Chapter 2: A City of Dust and Desperation

Chapter 2: A City of Dust and Desperation

Surapur was dying.

It had once been a prosperous town, a jewel along the trade routes, where merchants from distant kingdoms gathered, their caravans heavy with silk, spices, and gold. The streets had echoed with the sounds of song and laughter, and temples had overflowed with offerings. Faith had been strong, and the gods had been generous.

But the gods were silent now.

The streets were no longer paved with wealth but with dust and filth. The houses, once adorned with intricate carvings, were crumbling, their beauty lost beneath layers of neglect. The people no longer walked with pride; their eyes held only hunger and fear. And where once prayers had risen to the heavens, now only curses remained.

It was a place where survival had replaced faith.

Where power was not measured by wisdom or righteousness but by who could take more from those who had less.

Arin moved through the marketplace, his bare feet silent against the cracked stone. He had learned long ago how to walk unnoticed, to move like a shadow, neither attracting attention nor leaving a trace. He was just another nameless figure in a city full of ghosts.

The merchants were shouting, their voices desperate.

"Dried grain, fresh from the fields!"

A lie. The grain was old, its color faded, its smell faintly sour.

"Water from the purest springs!"

Another lie. The river had long since turned to mud, and the wells were running dry.

"Blessed charms! Protection from evil!"

The biggest lie of them all.

Arin paused near a stall where a man in faded robes was selling small clay figurines—idols of the gods. Their faces were crudely carved, their hands raised in silent benediction. But they were just that—silent.

No prayers reached them. No blessings came from them.

They were just hollow images of a forgotten past.

The merchant saw Arin looking and grinned, showing yellowed teeth. "A fine charm for a fine boy. This one here, a statue of Lord Vishnu, protector of travelers! Carry it, and you will never lose your way."

Arin said nothing.

He had lost his way long ago.

The merchant, sensing his hesitation, lowered his voice. "Or perhaps… a different kind of blessing?" His hand slipped under the stall, emerging with a small, rolled-up parchment. "Ancient mantras, written by the sages themselves. Powerful words. Speak them, and even the gods will hear you."

A bitter smile tugged at Arin's lips.

The gods no longer listened.

Without a word, he turned and walked away.

At the market's edge, near a pile of broken stones that had once been a shrine, a group of men stood in a half-circle. They were dressed in mismatched armor, their weapons crude but well-used. Their leader, a broad-shouldered man with a thick scar across his cheek, was speaking to a kneeling figure—a merchant, his robes torn, his forehead pressed to the dirt.

Arin slowed his steps.

"You know the rules, Radhan," the scarred man said, his voice calm. Too calm. "Taxes must be paid. Protection must be honored."

The merchant trembled. "I—I have nothing left, Khatra! Business is bad, the roads are unsafe, and the caravans—"

Khatra sighed. "Excuses."

One of his men stepped forward and drove a boot into the merchant's ribs. He gasped, collapsing further into the dust.

"Please," Radhan whimpered. "Just a few more days—"

Khatra crouched, tilting his head. "A few more days? Will that summon the gods back to protect you?" He grinned. "No? Then why should I?"

The merchant's hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white. Arin had seen this before—a man pushed to the edge, torn between begging and fighting back.

Fighting back would only get him killed.

Begging would only prolong the suffering.

There was no right choice in a place like Surapur.

Khatra gestured to his men. "Take what you can."

Two of them grabbed the merchant's stall, flipping it over, sending fruits and fabrics spilling into the dirt. Another ripped a gold chain from his neck. The merchant did not resist.

He had already lost.

Arin turned away.

This was not his fight.

At the far end of the market, he spotted what he was looking for—a row of small, open-air kitchens, where women crouched over iron pots, stirring thin stews over dying fires. The scent of spiced lentils and boiling rice filled the air, mixing with the scent of unwashed bodies and the filth of the streets.

He approached an elderly woman who was ladling portions into clay bowls.

She did not look up as he neared. "Two coppers," she said.

Arin hesitated.

Two coppers. He did not have even one.

The woman noticed his silence and glanced up. Her eyes—small, tired, and sunken—assessed him. Not with pity, not with kindness, but with something closer to calculated indifference.

"You have nothing?" she asked.

Arin shook his head.

She sighed and turned back to her pot. "Then you have no place here."

The conversation was over.

Arin's stomach twisted, but hunger was not unfamiliar. He had gone without food before. He would go without food again. He turned to leave.

Then—a hand on his wrist.

He stiffened.

The woman was staring at him. "You're not from here."

A statement, not a question.

He did not answer.

She studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, she reached for a small wooden bowl, filled it with thin soup, and thrust it into his hands. "Go. Eat where they won't see you."

Arin stared at her.

This was not charity. There was no kindness in her expression. She was simply too old to believe in justice, too tired to believe in fairness.

But still, she had given.

And so, for the first time that day, Arin nodded in silent gratitude.

He turned and slipped away, moving past the crowds, past the ruined shrines, past the market's filth—toward the outskirts of the town, where the mountains rose in the distance.

Where Rishi Agnivarna was waiting.

End of Chapter 2