The day after the shared dream, Dharmapura moved like someone walking with a stone in their shoe.
People still went to the fields.
Women still drew water.
Children still chased each other between houses.
But every now and then, someone would stop and stare at the sky, or look at the river with a quickly hidden shiver.
Aarav felt it too.
He helped his mother, ate his food, talked with Kiran.
On the outside, it looked like a normal day.
Inside, his heart was busy.
Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw:
the thin dark thread inches from his chest,
the towering shadow above the dream-village,
the moment it looked back.
And underneath all that, like a drumbeat:
Shadow King of Fear.
Shadow King of Fear.
The words felt too big to fit into his small life.
🕉️ Vardaan's Invitation
Just after midday, Aarav found Vardaan sitting under a tree near the edge of the village, quietly watching ants carry crumbs twice their size.
"Rishi-ji?"
Vardaan glanced up.
"Ah. The boy with two fires," he said. "Come. Sit."
Aarav sat.
For a moment they watched the ants together.
"Do they feel fear?" Aarav asked suddenly.
"Yes," Vardaan said. "In their own way. Fear of losing the trail. Fear of the big foot that does not see them. Fear of the rain that may wash away their home."
"And… does the Shadow King of Fear… eat their fear too?" Aarav asked.
Vardaan thought.
"In a sense," he said. "Whenever fear grows wild and turns into despair, whenever it stops being a teacher and becomes a jailer, the King of Fear grows a little stronger. In ants, in people, in kings, in whole worlds."
Aarav picked up a small twig and drew a line in the dust.
"How many are there?" he asked quietly. "Kings like that."
Vardaan studied his face.
"You are asking as a student," he said. "Not as a boy spying on mysteries."
"I… want to know what I'm up against," Aarav said.
Vardaan nodded.
"Then it is time," he said simply. "We start real training today."
He stood up in one smooth motion that made his age look like a lie.
"Come," he said. "To the clearing."
🌳 The Classroom Without Walls
The Dharmic Point in the forest looked the same as before.
Circle of sunlight.
Whisper of leaves.
The hum beneath the ground that Aarav could feel now, faint but steady.
He stepped into the circle and felt his chest-flame answer—warming, like someone recognizing home.
Vardaan joined him.
"For most people," the sage said, "this is just a pretty place. For those who train in Dharma, it is a classroom."
"I like this more than sitting on a mat all day," Aarav said.
"Do not celebrate yet," Vardaan replied. "The lessons are harder."
He planted his staff in the soil.
"First," he said, "you asked about the Shadow Kings. Listen carefully. Do not try to remember their names with your mind. Feel what they mean in your heart."
Aarav nodded, serious.
đź‘‘ The Seven Shadow Kings
"In the deep layers beyond this visible world," Vardaan began, "Adharma does not move only as mist and small creatures. It also condenses into great presences—beings woven from many, many thoughts and actions of countless souls."
He drew seven rough circles in the dirt with the end of his staff.
"Just as Dharma can appear as protectors, guides, and avatars," he said, "Adharma can appear as… rulers. We call them the Shadow Kings. They are not 'kings' like human kings with crowns and palaces. They are more like living mountains of one kind of darkness."
He tapped the first circle.
"The one you tasted in your dream is the Shadow King of Fear," he said. "It feeds on hopelessness. On the belief, 'Nothing will ever get better.' Every time someone gives up completely inside, one of its threads thickens."
He tapped the second circle.
"There is the Shadow King of Greed," he said. "It pulls on the desire for more, more, more—even when there is enough. Land, gold, power, praise, attention… It never lets the wanting rest. Whole empires have fallen trying to fill its mouth."
He tapped the third.
"The Shadow King of Falsehood," Vardaan went on. "It delights when lies are called truth and truth is called foolish. It lives in twisting words, bending facts, painting pretty colors over poison. When people stop caring whether something is real and care only how it feels… this King grows, laughing."
Tap on the fourth.
"The Shadow King of Hatred," Vardaan said, voice quieter. "It whispers, 'They are not like you. They are less. They do not deserve mercy.' It doesn't care who 'they' are—different family, different village, different belief, different skin, different language. As long as it can turn humans into enemies in each other's eyes, it feasts."
