Prologue: The Ten Pillars of Eternity

B.S. 563 (c. 5th Century BCE) – Lumbini, Shakya Kingdom

The earth trembled as Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha, drew his final breath beneath the sala trees. His parinirvana rippled through realms unseen. In Vaikuntha, Vishnu's conch groaned. In Kailash, Shiva's third eye flickered. And in the Void Between Worlds, a woman cloaked in starlight stirred.

She was Shakti, the Primordial Mother, her essence woven into the roots of the Kalpavriksha—the cosmic tree binding the Fourteen Worlds. Millennia before the Trimurti, she had sung creation into being, her voice birthing Swarga (heaven), Patala (netherworld), and the mortal realm. But now, fissures spread. New faiths—Buddhism, Jainism, Zoroastrianism—sprang like saplings, their followers ignorant that all gods were but fractured reflections of her eternal truth.

"The Wheel turns," Shakti murmured, her form dissolving into the Swostani Scripture, a text carved not on palm leaves but on spacetime itself. Its 31 chapters dictated the rise and fall of epochs, the dance of Deva and Asura, and the secret art of Amaratva—immortality. Yet even she could not foresee the schism among her guardians: the Dashnami.

B.S. 948 (c. 9th Century CE) – Himalayas, Hidden Realm of Dashnami

Ten men and women stood atop a glacier glowing with runes. They were the Aadi Shishya, the First Disciples, each bearing a name suffix marking their duty:

Giri (Mountains): Sovereigns of earthly realms.

Puri (Cities): Weavers of mortal fate.

Saraswati (Knowledge): Archivists of cosmic law.

Bharati (Speech): Masters of primal mantras.

Van (Forests): Wardens of celestial flora.

Aranya (Wilderness): Keepers of forbidden beasts.

Parvat (Peaks): Sentinels of dimensional gates.

Sagar (Oceans): Navigators of the void.

Tirtha (Pilgrimage): Guides of soul transmigration.

Ashram (Sanctum): Architects of sacred geometry.

Their pact was simple: guard the Swostani's secrets, mediate divine conflicts, and never interfere in mortal strife. For this, they were granted slivers of Shakti's power—Vidyut (lightning) for Giri, Varuna (water) for Sagar, Vak (speech) for Bharati. But power breeds discord.

When Rudra Puri, a zealot of the Puri lineage, slaughtered a village to "preserve cosmic balance," the Dashnami fractured. The Giri patriarch, Vidur Giri, invoked Shakti's covenant: "To spill mortal blood is to forfeit divinity." Rudra was stripped of his Vidya (esoteric power) and exiled. But as he vanished into the Tibetan plateau, he hissed a vow: "The Fourteen Worlds will burn… and I will reclaim what is mine."

B.S. 1562 (c. 15th Century CE) – Kathmandu Valley

The Dashnami's shadow empire stretched from Angkor Wat to Machu Picchu, their agents masquerading as priests, merchants, and beggars. Temples doubled as Chakravyuhas—dimensional labyrinths guarding Tirthas (portals) to other worlds. In Nepal, the Pashupatinath Temple hid the Gandaki Tirtha, a gateway to Vayu Lokha (Realm of Air). But the Dashnami's grip faltered.

The Mughals razed temples, the Inquisition burned "heretics," and Rudra's descendants—the Puri Collective—poisoned mortal rulers. Meanwhile, in Kali Yuga's throes, Shakti's essence dwindled. The Swostani warned: "When the Tree's roots wither, the Ten must unite or perish."

In a hidden chamber beneath Swayambhunath Stupa, the Dashnami convened. Meera Saraswati, their youngest archivist, deciphered a Swostani verse: "The Last Giri will drink from the Amrita Kalash (nectar of immortality) in the Chaturdash Lokha (14th World)."

"Prophecy gibberish," scoffed Rajesh Parvat, his Vidya-enhanced muscles rippling.

But Vidur Giri's heir, Karan Giri, frowned. "The 'Last Giri' implies our lineage ends. We must safeguard every child born to us."

They failed.

B.S. 2061 Baisakh 15 (April 27, 2004 CE) – Giri Village, Nuwakot

Monsoon clouds wept as Jay Giri took his first breath. His grandmother, Durga Giri, whispered the Gayatri Mantra into his ear, her fingers brushing the Shankha (conch) birthmark on his wrist—a sign of Vishnu's favor. But joy turned to ash when Durga entered the family's Gufa (cellar) that night.

There, etched into a stone tablet, was Jay's name beside a single phrase: "He will open the Door."

Durga shuddered. The "Door" could only be the Nepal Mandala, a Swostani-described nexus where all Fourteen Worlds converged—a myth even Dashnami elders dismissed. She hurled the tablet into the Trisuli River, praying the currents would bury its omen.

She did not see the eyes watching from the dark—a hooded figure with a Puri sigil tattooed on his neck.

B.S. 2081 Chaitra (March 2025 CE) – Kathmandu, On the Eve of Nepali New Year

Jay Giri, now 21, leaned against the railing of Basantapur Durbar Square, oblivious to the cosmic strings tangling around him. His engineering degree gathered dust; his mind buzzed with half-remembered childhood tales of "family duties" and a village gufa his mother forbade him to enter.

"You stare at the Kumari like you've seen a ghost," teased his friend Rupa, nudging him toward the living goddess's palanquin.

Jay froze. As the Royal Kumari passed, her third eye flickered—a pulse of Vidya—and for a heartbeat, Jay saw beyond: The square's temples morphed into cyclopean ziggurats, devotees became Yakshas and Gandharvas, and the Kumari's gaze locked onto his Shankha mark, her lips mouthing: "He's here."

That night, Jay dreamt of a woman woven from galaxies. "Find the Gufa," Shakti's voice echoed. "Your legacy awaits."

Meanwhile, in a Puri stronghold beneath Rome's catacombs, Rudra's descendant Alessandro Puri unrolled a medieval map. "Nepal Mandala," he hissed. "The Door opens in B.S. 2082. Ready the Asura Corps."