Cold.
That was the first thing Pralay felt. Not the chill of weather, but something deeper—a silence that numbed the soul.
He landed hard on stone—flat, damp, and cracked with time. The world spun around him as the portal behind him snapped shut with a low hum, its final spark fading into the mist.
He blinked.
Gone were the trees. Gone was the battlefield. Gone was Valli.
Valli...
The name echoed in his chest like an open wound.
He tried to stand, but staggered, catching himself against a moss-covered pillar. The sky above was grey and unmoving, casting the broken land in a dull, lifeless glow. He was in the ruins of something ancient. Crumbling towers leaned like old men about to fall, and fractured arches loomed like forgotten monuments to a lost age.
In his hand, the red Kalki ring still pulsed—quiet, steady, alive.
Pralay (muttering): "Ahaman... Nalanda..."
He remembered his grandfather's words. Each one now a weight around his chest.
"Protect the stone. Trust no one."
But where was he supposed to go? How far was Nalanda? Was this even still Lucknow?
His thoughts spun, and suddenly the pain caught up to him. His shoulder—burning from where the yellow shard had struck. His clothes—torn, blood-stained. His heart—shattered.
He sat down heavily against a broken wall.
Pralay (quietly): "I should've stayed. I should've fought. I should've died with them..."
The ring pulsed once—stronger.
As if responding.
A whisper of wind stirred the dust around him. A faint warmth brushed across his skin. Something was watching.
Not a person.
The place itself.
This place was not empty.
Somewhere beyond the ruins, stone shifted. A metal clang echoed in the distance. A footstep? A gate?
Pralay stood up, body still trembling.
He wasn't alone.
The silence of the ruins was not the stillness of emptiness—it was the quiet of remembrance. Every stone, every gust of wind, seemed to carry a memory.
As Pralay pressed onward, the broken corridors gave way to something older. The texture of the walls shifted. No longer bare stone—they were etched. Intricate carvings stretched across the surfaces like fossilized stories, worn by time but still very much alive.
He stopped in front of a massive relief spanning an entire corridor wall.
A sprawling battlefield stretched across the carving—hundreds of figures in motion, frozen mid-charge. Men with bows and shields ran toward chariots with wheels carved like sunbursts. Great war elephants trampled through ranks of foot soldiers. Above the chaos, divine beings soared through the sky, their faces calm, even as they hurled lances of light and fire upon the battlefield.
In the center stood two figures facing each other.
One held a bow—tall, determined, human. The other sat in a chariot, calm and still, his hand raised in guidance.
Even without knowing the full story, something about them felt monumental.
Pralay (softly): "This... this is the Mahabharata…"
The name had lingered in the stories his grandfather half-told in whispers. Ancient epics. Godlike warriors. A family torn apart by righteousness and revenge.
But this—this was no child's retelling. The emotion carved into the stone was raw. The faces—anguished, furious, noble, terrified. This was not mythology. This was trauma, remembered by a civilization that refused to let it fade.
His eyes trailed downward, where lines of script curled across the lower half of the wall.
Not Hindi. Not even the Sanskrit he'd barely seen in his schoolbooks. This was something older. Deeper. The letters were almost alive—elegant arcs, tight swirls, arranged in purposeful symmetry. Something about them radiated... presence.
Pralay (whispering): "Is this Sanskrit…?"
He reached out to touch the carved script, hand trembling slightly as he brushed the surface.
A sudden voice cut through the air.
??? (off-screen): "Don't touch that."
Startled, Pralay recoiled. He turned—and there she was.
The woman stood between two pillars, shadowed at first, then stepping into the light. Slim, no taller than five-foot-four, but her posture carried weight. She wore a white kurti, cut short to reveal dark pants tucked into worn boots. A half-leather jacket sat snug over her shoulders, weather-beaten but clearly loved. Her eyes were sharp, with a confidence that didn't boast—it warned.
On her forearm, beneath the jacket, he caught a glimpse of ink. A name, bold but scarred out:
RUDRA
The lines through it were deliberate. Violent. As if someone—or she herself—had tried to erase what that name once meant.
Pralay: "Who are you…?"
She ignored the question, stepping toward the wall.
Woman: "You were about to touch something that doesn't like to be touched."
Pralay: "It's just stone. Carvings."
Woman: "To you. But not to them."
She gestured at the murals—at the divine warriors, at the chaos locked in eternal combat.
Woman: "These are echoes of something that once happened. Not stories. Not fiction. This is memory made permanent. What the world calls the Mahabharata... was only a summary of what truly happened here."
She walked slowly along the relief, her gloved hand brushing lightly across the etched sky.
Woman: "This figure here—Arjuna. Mortal. But guided by one who was not."
She pointed to the figure in the chariot.
Woman: "Krishna. Not a name. A code. An incarnation. A tether between this world and whatever came before it."
Pralay: "I've heard the name. My grandfather used to tell me pieces. Never the full story."
She stopped, turning to him fully now.
Woman: "Because most people aren't ready for the full story. What they teach now is myth. Watered down, sanitized."
She tapped the stone beneath the feet of the divine warriors.
Woman: "These weren't just gods. They were weapons. Wielders of power that fractured the very earth. Weapons that never truly disappeared. Just... buried."
She crouched beside a cluster of script near the lower edge of the panel.
Woman: "This writing—it's early Sanskrit. Vedic. Closer to chant than text. Each syllable isn't just a sound. It's an intention. A frequency."
Pralay: "You can read it?"
She nodded, slowly.
Woman: "Enough to know that this line describes a vow taken by a warrior to destroy an entire bloodline... and a curse that made sure his soul would never be at peace until it was done."
Pralay: "That's... intense."
Woman: "This place is filled with such promises. And regrets."
She stood again, brushing dust from her palms.
