The sea roared beyond the cracked walls of the Jagannath Mandir — an endless, gray expanse that once glittered with devotion. Salt and dust mixed with the scent of old incense. And there, standing at the steps, were three girls who had survived time itself.
Sia, Avni, and Meera watched as the boys disappeared into the misted road heading south.
Hanumanji — or Mahavir Pandit, as the world now called him — turned to the girls and said,
> "Your part begins here. The devi never abandons her abode."
Sia swallowed hard, her usual smirk gone. "So, we just wait?"
> "Not wait," Hanumanji replied gently, "protect. The Lord's mandir must not fall until He returns."
His voice carried a weight that quieted even the crashing waves.
---
That night, the temple felt alive.
The air around them hummed faintly, and in that stillness, Sia finally broke the silence.
> "I'm not sure how long we can stay hidden here," she said softly, her voice trembling between fear and strength. "But before anything else… you two deserve to know the truth."
Avni looked up, startled.
Meera leaned against a pillar, half-listening.
> "I was born in Puri," Sia began, eyes fixed on the dark horizon. "But long before that—before this life—I was Subhadra. Krishna's sister. Arjun's… wife."
Avni gasped. Meera's brow shot up.
> "You're serious?" Meera asked flatly.
> "Would I joke about that?" Sia replied, her tone bitter.
Avni hesitated, fingers trembling. "Then… I guess it's my turn. My name isn't new either. I was Vijaya—the princess of Madra, Sahadeva's wife."
A long silence followed. Meera looked between them, then sighed.
> "Perfect. One goddess and one lost princess. That leaves me—the only sane human in the apocalypse."
They laughed. A small, broken laughter, but enough to remind them they were still alive.
Hanumanji watched from afar, his ancient eyes soft.
> "Even in the end," he murmured to himself, "the Devi keeps her circle close."
---
Meanwhile...
The roads grew quieter the further they went.
Ruins of houses leaned against one another like broken memories, their shadows long under the rust-colored sky. What had once been towns were now stretches of cracked concrete and salt-stained walls. No trees, no birds — only the whisper of wind scraping over metal.
Parth, Aarav, and Neel moved through it all without a word.
Every few miles, they saw refugee camps — people huddled in plastic sheets, hollow-eyed and silent. Robots in steel armor stood guard at the edges, scanning the air for weapons or breath.
Beyond them were darker zones — places where men no longer looked human, where hunger had twisted them into predators of their own kind.
Neel murmured once, "The world forgot what mercy looked like."
Parth said nothing. He could still hear Bali's words: "When greed eats the earth, devotion becomes the only light."
---
They reached the southern coast after days of walking through wasteland.
The air was thick with salt and decay. What was once the Indian Ocean now glowed faintly green under the clouds, as if it had swallowed light itself. Rusted ships floated half-sunk in the distance, their names erased by time.
And then — movement.
A small boat drifted toward the shore, steered by an old man wrapped in ragged robes. His beard was white, his eyes sharp with strange knowing.
"You're going the wrong way," he said, voice hoarse from salt air. "South isn't for the living anymore."
Parth stepped closer. "We need to go there."
The old man studied their faces, gaze lingering on Parth's. Then he smiled faintly — not mockery, but recognition.
"I once served a king who never dies," he murmured. "Maybe this is how he calls me again."
He nodded toward the sea. "Come. I'll take you where the land remembers fire."
---
The journey across the waters was hauntingly silent.
No waves — only a steady hum, like the sea itself was breathing in its sleep. Mechanical fish darted beneath the surface, eyes glowing red. Now and then, something enormous brushed against the hull — unseen, but ancient.
Aarav held his head. "Visions again," he muttered.
"What do you see?" Parth asked.
"Flames. Towers of gold. A city burning on the sea."
A pause.
"And a man with golden eyes, standing alone while everything fell."
Parth's grip on the boat tightened. "Vibhishan…"
The old sailor turned slightly, the faintest smile on his cracked lips. "Ah. So you remember the name."
---
When dawn came, it revealed no sunrise — only a pale, white horizon.
And there, breaking through the mist, was the ruin of a city that should not exist.
Black stone towers jutted from the water, half-submerged and leaning, their golden tips still glinting faintly beneath the algae and coral. Massive bridges of broken marble arched into nothingness. The air was hot, metallic, and heavy with memory.
"Is this… Lanka?" Neel whispered.
The old sailor's eyes glimmered.
"Some say the real Lanka was in Sri Lanka. Others say it lay east of the Maldives — a city built on flame and swallowed by the sea when the gods turned away."
He ran his hand across the boat's rail, his voice dropping to a reverent hush.
"Whatever the truth, this place remembers both — myth and ash."
The boat scraped against a marble edge. The sailors' feet touched what once was a golden stairway, now crusted with shells and seaweed. The sky above seemed endless, but the air felt watchful — as if the ruins themselves were waiting.
Parth stepped forward first.
His reflection wavered in the green water — older, calmer, yet with the same eyes that once saw heaven's gate.
"This is where the next immortal waits," he said quietly.
The old sailor smiled — not with surprise, but with quiet agreement.
"Then you've heard his call too."
---
Meanwhile, far from the drowned kingdom, the girls remained at the temple.
Sia watched the sea wind ruffle the torn flags atop Jagannath's dome.
"Wherever he is," she whispered, "he'll find what he's meant to."
And somewhere beneath the waves, Parth felt that whisper echo —
like the sea itself had spoken his name.
---