside "— are those chosen to carry the last fragments of faith into the next Yuga. When all else has fallen, they will keep humanity breathing."
Aarav's eyes softened. "So… there are still people who believe."
> "Belief never dies, child," Hanuman replied. "It only hides until the wind of devotion stirs it again."
He turned his gaze back to Parth. His eyes gleamed faintly — gold under the dim light.
> "As for your next step," he said, his tone changing, heavier now, "the answers you seek lie to the south. There waits one who also remembers, one who has seen kingdoms rise and crumble. Go there, and your path will be revealed."
Parth nodded, a sense of purpose threading through his confusion.
Then Hanuman's eyes moved to the girls. His tone softened again.
> "Leave them here."
Sia looked up sharply. "What?"
> "The Devi must stay in her house with her companions," Hanuman said, smiling faintly. "The road ahead is not for them yet. Their path diverges — but it will circle back in time."
Sia tried to speak again, but the words caught in her throat.
She looked at Parth, and for the first time, her sharp tongue had no words.
He met her gaze, something unreadable in his eyes, then slowly nodded.
> "Stay safe," he said quietly.
She smiled — small, but brave. "You too, bow-boy."
The others — Meera and Avni — stood beside her, silent but resolute.
Hanuman turned toward the sanctum, where the idol of Jagannath stood — cracked, yet shining faintly.
He began to chant softly, and the very air seemed to bow.
Outside, the wind howled through the ruins.
And as Parth, Aarav, and Neel stepped beyond the temple's threshold once more, the distant ocean roared — as if the world itself knew that something ancient had begun to stir again.
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