The air was still, unnervingly so, as Om and Dawon moved deeper into the shifting forest. The trees here were no longer ordinary—each one twisted upward like a green tower, bark glimmering faintly as if light were being drawn in and swallowed whole. Their senses were sharp, honed from weeks of survival, yet something gnawed at Om's instincts.
It was Dawon who stopped first, his golden eyes narrowing, his nose twitching as he sniffed the faintest ripple in the world around them. The lion's mane bristled, every strand of hair rising as though an unseen wind was pressing against him.
Then Om saw it.
Just a few steps ahead, reality itself seemed to bend and distort—a shimmering oval hanging in the air, like a crack in a mirror that revealed no reflection behind it. Colors bled and twisted, folding into each other, until the entire anomaly pulsed like a living wound. A rift.
"Zero," Om muttered under his breath, his hand tightening into a fist. "What is this?"
Inside his consciousness, Zero's voice was unusually sharp, processing a storm of data.
[Analyzing…]
A pause.
[Unknown spatial distortion detected.]
[No record of identical phenomena.]
[Probability of artificial origin—uncertain.]
[Recommendation: avoid engagement.]
Om's gaze lingered on the rift. His gut screamed at him that it was wrong, that stepping even a pace closer would tear something open that should never be touched. Dawon, too, shifted uneasily, his claws scraping the ground as a low growl rumbled in his throat.
"We're leaving," Om said firmly, his hand brushing against Dawon's mane.
The lion snorted in agreement, muscles coiling as both turned away.
But the rift did not allow retreat.
A sudden suction exploded outward. The ground cracked beneath Om's feet, roots ripped free, and leaves were torn from towering trees as if the forest itself was being devoured. Dawon roared, digging his claws into the soil, but the pull was merciless.
"Not good—!" Om barely had time to brace himself before the world flipped. His body was wrenched backward, dragged toward the distortion as though invisible chains had wrapped around his chest. Dawon's massive frame slammed against his side, both swallowed whole.
The last thing Om heard was Zero's clipped, broken tone:
[Unable… to process… this anomaly…]
Darkness swallowed them.
Om opened his eyes—or perhaps his mind did, for there was no body, no ground beneath him, only endless drift. He and Dawon floated in a vast nothingness where gravity, direction, even time itself felt fractured. Space bent, folding into rivers of color that stretched into infinity.
The pull had not ended. It dragged them deeper, faster, as though some unseen force demanded their arrival. Dawon thrashed against the invisible current, his mighty form glowing faintly with the golden Sanskrit patterns that had become part of him. Yet even his roars were silent here, swallowed by the emptiness.
Then Om saw them.
Two shadows.
Faint, indistinct forms gliding along the stream of space. They were distant yet overwhelming, presences that pressed on his soul with unbearable weight. One loomed tall and regal, like a sovereign in chains. The other hunched, monstrous, with jagged outlines that seemed to gnaw at the void itself.
"What…?" Om's pupils shrank. His chest felt tight, his mind whispering that it was nothing more than illusion, fragments of fear taking shape. But the heaviness in his bones said otherwise.
He clenched his fists, forcing his breathing steady. Not now. Focus.
The shadows drifted behind him.
Time lost meaning as the storm of space finally relented. Light bloomed ahead—soft, radiant, unlike the warped chaos behind them. Om and Dawon were cast out, their bodies landing gently on something unseen yet solid.
And there it was.
A tree.
It stood tall at the center of this boundless emptiness, its silver trunk gleaming as if forged from divine metal. Each branch shimmered with an otherworldly luster, and from them hung leaves of pure gold, swaying gently though there was no wind. Around it stretched a sea of green vegetation, lush and vibrant, sprouting from soil that did not exist. Flowers of impossible colors bloomed, their fragrance sweet and strange.
Above and below, there was no sky, no ground—only a vast, open whiteness, endless and pure. As if the entire scene floated in a pocket of existence untouched by the rules of the world.
Om's breath caught in his throat. Dawon, standing beside him, lowered his head instinctively, golden mane glowing faintly in the silver-gold radiance.
"This… isn't the Forbidden Zone anymore," Om whispered.
No answer came from Zero. Only silence.
For the first time since the inheritance ceremony, Om felt truly, utterly unmoored.
And yet, before the silver tree with its golden leaves, he could not look away.
Om's heart skipped. The forest silence of the void-like space was shattered—not by sound, but by thought. Words formed inside his mind, not through ears but directly, unbidden, as though the tree itself was breathing into his consciousness.
"Welcome, child of cursed fate…"
The phrase reverberated through Om's skull, vibrating in ways no voice ever could. His eyes darted to Dawon, who stiffened beside him, golden eyes shining with sudden recognition—or fear. The tree's influence touched him too, though the lion's mind, though different, understood every nuance.
"…and you, descendant of Somanandi, whose existence itself is a question upon this reality."
Dawon's low growl rumbled in Om's chest, but not in warning—curiosity, caution, and awe mingled in the sound. Om's mind raced. He recalled the bull statue—the one that had appeared in his consciousness long ago. The same words, the same weight.
"Zero," Om whispered sharply, willing Zero to respond, his consciousness reaching out across the space they now occupied.
[Processing…]
Nothing.
"Zero!" Om tried again, harder this time, the urgency clawing through him.
Still, silence.
The tree's silver branches swayed faintly, golden leaves glinting though there was no breeze. And then the voice returned, calm, ancient, omnipresent. Not spoken aloud, but wrapped around them, threading through every synapse and nerve.
"Do not worry, child. The living voice within your soul cannot function here. This place… is a resting place for existence similar to itself. What you know of life, thought, and consciousness does not apply here."
Om staggered backward slightly, struggling to reconcile the impossibility of the tree's presence with the certainty of the voice. "I… I don't understand," he murmured. "Why… why me? Why Dawon? What does this mean?"
The golden leaves shimmered as if in amusement, though no sound escaped them. Om felt the weight of eternity pressing down, and with it, a strange calm—as though the tree itself were patient beyond reckoning.
"You and he are anomalies. You are the child of cursed fate, woven into the cycles of creation and destruction, and yet unbroken. He is the descendant of Somanandi, an echo of primal lineage that should not persist in this reality. And yet, here you stand."
Om's mind reeled. His hand brushed Dawon's mane, reassurance for both of them. "Echo… of primal lineage? Somanandi… descendant?" His mind traced fragments, pulling at threads of old memories, of legends whispered in dreams, of inheritances he didn't yet understand.
"You do not need to understand, child. Not yet. Here, comprehension waits. For now, witness, survive, and grow. This resting place will speak only to those who can bear its weight."
The emptiness around them seemed to expand, enveloping Om and Dawon in a soft, infinite embrace. There was no fear, no threat—only an understanding that they had stepped into something older than memory, older than the world itself.
Om exhaled, unease coiling tight in his chest. The words of the tree were a puzzle, but the echo of the bull's warning—cursed child—was undeniable. He squeezed Dawon's mane and whispered, "Whatever this place is… we'll face it. Together."
Dawon's golden eyes flickered with the same determination, claws flexing into the invisible soil beneath them. The tree watched, silent but knowing.
And in that suspended reality, Om felt the first stirrings of purpose beyond survival—an inheritance demanding comprehension he was only beginning to grasp.