Chapter 5: The Blood of Mountains

B.S. 2082 Baisakh 1 – Kathmandu, Dawn

The city smelled of burnt marigolds and betrayal.

Anika's Tirtha portal spat us onto the rooftop of a crumbling Newari townhouse in Asan, its wooden latticework smoldering from nearby Puri firebombs. Below, Kathmandu's chaos unfolded like a grotesque festival. Vidya-fueled flames—crimson and hungry—climbed the walls of the Kasthamandap, its ancient wood resisting combustion through some forgotten blessing. Street vendors abandoned their spice carts to flee, their shouts blending with the clang of temple bells rung in panic.

"They're targeting the Shakti Peethas," Anika muttered, her vine-hair coiling into a protective helmet. "Every sacred site they destroy weakens the Nepal Mandala."

I stared at my Shankha mark. Since Van Lokha, its spiral had deepened, the ridges now resembling miniature mountain ranges. "How do we stop them?"

"We don't. You do." She tossed me a dagger forged from petrified rhododendron. "Giri's lead. Van's support. That's the protocol."

"What's that mean?"

"Means talk less, move."

We descended into an alley reeking of ghee and gunpowder. A Puri cultist—face masked by a holographic Rudra avatar—cornered a teenaged monk against the Ganesh Shrine. The monk clutched a palm-leaf manuscript, its pages glowing faintly.

"Swostani fragment," the cultist hissed. "Hand it over, rat."

I moved without thinking.

The Shankha mark pulled me, guiding my strike. The rhododendron dagger pierced the cultist's hologram, and reality glitched. His true form flickered—a gaunt man with Puri sigils tattooed on his eyelids. He crumpled, his Vidya dispersing like mist.

The monk gaped. "You're… Dashnami?"

"Worse," Anika said, snatching the manuscript. "He's an intern. Run."

As the monk fled, I examined the body. No blood. Just a husk, drained of moisture. "What are these guys?"

"Puppets. Alessandro's using Preta Vidya—hunger spirits—to possess mortals." She kicked the corpse. "Efficient, but messy. The real Puri operatives are deeper."

We pressed on, the Shankha mark's pulse syncing with distant temple bells. Each toll carved fresh details into my senses:

The Taleju Temple's hidden mantra, humming in A-flat.

A child's prayer trapped in the smoke above Boudhanath.

And beneath it all, the slow, seismic growl of the Nag Vasuki—the serpent king coiled beneath Kathmandu.

"You hear it too, huh?" Anika grimaced. "Van Lokha's connected to all living things. Even the ones that should stay asleep."

The spice warehouse looked ordinary: sacks of timur and dried yak meat stacked to the ceiling. But when Anika pressed her palm to a mural of Mahakala, the wrathful deity's third eye dilated into a doorway.

Inside, a Dashnami safehouse buzzed with forbidden tech. Holographic Vedas hovered beside quantum computers. Monks in wireless headsets chanted over satellite feeds. And at the center, a woman in a charcoal-gray sari stood before a 3D map of the Nepal Mandala, its threads fraying at the edges.

Meera Saraswati.

Her gaze pinned me. "Jay Giri. You've been busy."

"You're the traitor," I said. "Anika's 'rogue faction.'"

"Traitor implies I betrayed something worth loyalty." She flicked a hologram, zooming in on Pashupatinath. "The Council knew the Puri would attack. They let it happen to test your 'resolve.'"

Anika stiffened. "You promised not to tell him."

"And you promised not to grow a conscience." Meera's smile was all teeth. "Yet here we are."

I stepped closer. The map's threads reacted to my Shankha mark, weaving into a glowing Om over Kathmandu. "How do I fix this?"

"By embracing what the Council fears." She tapped a keyboard. The floor parted, revealing a staircase lined with Shiva's forge weapons—blades of black iron still dripping celestial sparks. "The Dashnami locked these away after the Rudra Schism. Too volatile. Too honest."

The nearest weapon, a Trishula missing one prong, hummed in recognition. My mark flared.

"They're drawn to Giri blood," Meera said. "Yours especially."

Anika blocked my path. "Don't. Forge weapons don't just kill—they unmake. One wrong move and you'll erase a chunk of spacetime."

"So teach me the right moves."

Meera laughed. "Spoken like a true Giri. Arrogant. Reckless. Let's hope you're more competent than your ancestors."

Beneath the safehouse, in a chamber older than the city itself, we prepared.

Meera had me sit cross-legged on a Sri Yantra etched into the floor, its geometry vibrating with latent Shakti. Anika circled me with a bowl of Panchagavya—a foul mix of cow urine, milk, ghee, curd, and dung—chanting purification mantras.

"The Trishula's not a tool," Meera warned, placing the weapon in my lap. "It's a conversation. Shiva argued with it for three ages before it let him hold it."

The Trishula squirmed, its broken prong regrowing into a jagged spike. Visions flooded my mind:

Shiva splitting the cosmic egg with a single strike.

A million universes screaming into existence.

My own bones dissolving into stardust.

"Focus," Anika snapped, smearing Panchagavya on my forehead. "Or you'll end up a footnote in the Vedas."

The ritual reached its crescendo. The Sri Yantra glowed, its lines fusing with the Trishula's aura. My Shankha mark burned—

—and then, silence.

The Trishula stilled. A voice, neither male nor female, echoed from its core:

"Ask."

"How do I save them?" I whispered.

"Sacrifice.*

What will you surrender?

Pride?

Love?

Or the lie of control?"

The chamber shook. Meera cursed. "It's not satisfied. Abort the—"

"No." I gripped the Trishula tighter. "What's the right sacrifice?"

The weapon laughed, a sound like collapsing stars.

"Everything."

We emerged atop Swayambhunath Stupa, the Trishula's weight both alien and familiar. Below, Alessandro's forces had breached the compound. Preta-possessed cultists defaced murals, their Vidya-fire melting golden Buddhas into slag.

Alessandro stood at the Harmika, his hands carving Puri sigils into the sacred spire. "Took you long enough, Giri."

The Trishula hummed, eager. Anika gripped my arm. "Remember—this thing's a nuclear option. No fancy swings."

But the Trishula had other plans.

It moved, dragging me into a lethal dance. The first strike split a Preta in half, its essence unraveling into Sanskrit letters. The second struck the ground, fissures spreading toward Alessandro. He smirked, stepping into the void—

—and vanished.

"Clever boy," his voice echoed from everywhere. "But the Door's already ajar. See you in Rudra Lokha."

The surviving cultists collapsed, bodies desiccated. The Stupa's bells fell silent.

Anika stared at the Trishula. "You… used it. Without imploding."

"Barely." My arms trembled. The weapon's whispers lingered, demanding more. Always more.

Meera joined us, scrolling through a hologram. "The Puri retreated, but the Mandala's still unstable. And the Council knows we stole the Trishula."

"What now?" I asked.

She nodded westward, where the Himalayas cut a serrated edge against the twilight. "We find the Amrita Kalash. Before the Puri, the Council, or the Fourteen Worlds themselves claim it."