The statue moved.
Stone scraped against stone as the half-buried giant pulled itself free from the banyan's roots. Its features were weathered, but its armor was still detailed — jagged plates carved with battle scenes, its surface darkened with centuries of moss and dried blood.
Lakshya could feel it before it fully rose — not its strength, but its memory. This was not a guardian born of magic. It was the echo of a soldier who had once fought in a war so ancient that no scrolls dared name it.
The banyan's roots hissed and curled around the statue's legs, binding it for a moment. But instead of restraining, they seemed to feed it — pulsing as if pumping life into dead stone.
The old man's voice floated on the wind.
"You walk into the war that broke the spine of the world… and yet, it never truly ended."
The statue's eyes flared green, and with a single stomp, it shattered the bindings. The ground cracked, and the air thickened, as though the banyan's shadow had turned into a battlefield haze.
Lakshya blinked, and the banyan was gone.
He now stood on a vast plain under a blood-red sky, surrounded by armies frozen mid-charge — thousands of warriors locked in the moment before impact. Swords hovered in the air, arrows hung mid-flight, and faces twisted in rage were frozen like masks.
Only the statue moved.
It advanced, each step making the air ripple, and when it swung its great blade, the frozen warriors twitched — as if trying to resume the battle that had been paused for ages.
Lakshya gripped his weapon tighter. He could feel the Trinetra's mark throb in his forehead, not with power, but with warning.
The statue spoke for the first time — its voice deep and hollow.
"You are not part of this war. Leave, or become part of its roots forever."
Lakshya narrowed his eyes.
"If this war's shadow still lives, then it's already part of my path."
The statue roared, and the frozen armies moved. Not fully alive, but enough — an onslaught of phantom soldiers charged him, their weapons phasing through the air like they belonged to another reality.
Lakshya's instincts kicked in. He twisted, ducked, and struck, but the phantoms didn't bleed. Every hit sent ripples through them, as though they were smoke and memory combined.
He realized the truth:
He wasn't meant to kill them. He was meant to uncover them.
Closing his eyes, he let the storm within him expand. Wind and lightning surged out, tearing at the battlefield's illusion. And in the flashes, he saw it — not warriors, but roots. Endless banyan roots, growing across time, drinking from the blood of that ancient war.
The statue staggered as if in pain, and its green glow flickered.
Lakshya's voice cut through the storm.
"This war was buried because it was never meant to end. But I'm ending it now."
With a final surge, he drove his blade into the earth. The ground split open, and light poured upward like water breaking free. The phantom soldiers dissolved, their weapons falling into nothingness. The statue froze mid-swing, cracks racing across its body until it collapsed into dust.
The battlefield faded.
The banyan returned — towering, still, and now quiet. The old man stood again, this time with something new in his hands — a small wooden token, shaped like an eye.
"You've cut through the war's root," he said. "But beware — the shadow you destroyed will search for you in other soil."
Lakshya took the token, feeling its strange warmth.
He didn't reply. But deep inside, he knew this was not the end of the banyan's story… only a pause.
To be continued....