The banyan tree was older than memory.
Its roots hung down like ancient chains, weaving into the ground in a thousand tendrils, creating a maze of shadows and light. The air beneath it felt thick, not with heat, but with a weight that pressed against the soul.
Lakshya stood at its base, gazing upward into the layered canopy. The voices were faint at first — whispers, as if the wind was carrying fragments of forgotten conversations. But the longer he listened, the more he realized they were not the wind at all.
"You've come… finally…"
The words were deep, resonant, and came from nowhere — or perhaps from everywhere beneath the tree.
A faint golden shimmer danced along the bark. Then, from the gloom between two massive roots, an old figure stepped forward. His skin was the color of parched soil, his eyes glowing faintly like embers under ash. He wore nothing but a long, tattered cloth, and his hair was so white it almost shone.
"You are the one who carries the storm," the old man said. "The one marked by destruction and rebirth."
Lakshya's fingers brushed the hilt of his weapon.
"And who are you?"
The man smiled without warmth. "I am what remains. The guardian of what was buried when the world forgot itself."
A deep creak echoed from the banyan's core. Something was moving inside it — a pulse, like the heartbeat of a slumbering beast. Around them, the shadows began to stretch unnaturally, reaching for Lakshya's feet.
"You were not called here to fight," the guardian continued, his voice a hypnotic murmur. "You were called here to remember."
The banyan's hanging roots twisted into shapes — faces, eyes, mouths screaming silently. Lakshya felt a sudden pull on his mind, as if the tree was trying to dig into his memories.
He resisted.
The storm within him — the faint flicker of the Trinetra's mark — pushed back, the air around him crackling. The whispers grew louder, merging into a chaotic chorus.
"Choose… what to bury… what to keep…"
Images flashed before his eyes — his past as Shiwang, the battles, the betrayals, the victories. Then, other visions — faces he didn't recognize, but felt connected to. People from another time… or perhaps another life.
The old man watched him closely. "Every ruler must carry the weight of shadows, Lakshya. But not every ruler learns to master them."
A sudden shiver went through the roots. From behind the guardian, a massive, half-rotted arm burst out of the soil, gripping the earth with enough force to split it. The ground quaked, and from beneath the banyan, something began to crawl out — not a beast, but a statue, cracked and weathered, its eyes glowing with a sickly green light.
The guardian stepped aside.
"Face it, and the path will open. Fail, and you will be swallowed by the tree's hunger."
Lakshya took a slow breath, the wind stirring around him, his hand tightening on his blade.
"So this is another trial…" he thought.
And then, without another word, he stepped into the shadow's grasp.
To be continued....