Fifth circle.
"The Shadow King of Pride," he said. "It is not simple confidence. It is the swollen voice that says, 'I am above Dharma. The rules are for others. I am too special to be wrong.' Many who start on the path of Dharma fall to this King later, when they grow strong and start to admire their own light more than the Source."
Sixth.
"The Shadow King of Despair," Vardaan said, looking at Aarav carefully. "Different from Fear. Despair says, 'I am nothing. I am worthless. I should not exist.' When it grows, people stop seeing their own Atman. They stop wanting to live or fight or care. That King is quiet… but very, very dangerous."
Seventh.
"And finally," Vardaan said, "the Shadow King of Chaos. It pulls at every thread at once. It loves when there is no order, no trust, no cause and effect. Promises break like dust. Plans shatter. Nothing stays. In such places, neither Dharma nor Adharma can hold for long. Only storm."
He drew a rough line connecting the circles.
"They are not separate," he added. "Fear feeds Greed. Greed births Hatred. Hatred invites Chaos. Falsehood hides them all. Pride says it is wise. Despair says, 'Why resist?'"
Aarav stared at the seven circles in the dirt.
"They sound… huge," he said softly.
"They are," Vardaan said. "But remember what I showed you in the dream. Even the Shadow King of Fear, towering over the village, was fed by threads going into ordinary hearts."
He looked up at Aarav.
"Never forget this: they are big because many small choices feed them. Every tiny act of Adharma throws a grain of rice onto their plates. Every act of Dharma takes one grain away."
Aarav let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"So when I helped stop the fight at the river…?"
"You stole a mouthful from the King," Vardaan said. "It noticed."
"And when we fought the Shadrik…?" Aarav asked.
"You tore up a small piece of its army," Vardaan said. "It noticed that too."
Aarav swallowed.
"It must be angry," he said.
"Interest and anger often feel similar in Adharma," Vardaan replied. "For now, let 'interested' be enough. You are not ready to see it truly angry."
That did not make Aarav feel better.
But he nodded.
🛡️ The First Protective Mantra
"Today," Vardaan said, "you will learn two things: a protective mantra, and how to shape your flame into a shield, not only a strike."
"I like the sound of shield," Aarav said.
"Good," Vardaan said. "Strike without shield is pride. Shield without strike is fear. Dharma needs both."
He sat cross-legged opposite Aarav.
"First, the mantra," he said. "There are many in this world—some very long, some very famous. Today I give you a simple one you can hold even half-asleep."
He closed his eyes and chanted slowly:
"Om… Satya-Dharma-Rakshaka… Om."
Aarav listened.
The words felt smooth and strong in the air.
"What does it mean?" he asked.
"Roughly?" Vardaan said. "'Om, O Protector of Truth and Dharma, awaken around me.'"
"That's… big," Aarav said.
"Truth is big," Vardaan said. "Say it with me. Not only from your mouth. From your chest."
Aarav touched his warm spot and repeated carefully:
"Om… Satya-Dharma-Rakshaka… Om."
The first time, it felt like just words.
The second time, he imagined the inner flame hearing them.
The third time, something shifted.
As the sound of "Om" left his lips, he felt a slight hum in the ground respond.
The air in the clearing thickened just a little.
"Good," Vardaan said. "This mantra does three things when used with awareness:
It reminds you that there is Truth beyond your changing thoughts.
It calls on the side of you that loves Dharma, even when you are afraid.
It annoys Adharmic forces. They do not enjoy being near such sound."
"I like annoying them," Aarav said under his breath.
Vardaan almost smiled.
"Do not lean on the mantra like a crutch," he warned. "It is not magic that fixes everything for you. It is a rope. You must still pull."
"A rope is better than falling," Aarav said.
"Exactly," Vardaan replied.
đź”® Shaping the Shield
"Now," Vardaan said, "close your eyes."
Aarav obeyed.
"The inner room," Vardaan prompted.
Aarav saw it.
The small space in his chest-mind.
The two-colored flame at the center.
The shut door at the back.
Today, the flame was calmer than during the Shadrik fight.
The gold part glowed like a steady lamp.
