echoes

Shree Yan's eyes opened to the void that surrounded him, the landscape before him an endless expanse of shadows and broken dreams. The horizon had vanished, consumed by an all-encompassing blackness that stretched as far as the eye could see. It was as though the world itself had ceased to exist, leaving only him, suspended in the weight of eternity. His thoughts were a turbulent storm, a whirlpool of conflicting desires and lost purpose.

He stood there, unmoving, as the echoes of his past continued to reverberate in his mind, each one a reminder of the cost of his choices. The whispers of Suman, Kiran, Lyra, and others—those he had wronged, those he had betrayed—tugged at his consciousness, each voice a thread pulling him deeper into the abyss.

Is this truly the price of immortality? he wondered, his gaze fixed on the nothingness around him. A lifetime of power, yet an eternity of torment?

The question lingered, heavy and suffocating, yet he could not answer it. He had become something far removed from the man he had once been—something twisted, something fractured. His search for immortality had led him here, to a place where the boundaries between reality and illusion no longer existed. A place where he was both the king and the prisoner, the master and the slave.

In the distance, he thought he saw a flicker of light—a dim, flickering flame in the endless darkness. It beckoned to him, a whisper of hope in a world that had long since abandoned him. He stepped toward it, his movements slow and deliberate, as if unsure whether he was truly moving or simply standing still in a dream.

As he approached the light, he felt a strange sensation—an overwhelming pull, as if the flame were calling to something deep within him, something he had buried long ago. It was a feeling he had not experienced in years. Hope? he thought, his chest tightening at the thought. Could it be...hope?

He reached out a hand, but just as his fingers grazed the warmth of the flame, it vanished, swallowed by the abyss. The world around him shifted, distorting as though reality itself was unraveling at the edges. The light was gone, leaving only the cold, suffocating darkness.

And then, as if from the very depths of the void, a voice emerged—a voice he had not heard in a long time, but one that would forever haunt him.

"You cannot run from yourself, Shree Yan."

It was the voice of Vishnu Pradhan, the old spiritual master who had once tried to guide him, who had once tried to show him a different path. His words were like a dagger, piercing through the walls Shree Yan had carefully built around his heart.

"You have become everything you feared," Vishnu continued, his voice tinged with sadness. "You sought immortality, but at what cost? You have forsaken your humanity, and in doing so, you have lost your soul."

Shree Yan clenched his fists, the rawness of the words cutting into him, though he refused to let it show. He had long since abandoned any notion of humanity. What is humanity, anyway? he thought bitterly. A weakness. A burden. A chain that holds me back.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, a flicker of doubt stirred within him. He had become something unrecognizable, something twisted by his own ambitions. His quest for vengeance, his desire for immortality—they had all led him here, to this empty, suffocating place. And for the first time in years, he wondered if it had all been worth it.

"You are not the man you once were," Vishnu's voice said softly. "But it is not too late to change. You can still find a way back. The path to redemption is not closed to you."

Shree Yan shook his head, the words clashing with the cold, unyielding reality he had created for himself. Redemption? he thought, a bitter laugh rising in his throat. There is no redemption for me. Not anymore.

The darkness around him seemed to grow heavier, more oppressive. The weight of his choices, the weight of his past, pressed down on him with unbearable force. He had long ago severed his ties to the world, to those he had once cared about. He had chosen this path, a path that had led him to power, to immortality—but it had also led him to emptiness.

Is this all there is? he wondered. An eternity of solitude, an eternity of regret?

The thought was like a wound opening deep within him. His chest tightened, and for a fleeting moment, he felt something he had not felt in years—a pang of something that resembled sorrow. But it was gone as quickly as it had come, swallowed by the abyss once more.

As he stood there, lost in the crushing weight of his own thoughts, a figure appeared before him—Shidhara Gautami, the princess who had once held his heart, the woman who had once believed in him. She stood in the midst of the darkness, her presence a light in the shadows, though even she seemed distant, her eyes filled with sorrow.

"You've become a king, Shree Yan," she said softly, her voice carrying a weight of sadness that seemed to echo in the empty space around them. "But not the kind of king you were meant to be. You sought power, but what have you gained?"

Shree Yan opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. What could he say? What could he possibly say to the woman he had abandoned, the woman who had once seen something in him that he had long since lost?

"You have everything you wanted," Shidhara continued, her gaze never leaving his. "But you are still empty. Still searching. Still lost."

Her words hung in the air, heavier than any burden Shree Yan had ever carried. He wanted to reject them, to dismiss them as nothing more than illusions, but deep down, he knew the truth of them. He had sought immortality, but in the end, he had only found a prison—a prison built from his own regrets, his own choices.

"I cannot undo what I have done," Shree Yan finally whispered, his voice barely audible in the vast emptiness. "But I will keep going. There is no turning back."

And with those words, he turned his back on her, and on the past, and continued walking into the darkness. For the first time in years, he felt something stirring within him—a fragment of his humanity, a fragment of the man he had once been. But it was fleeting, and he would not let it consume him. Not yet.

Not until the world had been destroyed.