Gems of the Gods

The stranger stepped forward, slow and unshaken, his cloak stirring faintly in the wind that swept the ruined courtyard.

From beneath his left sleeve, a glint of metal caught the light—a polished silver bracelet, etched with ancient runes that curved like rivers. Embedded at its center pulsed a deep cerulean stone, glowing faint and steady.

The glow wasn't aggressive. It was measured. A calm ocean behind storm walls.

Pralay, barely conscious, clutched his side and watched through blurring vision. He could feel it—this man was different.

The stranger raised his arm. The blue stone flickered once, and his voice rang with quiet, implacable power.

Stranger (voice cutting sharp): "You mock the sacred soil. You used the dead as tools."

He narrowed his eyes.

Pralay, barely able to lift his head, whispered through cracked lips,

Pralay:  "Who… are you…?"

The stranger didn't look back. His eyes stayed fixed on the marked figure before him.

And then, finally, he spoke—not as a weapon, but as a man.

Stranger: "I am a Yogi."

Figure 3: "Yogi!"

He paused, letting the name settle like ash in the silence.

Stranger: "Satya Suryavanshi of Nalanda. The name you'll remember before the end."

A gust of wind stirred the dust around them. The third figure smiled wider, revealing a row of perfect, too-white teeth.

Figure 3: "Ah... a Suryavanshi. That explains the self-righteous glare."

Satya: "Give me your name… so I can carve it in silence when I bury you."

The third figure tilted his head, amused. He raised one gloved hand and slowly pulled back his hood.

The moonlight revealed a young, angular face—smooth skin, but devoid of light. His eyes were dark pools, no whites, no life. And across his collarbone and neck was a spiraled mark: nine concentric circles, interlocked in uneven harmony.

The stranger froze.

His jaw clenched. A breath caught in his throat.

Satya (softly): "…That mark…"

He took a step back, bracelet pulsing blue.

Satya (quietly): "The Navdivya… they were just myth."

The attacker grinned—a slow, curling smirk that looked carved from something far older than his face.

Figure 3: "That's what they wanted you to believe."

He extended his arm, letting the black energy of the Yama Stone spiral up through his veins like coiling snakes.

Figure 3 (calm and cold): "We were never myths. We were warnings.

And now… we take the center stage of this world."

He closed his fist slowly.

Figure 3: "I am one of nine.

The one who walks with endings.

I bear the god's will.

I am the Messenger of Death.

Wielder of the Yama Stone."

He stepped forward.

Kaalnemi: "You may call me Kaalnemi… while your throat still works."

The blue stone in Satya's bracelet flared in response, its glow tightening into focus.

He raised his other hand, and with a sudden pulse of light, a bow of radiant blue energy formed in his grip—simple in shape, but made of pure mantra and force. The Rama Stone sang through it like a flute of wind and water.

Satya (solemnly): "By the will of Rama, I shall end you here and now."

He pulled the blue bowstring back—though no arrow formed, the air trembled in place.

Kaalnemi (smirking): "Then die as your kind always have. With hope. With honor. With failure."

Without warning, they charged.

The entire courtyard seemed to crack as energy detonated in the air around them.

Blue met black—light against void.

The sound was not of clashing metal but of space tearing. Their weapons blurred—Kaalnemi's dark aura whip lashed out with snakelike speed, while Satya's bow fired streaks of mantra-arrows too fast for mortal eyes.

Each strike threw stone and fire into the air.

Each movement bent the gravity of the place.

Pralay tried to move—tried to crawl forward—but his limbs had nothing left. His eyes fluttered, struggling to follow the duel of titans before him.

He saw Dalai Pax still lying nearby, still breathing—but unmoving.

He heard the crack of energy.

The ground shifted beneath him.

And finally—

His heart, already drained from battle and awakening the Kalki Talwar, gave out.

The world dimmed.

And everything faded.

When Pralay woke, it wasn't to violence or fire.

It was to stillness. Light filtered in through thin linen curtains. A slow-burning ghee lamp gave the air a golden hue. Somewhere outside, a wind chime rang gently with each breath of air. The scent of neem, ashwagandha, and camphor oil floated in the air.

His whole body ached. His arms, legs, even his face—tight with healing bandages.

But he was breathing.

He blinked again and turned his head.

The room was large, but simple. A shelf full of clay pots and wooden pestles rested in one corner. Bundles of dried herbs hung near the windows. A small water basin sat at his side, with a damp cloth folded beside it.

And then he heard voices.

From beyond a partially open curtain that led to the adjoining chamber, two silhouettes stood near the entry—one of them unmistakable.

Satya.

His figure was upright, but his robe hung scorched in patches. His bracelet was still on, but the blue glow now faint, resting.

He stood in conversation with a monk—an elder, likely the healer.

Monk (quietly): "The boy was unconscious for a full day. We feared the blast took too much from him."

Satya (softly, arms crossed): "He touched the divine flame and lived. That's already a miracle. But what he awakened… I've only seen once."

Monk: "He will need rest. And guidance. The fire answers, but it consumes."

Satya nodded. His expression was tired—but focused. There was weight behind his eyes now. Like he had seen not only war… but prophecy moving in real time.