Woman: "And now you're walking through the middle of all of it, with a ring on your hand that hasn't pulsed in generations."
Pralay: "You said this ring hasn't pulsed in generations…"
He stared down at the red gem glowing faintly in his palm. It pulsed like a heartbeat—soft, rhythmic, unsettling. Not frantic, not chaotic… but alive. Aware.
The woman stood still at the edge of the firelight, her silhouette carved against the wall of a civilization long buried. She didn't answer immediately. She just looked at the stone.
Then, slowly, she stepped forward, her boots echoing across ancient stone.
Woman: "Because it shouldn't be pulsing. Not unless… something has returned."
Her voice was soft but certain. Measured.
Pralay: "Do you know what it is?"
Woman: "I know what it once stood for."
Her gaze didn't shift from the ring. Not greedy. Not afraid. Remembering.
Pralay: "It's called the Kalki Stone, right? What does it do?"
She exhaled, long and steady, then turned away. Her hand grazed the wall as she walked, fingers brushing ancient carvings that ran along the stone like veins in a giant's body—etched memories of forgotten wars.
Woman: "That ring is older than your bloodline. Older than your myths. It's not a weapon... not exactly. It's a key. A call. A warning."
Pralay (growing frustrated): "And where am I? Why does everything here feel... wrong? Off? Like I'm awake inside someone else's dream?"
She stopped. Turned to him, eyes steady.
Woman: "Because you're not where you think you are."
She walked to the center of the chamber and slowly sat cross-legged on a low, flat stone slab. After a pause, she gestured for him to sit too.
Woman: "Sit. Your questions deserve ground under them."
He obeyed, lowering himself across from her. The ring still pulsed in his hand.
Woman: "You're in Kandhar. But not the Kandhar your books remember. You've crossed into a world layered beneath your own. A place that once breathed in tandem with the surface… until it was sealed."
Pralay: "Sealed? Like locked away?"
Woman: "More like buried. This place—this realm—is called Bhoolok-Antar. The Earth beneath the Earth. The memory beneath the mirror."
He blinked, trying to process.
Pralay: "So… another Earth?"
Woman: "No. Your Earth. But not the part your people remember. The outer world—your world—is the shell. This is what sleeps beneath it. And now it's waking."
A silence hung between them.
Woman: "Here, thought can shape reality. Breath can unlock memory. Nature still remembers its voice, and time doesn't always run forward."
Pralay: "My grandfather… told me to find someone. A man named Ahaman. Do you know him?"
She opened her eyes again. The question lingered between them like smoke.
Woman: "We met. Once."
Nothing more. Her tone made it clear that subject was closed.
Pralay looked down at the ring again.
Pralay: "Then... why did he send me here? What am I supposed to do with this?"
Woman: "That depends. On you. And what you carry."
Woman: "Why did he send you away?"
So he told her. Everything. The attack. The torture. The way the two brutes beat them senseless while demanding the ring. Valli's scream. Her lifeless form in his arms. His grandfather's fury. The red ring pressed into his hand. The portal.
When he finished, he fell silent, chest heaving with something halfway between grief and exhaustion.
She didn't interrupt once.
Only when he finished did she rise slowly, as if weighed down by his words.
Woman: "Come."
She walked toward a narrow hallway overgrown with vines. Pralay followed.
The corridor curved downward, and the walls began to change. No longer carvings of war—now they depicted figures in seated postures, circles of light radiating from their spines. Symbols aligned with their bodies. He instinctively knew they represented chakras, though he'd only heard the word in passing before.
Pralay: "Where are we going?"
Woman: "Magadh."
Pralay: "As in the ancient kingdom?"
She nodded once.
Woman: "In its eastern reaches lies Nalanda. Not the version from your textbooks. It's no ordinary university."
She raised her hand and placed it on a round stone seal. Symbols ignited under her palm in red-gold spirals.
Woman: "It's a sanctuary. A crucible. A place where yoga is not performance, but discipline. Where dhyan—true meditation—isn't escape... it's awakening. A weapon. There, your blood will either fall back to sleep… or remember what it truly is."
The floor beneath them lit up, a circular mandala glowing brighter with every word.
Pralay (quietly): "Why me?"
She stepped closer, her face suddenly inches from his.
Woman: "That is not for you to ask. Not yet."
The portal surged, pulsing with low, ancient sound.
Woman: "Before you leave, I must know something. Your name."
Pralay hesitated.
Then said it:
Pralay: "My name is Pralay... Pralay ---------."
The moment his surname left his lips, everything stopped.
The portal froze. The air itself seemed to still. Her eyes widened—not with surprise… but with recognition. A tremor passed through her. The light flickered as if momentarily afraid of the name itself.
She turned away, her voice barely above a whisper.
Woman: "I was right…"
Pralay: "What?"
Woman (softly): "The name still carries weight. Still shakes the stones beneath us. That shouldn't be possible."
Pralay: "What does it mean?"
She looked over her shoulder.
Woman: "It means... if anyone hears that name again, you'll die before you can ask the question a second time."
Pralay: "Why?"
Woman: "Because some names are not names anymore. They are triggers. Burdens. Warnings. That name was supposed to disappear with the last cycle."
The wind picked up around them. The mandala resumed its spin.
Woman: "When you reach Nalanda, say only that your name is Pralay. No more. Not to monks. Not to strangers. Not even to the trees."
He stood within the circle of light now, ready to be taken—but not ready to leave.
Pralay: "Wait… what do I call you?"
She paused. Her eyes dimmed for just a moment. The mask cracked.
And she spoke, not with pride, but with something like regret.
Woman: "They once called me… Kaalratri Devi."
The portal flared.
Red. Gold. Breathless.
Then—
Nothing.
[End of Chapter]