The road from Madhugram narrowed as it pressed onward, weaving through a stretch of land that felt… different.
Anand noticed it first.
At a distance, it looked like any other forest—tall trees, scattered shrubs, sunlight filtering through the canopy. But as they walked closer, something felt wrong.
Very wrong.
He slowed his steps.
"…Do you see that?" Anand asked.
Beside him, Narada followed his gaze.
The forest ahead was divided.
Not by a river.
Not by terrain.
But by something far more unnatural.
One half of the forest was lush, alive, and thriving. Leaves shimmered in the sunlight, branches swayed gently, and birds flitted between trees. It was vibrant—overflowing with life.
The other half…
Was dead.
Trees stood twisted and blackened, their bark cracked and hollow. Leaves had long since withered away, leaving behind skeletal branches clawing at the sky. The ground was dry, lifeless, and cracked in places, as though something had drained the very essence from it.
Anand frowned.
"…What the hell…"
Narada's expression remained calm, though his eyes carried a hint of curiosity.
"A disturbance once lingered here," he said quietly.
Anand stepped closer to the boundary.
It wasn't gradual.
There was a line—a clear, unnatural divide where life ended and decay began.
"…That's not normal," Anand muttered.
"No," Narada agreed.
They walked forward cautiously, crossing into the living side of the forest.
After some time, they came upon an ashram nestled near the edge of the divide.
It was modest, yet well-kept. Smoke rose gently from a small fire, and a few disciples moved about, tending to daily tasks.
As Anand and Narada approached, they were greeted with calm curiosity.
"Welcome, travelers," one of the disciples said. "What brings you here?"
Anand didn't waste time.
"That forest," he said, pointing back toward the divided land. "What happened there?"
The disciples exchanged glances.
Then one of them sighed softly.
"It was once all like this," he said, gesturing to the lush greenery around them. "But that changed."
His voice hardened slightly.
"A demoness—Tadaka—claimed that region. With her son Subahu… and another, Maricha."
Anand's breath caught slightly.
Tadaka… Subahu… Maricha…
"They corrupted the land," the disciple continued. "Destroyed its life. Made it uninhabitable."
Anand's heart began to beat faster.
"…And?" he asked.
"They were slain," the disciple said.
A pause.
"By the prince of Ayodhya—Rama."
The name landed like a quiet thunder.
"And guided by the great sage—Vishwamitra."
Anand stared.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then—
A small smile formed.
So it's true…
He had reached that point.
The part of the story he knew.
The slaying of Tadaka.
The beginning of Rama's journey into the wider world.
"…Are they here?" Anand asked quickly. "Rama and Vishwamitra?"
The disciple shook his head.
"No. They departed not long ago."
Anand's expression fell slightly.
"They were invited to the kingdom of Mithila," the disciple continued. "By King Janaka."
Anand exhaled slowly.
Mithila… Sita… the swayamvara…
He knew this.
He knew exactly what came next.
"…I just missed them…" he muttered.
A strange mix of disappointment and excitement filled him.
He had come so far—
And yet—
He was just a step behind.
Still—
The story was moving.
And he was in it.
"That means…" Anand whispered.
Narada glanced at him.
"You know something," he said.
Anand smiled faintly.
"…Maybe."
They didn't stay long.
After thanking the disciples, Anand and Narada continued on their path.
Ayodhya was close now.
Very close.
The road widened, becoming more defined, more traveled.
More people appeared—merchants, travelers, families moving in and out.
Civilization.
Anand adjusted his bag.
"…So," Narada said casually, "you seem quite familiar with Rama."
Anand glanced at him.
"…Yeah."
"You spoke his name as though you knew him."
Anand hesitated.
"I've… heard stories," he said.
Narada tilted his head.
"And?"
Anand smiled slightly.
"He's… great," he said. "Strong. Righteous. Kind. Basically… everything a person should be."
Narada chuckled softly.
"You speak with admiration."
"…Kind of," Anand admitted.
Then, after a pause—
"I just want to see for myself," he added. "What he's really like."
Narada nodded.
"A wise desire."
And then—
They saw it.
Ayodhya.
Even from a distance, it was magnificent.
Tall walls surrounded the city, rising high and strong, built with precision and care. Flags fluttered atop the ramparts, and watchtowers stood at intervals, guarded by vigilant soldiers.
"…Damn…" Anand breathed.
"This is… big."
As they approached, the details became clearer.
The entrance was heavily guarded.
Lines of people formed near the gates—some entering, some leaving.
Merchants with goods.
Travelers with packs.
Messengers on duty.
It was alive.
Structured.
Organized.
"Looks like we're not the only ones," Anand muttered.
They joined the line.
Slowly, steadily, it moved forward.
Guards inspected each person—asking questions, checking belongings, ensuring nothing suspicious entered the city.
Routine.
Efficient.
Then—
It was their turn.
The guards' eyes landed on Anand.
And stopped.
"…Wait."
Anand blinked.
"…What?"
The guards stepped closer.
Their attention wasn't on his face.
It was on—
His clothes.
"…What kind of attire is this?" one of them asked.
Anand glanced down at himself.
Right.
His clothes.
Worn.
Slightly torn.
Dirty from days of travel.
But still—
Clearly different.
Another guard circled him slightly.
"…The fabric… the stitching…"
"It is unusual," another added.
Then their gaze shifted.
His boots.
His backpack.
The way everything was arranged.
"…This is not common," one of them said.
Anand sighed internally.
Here we go…
"We need you to step aside," the guard said firmly.
Narada remained calm.
Anand raised his hands slightly.
"…Alright."
They were led to the side of the gate, near a smaller structure—the guards' quarters.
A chair was placed.
Anand sat.
Surrounded.
Watched.
"…This feels familiar," he muttered.
One of the guards stepped forward.
"Your belongings," he said. "We will inspect them."
Anand nodded.
"Sure."
The guard reached for the backpack.
Tried to open it.
Paused.
"…What is this mechanism?"
Anand sighed.
"…Here."
He stood up slightly.
"Let me show you."
He demonstrated the zipper.
Pulled it open.
The bag parted smoothly.
The guards leaned in.
Curious.
Suspicious.
Intrigued.
One by one—
They took out the items.
A phone.
A torch.
Pens.
A notebook.
A first aid kit.
A mat.
A thermos.
They stared.
"…What are these?" one of them asked.
Anand rubbed his forehead.
"Tools," he said. "Basic survival stuff."
The guards exchanged looks.
"…These are not ordinary."
"No," Anand agreed.
"They're not from around here."
That didn't help.
At all.
One of the guards straightened.
"Inform the Minister-in-Chief," he ordered another.
The other guard nodded and left immediately.
Anand leaned back slightly in his chair.
Surrounded by armed men.
Under scrutiny.
"…I swear," he muttered, "they're not malicious."
The guards didn't respond.
Their eyes remained fixed on the items.
On him.
Waiting.
For answers.
For judgment.
For something they didn't yet understand.
And Anand—
Sat there.
Trying not to look like someone who had just brought an entire other world into Ayodhya.