The road did not soften for Ganesh after the first nights of wandering.
If anything, it grew harsher.
The plains he crossed turned dry and cracked, stretching endlessly beneath a pale sky. Wind carried dust that stung his eyes and coated his skin. Villages became fewer, and when he did find one, people looked at him with suspicion more often than kindness.
He learned quickly that a lone traveler with no banner was either ignored… or feared.
Yet he kept walking.
Each step was a choice he had already made.
By the fourth day, his food was nearly gone.
Ganesh rationed what little he had left, chewing slowly to trick his stomach into feeling full. His throat burned with thirst by afternoon, and every time he saw a shimmer on the horizon, hope rose—only to fall again when it proved to be nothing but heat and light.
When evening came, he reached a narrow gorge where a thin stream cut through stone. He knelt and drank deeply, washing dust from his face.
As he straightened, he noticed movement near the rocks.
Three figures stepped into view.
They were men—hard-eyed, rough-clothed, carrying curved blades and spears. Raiders, by the look of them. Not unlike those he had faced before, but these moved with more confidence, more hunger.
Ganesh's hand tightened around his staff.
One of them grinned. "Well now. A lone monk in the middle of nowhere. Fortune smiles on us."
Ganesh straightened. "I have nothing of value. Let me pass, and no one will be hurt."
Another laughed. "You sound brave for someone so thin."
Ganesh took a slow breath.
He had faced worse.
Or so he thought.
The first man lunged.
Ganesh shifted aside, staff snapping up to deflect the spear. He struck back, sweeping low and forcing the attacker to stumble. The second rushed in, blade flashing.
Ganesh blocked, felt the jolt run through his arms, and countered with a sharp strike to the man's shoulder.
For a moment, it felt familiar.
Controlled.
Focused.
Like training in the clearing.
But this was not a clearing.
The third attacker circled behind him.
Ganesh sensed it a heartbeat too late.
A heavy blow struck his back, driving the air from his lungs. He staggered forward, barely keeping his footing as pain exploded through his side.
He spun, staff whipping around, but the man was already retreating.
They moved together now—one pressing him, one flanking, one waiting for an opening.
Ganesh's breath grew ragged.
He struck again and again, landing blows, but they did not fall. They were tougher than he expected. Hungrier.
A blade grazed his arm. Warm blood trickled down.
Another hit his ribs, sending a jolt of pain through his body.
His stance faltered.
And that was enough.
The first raider rushed in, slamming into him and driving him to the ground. His staff flew from his hand, skidding across stone and into the shallow stream.
Ganesh reached for it—
Too late.
A boot pressed against his chest, pinning him.
"Well fought," the man sneered. "But not well enough."
Ganesh struggled, but his body screamed in protest. The world blurred at the edges of his sight.
The second raider raised his blade.
Then the third held up a hand. "Leave him. He's got nothing worth taking. And killing him gains us nothing."
The blade hesitated.
Ganesh held his breath.
With a grunt, the man lowered it.
They stepped back, laughing as they turned away.
"Next time," one called over his shoulder, "stay in your temples, boy."
Their footsteps faded into the rocks.
Ganesh lay there, staring at the sky.
For a long moment, he could not move.
Pain throbbed through his ribs and back. His arm burned where the blade had cut him. Each breath came shallow and sharp.
Slowly, he rolled onto his side and coughed, dust and blood on his lips.
I lost, he realized.
Not by chance.
But because he was not enough.
He dragged himself toward the stream and plunged his face into the cold water, gasping as it shocked him back into awareness. He tore a strip from his cloth and bound his arm as best he could.
Then he looked for his staff.
It lay partly submerged, caught between stones.
When he reached for it, his fingers trembled so badly he could barely grip it. He pulled it free and held it close, as though afraid it might vanish.
This was my strength, he thought. And it failed.
He sat back against the rock, chest heaving, eyes burning—not just from dust.
From shame.
Night fell quickly in the gorge.
Ganesh managed to limp to a small overhang where he collapsed, too exhausted to go farther. He pressed his back against cold stone, trying to steady his breathing.
Sleep came in broken pieces.
Every time he drifted, pain dragged him back.
In one half-dream, he saw the hermitage fire burning gently. He saw Agnivrat sitting beside it, calm as ever.
"Why did you leave?" the sage asked.
Ganesh tried to answer.
No words came.
He woke with a start, heart pounding, the fire gone.
Only darkness and cold remained.
By dawn, fever had begun to creep into his body.
His wounds throbbed. His head felt heavy. Even sitting upright took effort.
He forced himself to drink from the stream and eat the last of his food, though it tasted like ash in his mouth.
I can't stay here, he thought. If they come back, I won't survive.
He pushed himself to his feet and began to walk.
Each step sent pain shooting through his ribs. His vision swam. The world seemed too bright, too loud.
Still, he walked.
By midday, he reached a barren stretch of land where the gorge opened into rocky flats. No trees. No shade.
The sun beat down mercilessly.
Ganesh's legs trembled.
At last, they gave way.
He fell to his knees, then to his hands, breath ragged.
Is this how it ends? he wondered. On the road I chose?
The thought terrified him.
He pressed his forehead to the ground.
"I'm not done," he whispered. "I can't be done."
Summoning what little strength remained, he forced himself back up and stumbled forward.
Toward evening, he saw smoke rising in the distance.
Hope surged through him.
He staggered toward it, every step a battle, until he reached a small roadside camp—two wagons, a fire, and a handful of travelers resting for the night.
When they saw him approaching, bloodied and swaying, one of them rushed forward.
"Easy," the man said, catching him before he fell. "Sit. You're hurt."
Ganesh barely managed to nod before the world went dark.
When he woke, the sky was deep blue, stars glittering overhead. He lay wrapped in a rough blanket near the fire. A dull ache pulsed through his body, but the sharp edge of pain had eased.
A woman sat beside him, crushing herbs in a small bowl.
"You're awake," she said. "Good. I was beginning to wonder."
Ganesh tried to sit up and winced.
"Don't," she warned. "Your ribs took a beating. You're lucky they aren't broken."
"Thank you," Ganesh whispered. "For… not leaving me."
She smiled faintly. "We don't leave people to die if we can help it."
He closed his eyes for a moment, relief washing through him.
Then the weight of memory returned.
"I was defeated," he said quietly. "I couldn't protect myself."
The woman studied him. "You lived. That matters more."
Ganesh shook his head slowly. "Not to me."
She said nothing, only handed him a cup of warm liquid. He drank, feeling strength seep slowly back into him.
That night, as he lay by the fire, staring into the dancing flames, Ganesh felt something inside him crack.
Not his body.
His certainty.
Back in the hermitage, strength had always meant progress. Each trial had made him better. Each fall had been followed by guidance.
Out here, the road had no teacher.
Only consequence.
If I walk like this, he thought, I will die before I learn anything.
The realization was terrifying.
And necessary.
Far beyond mortal sight, Shiva watched the boy lying wounded beside strangers.
"Now he learns the first truth of the road," the Lord murmured.
"That will alone does not make one invincible. Let this fall teach him humility."
Ganesh closed his eyes, exhaustion pulling him toward sleep.
For the first time since leaving the hermitage, he did not dream of fire or paths.
He dreamed only of falling.
And of standing again.