"Water forgets the stone, but not the blood it carries."
---
The tongue of lies still burned in Asma-Ra's throat, even as he stepped into the pale fog of dawn. His feet found themselves at the edge of a vast river—black and unmoving, yet humming with memories.
There was no bridge.
Only the Boatman.
A figure cloaked in saffron robes, face hidden behind a smooth wooden mask. No eyes, no mouth—only seven vertical cuts across the mask like gills.
Asma-Ra spoke.
"I seek the next root."
The boatman pointed to the river, then to the wound on Asma-Ra's throat. No words passed between them. Instead, the Boatman offered a bowl—not for rice, but for memories.
A Buddhist chant whispered across the shore:
> "To cross the river, one must leave behind the illusion of self."
Asma-Ra placed something unseen into the bowl.
It was the image of his childhood village, the face of an old monk who once warned him of the fire within. He could no longer remember that monk's name, but he felt the grief like a cracked bell.
The river accepted the offering.
The boat drifted forward, silent, over still water that showed not his reflection—but the faces of those he had killed. Warriors. Priests. One woman. One child.
Kaaki.
Narakha.
Himself.
"Is this river the punishment?" he finally asked.
The boatman shook its head.
"This is not Naraka. This is Saṃsāra."
A voice—not the boatman's, but his own voice, echoing back from the water.
> "You are not condemned here. You are mirrored."
Halfway across, the waters boiled.
A shape rose.
Long and thin. Serpentine. Human in face but inhuman in form. Its skin was gold, its eyes burning wheels. Six arms, each holding a Buddhist relic corrupted—prayer wheel burning, lotus bleeding, alms bowl filled with teeth.
It was Māra. The deceiver. The Binder of Cycles.
> "Turn back," Māra hissed. "Take comfort in the pain you know. Stop searching for roots in an illusion. The Tree offers nothing but rebirth, and you are already so tired."
Asma-Ra stood, boat swaying beneath him.
"I will not turn back."
"Then drown," Māra whispered.
The river rose.
Water filled with past lives—images of Asma-Ra as a monk, a king, a beggar, a traitor, and once—a woman who cast herself into fire for truth. Each version of him clawed at his legs, screaming their sins.
He screamed back.
"I am not your chain. I am not your echo. I am the root that remembers!"
His words became light.
The Serpent Tongue cracked and turned to stone, falling from his throat. With it, the illusions sank, and Māra shrieked—dissolving into mist, defeated not by sword, but clarity.
The boat landed on the far shore.
The Boatman bowed—not to Asma-Ra, but to his awakened self.
And in the sand, something had sprouted.
A tiny sapling, glowing faintly with ash and starlight.
A memory of what the Ashvattha once was—before the Asuras, before the gods, before even the names.
Asma-Ra knelt, placing his hand on it.
And in that moment, he saw the truth:
The Tree does not feed on blood alone.
It feeds on identity.
On every soul that forgot it was a flame.
---
END OF CHAPTER VI
Next: Chapter VII – "The Monk Without Bones"