The black part rested around it like a dark metal cup, containing but not smothering.
"Good," Vardaan's voice said somewhere outside and inside both. "Now, instead of sending the flame into your hand to strike, imagine it… expanding."
"Expanding?" Aarav repeated.
"Yes," Vardaan said. "Not like a wild fire burning everything. Like a lamp whose light reaches further."
Aarav focused.
He imagined the flame growing a little taller.
Instead of streaking into a hand or a foot, its light spread outward as a soft glow.
The walls of the inner room lit up, corners no longer in shadow.
"Now," Vardaan said, "imagine that inner glow gently moving outward, beyond your chest, beyond your skin… forming a thin shell around your whole body."
Aarav pictured it.
A faint bubble made of gold edged with black wrapping around him from head to toe.
It wasn't heavy.
It wasn't solid.
More like a thin layer of intention.
"It feels… weak," he said.
"Yes," Vardaan said. "Like a newly woven spider web. Easy to break at first. That is why we repeat."
He let Aarav breathe with it for a few moments.
"In," Vardaan said. "Feel the flame. Out. Feel the glow spread around you."
Aarav breathed.
With each out-breath, the bubble became just a little clearer in his mind.
He whispered the mantra under his breath:
"Om… Satya-Dharma-Rakshaka… Om…"
The bubble seemed to hum in answer.
"Good," Vardaan said. "Now, without opening your eyes, stand."
Aarav stood slowly.
The bubble stayed with him.
He could feel where it ended—a hand's length from his skin.
"Walk," Vardaan said.
Aarav took a step.
Then another.
The bubble moved with him like an invisible cloth.
"Now," Vardaan said, "I will throw a small test."
"What kind of test?" Aarav asked nervously.
"A test of distraction," Vardaan said. "Do not open your eyes. Keep the bubble. Keep the mantra in your chest, even if you do not say it."
Something small hit Aarav's shoulder.
Not painful.
Just surprising.
He flinched.
The bubble flickered.
"Again," Vardaan said.
Another small impact on his arm.
"Hey!" Aarav protested.
"Earth in this life will throw bigger stones," Vardaan said calmly. "If a pebble is enough to make you drop your shield, it will never survive claws."
Aarav bit his lip.
He focused.
Breath in.
Flame steady.
Breath out.
Bubble hum.
"Om… Satya-Dharma-Rakshaka… Om…"
A third pebble came.
He felt it touch the edge of the bubble first this time.
The impact was softer by the time it reached him.
It didn't break his focus.
"Better," Vardaan said. "Remember this. Your shield is not meant to keep all bad things away. It is meant to give you enough space to choose how you respond."
Aarav opened his eyes finally.
Three small stones lay on the ground near his feet.
Vardaan stood a few paces away.
To Aarav's surprise, the air around his own body had a faint shimmer, like heat over sand.
"Do you always walk around with a bubble?" Aarav asked.
"Not always," Vardaan said. "But often. Especially where cracks grow."
🧠Mind Tricks and Shadow Hooks
They trained like that for a while.
Closing eyes.
Forming the shield.
Feeling it flicker and strengthen.
Sometimes Vardaan would speak suddenly:
"What if your mother is in danger—do you run or think?"
Aarav's concentration would wobble.
The shield would thin.
"Again," Vardaan would say.
Sometimes he would say:
"What if they call you a coward for stepping away from a fight?"
Aarav's anger would flare.
The black side of the flame would jump.
The shield would warp.
"Again."
Sometimes he would whisper:
"What if it's hopeless, Aarav? What if nothing you do will change the cracks or the Kings?"
And despair would creep in like cold mist, making the bubble feel pointless.
"Again."
After the fourth or fifth round, Aarav realized something.
"You're not just throwing stones," he panted during a pause. "You're… using thoughts to hit me."
"Of course," Vardaan said. "What use is a shield that only holds against claws and teeth, but falls at the first whisper of doubt?"
He touched the boy's forehead gently.
"The Shadow King of Fear does not always come as a monster in the sky," he said. "Sometimes it comes as a thought in your own mind. 'You can't.' 'You're weak.' 'You will fail and everyone you love will pay for it.'"
Aarav swallowed.
Those last words had cut a little too close.
"So I must shield my mind too?" he asked.
"Yes," Vardaan said. "Not by refusing to feel. By seeing the thought, naming it, and choosing whether to feed it."
He looked at Aarav seriously.
"Remember this line: 'This is fear speaking. I hear it. I do not have to obey it.'"
Aarav repeated it quietly.
"This is fear speaking. I hear it. I do not have to obey it."
The gold part of his inner flame pulsed, agreeing.
🌙 A Small Experiment
That night, after chores, after a simpler-than-usual conversation with Kiran (who kept glancing at the sky like it might crack open), Aarav lay on his mat again.
His body was tired.
His mind buzzed.
He thought of the villagers waking from the shared dream.
Of Kiran's frightened face asking, "Is something wrong with us?"
He turned on his side and looked at the wall that separated his small room from the one where his mother slept.
Then at the outer wall, beyond which, somewhere in the village, Kiran stayed in his own home.
"Can I… do something for them?" Aarav wondered. "Or is this power only for fighting Shadriks?"
He closed his eyes.
Inner room.
Two-colored flame.
The door with the shadow-self behind it.
He did not touch the door.
He focused on the lamp.
"Not strike," he thought. "Shield."
The flame expanded gently.
Light into bubble.
Bubble around him.
"Om… Satya-Dharma-Rakshaka… Om…"
The mantra hummed inside instead of in the air.
Then, very carefully, he imagined the bubble stretching a little.
Not too far.
He pictured it reaching just enough to include the space where his mother slept.
He saw her in his mind:
lighting the small lamp in the morning,
worrying about water,
smiling even when she was tired.
"I don't want fear-things sitting on her chest," he thought fiercely.
The gold side of the flame flared.
The bubble expanded.
He felt a gentle warmth beyond his own body, like placing a blanket over someone without touching them.
He whispered the mantra once more, thinking her name.
He didn't know if it would do anything.
But somehow, he felt… better.
Then, hesitating, he did the same in his mind for Kiran.
Even if Kiran would laugh and try to turn it into a joke, Aarav knew what he'd seen in the dream—his friend's dim light, tugged by threads.
"Om… Satya-Dharma-Rakshaka… Om…"
He imagined a small shimmer over Kiran too, wherever he lay.
He didn't try to force it.
He didn't know how far his reach truly was.
He just… asked.
"Please," he thought, not sure who he was talking to. "If this power is about protecting, help it protect them too."
The inner flame softened.
The gold glowed warm.
The black stayed quiet.
Slowly, sleep pulled him down.
🌌 Threads Meeting Resistance
That night, the Shadow King of Fear sent out its dream-web again.
Long, dark threads of despair drifted down over Dharmapura.
Most slipped easily through roofs and into sleeping minds as before.
Some attached.
Some tasted doubt.
Some thickened.
But two threads met something they had not met the night before.
When the thread meant for Meera touched her dream-chest, it brushed a faint, golden shimmer.
Not a wall.
Not a complete shield.
Just enough resistance to make the thread slow, thin, and flicker.
It still touched.
But the fear-dream that reached her was lighter.
Instead of seeing the river fully dry and her son gone, she saw a drought—and then rain.
She woke with a tight heart, but also a small, inexplicable hope.
The thread meant for Kiran's heart found something else too.
A thinner shimmer.
Wobbling.
New.
The thread managed to cling, but less firmly.
Kiran dreamed of the misty village and the shadow again—but this time, for a brief moment, he also saw a boy standing under it, hand raised, two-colored light in his chest.
He didn't remember the details when he woke.
Only that somehow, in the middle of the scary dream,
he had not felt completely alone.
Far above, in the layer where the Shadow King watched, a tiny irritation ran along two of its threads.
It noticed.
Its focus sharpened.
A presence like a cold wind moved toward Dharmapura in its awareness.
It did not yet know Aarav's name.
But it knew this:
Some small flame was interfering.
Not just with cracks.
With threads.
With its food.
And for a being made of fear,
there are few things more interesting
than a soul that dares to resist it.
✦ END OF CHAPTER ✦