Satya (murmuring): "If Kaalnemi is truly awake… the others will follow. And Nalanda must be warned."

Pralay tried to sit up. His bones protested, but he managed to raise his head just enough to speak.

Pralay (weakly): "You… you stopped him…"

The voices halted.

Satya turned, his gaze sharpening the moment he saw Pralay awake.

He stepped into the room, quiet but purposeful.

Satya (gently): "You're lucky. That blade missed your lung by an inch. Another heartbeat and we'd be talking in your next life."

He crouched beside Pralay's bed.

Satya: "You stood up. When no one asked you to.

You burned brighter than you should have.

And yet… that Stone chose you anyway."

He looked at Pralay for a long moment.

Then added, with a breath:

Satya: "Rest now. Nalanda waits."

And with that, the monk bowed and returned to the adjoining room—leaving Pralay with the fading pain… and a fire quietly pulsing in the ring on his hand.

The days blurred together at first.

Not because they were slow—but because they were still.

For a boy who'd just fought shadow-wielding killers, who had bled for a girl who died in his arms, who had watched death and divinity collide in front of him… stillness was unfamiliar.

But Bhoolok-Antar had its own rhythm.

And here, in the quiet stone walls of the monastery's northern wing, Pralay learned to breathe again.

Day One

He couldn't sit up without wincing. A novice monk would enter quietly, chanting under his breath as he replaced Pralay's bandages and touched his palm to the ring—checking its pulse without ever touching it directly.

They never questioned why he had it.

But they bowed to it when they left.

Satya came and went like a mountain wind—silent, always watching. He rarely spoke unless spoken to. When he did, it was always brief.

But he stayed close.

Sometimes Pralay woke in the middle of the night and found Satya seated nearby, reading scrolls by lamplight. Or standing at the balcony, looking toward Nalanda's distant hills.

Day Three

Pralay took his first steps with a cane.

He hated the limp. Hated feeling fragile.

A monk named Ketan helped him through walking meditations—slow, rhythmic pacing across the courtyard tiles in the early dawn. Breath in through the nose. Hold. Step. Release.

Ketan (smiling): "A sword swings fast. But the hand must be slower than the mind."

Pralay didn't answer at first.

But each day, his steps got steadier.

Day Five

He began sweeping the steps of the inner sanctum.

Not because anyone told him to—but because every monk did it. Young or old, bald or grey-bearded, every monk spent at least one hour a day in service.

They carried no pride in it. No burden.

So he joined them.

And found that silence came easier when his hands were moving.

Sometimes Satya watched from the shaded archways, arms folded, unreadable.

Other times, Pralay saw him training—bow made of mantra light, shooting arrows of compressed energy into the distant forest edge. His motions were elegant, measured. The bow hummed when he breathed.

Day Seven

Pralay began sparring with an older monk—Arun, one-eyed and cheerful.

Wooden staffs. No stones. No flames.

Just form.

Arun (grinning): "Chakras are tools. Not answers. You want balance? First, learn where your feet are."

They fought in circles, barefoot on gravel. Pralay fell more often than not.

But every time he rose, something inside him steadied.

Day Ten

Late night, Pralay sat on the rooftop ledge that night, knees drawn in, the talwar beside him now dormant but warm to the touch. He stared at the dark and thought to himself:

They live so simply.

No phones. No screens. No cities screaming with noise.

And yet… they feel more alive than anyone I knew.

They laugh with silence. They fight with breath.

They treat the ring like it belongs to something sacred… not someone broken.

But I know the truth.

I didn't choose the stone. It chose me when I was angry.

When I was desperate. When I was afraid.

So what does that make me?

A vessel? A mistake?

The wind stirred his hair, but he didn't move. The night gave no answers—only the weight of silence, and the faint hum of power that refused to leave him.

Down below, Satya was still awake, seated in stillness, eyes closed, facing east.

Pralay watched him in the moonlight, feeling something strange stir in his chest.

Respect. Maybe envy.

Or maybe just the aching question of who he was meant to become.

The breeze that night was cool, brushing across the Gaya rooftops with the scent of incense and drying herbs.

Footsteps approached.

Soft. Measured. Familiar.

Satya: "You heal faster than expected."

Pralay turned his head as Satya Suryavanshi climbed the last step and stood beside him. He looked calm, his robes loosely tied, a leather strap across his shoulder still bearing the faint marks of the travel bag he never seemed to set down.

Pralay (quietly): "I didn't think you noticed."

Satya (half-smiling): "I notice everything that breathes in a room."

He sat beside him—not too close, not too distant. The moonlight struck the edge of his bracelet, the blue stone within pulsing faintly, as if sleeping.

A long pause passed.

Pralay shifted slightly, then asked the question that had sat like a stone in his chest for days.

Pralay: "Who are you?"

Satya (looking forward): "A yogi."

Pralay (frowning): "A warrior, then?"

Satya (shaking his head): "No. A seeker."

He folded his hands calmly in his lap.

Satya: "We meditate. We breathe. We move the body to align with the self. We follow yoga, not just in posture—but in purpose. A yogi trains to awaken the Kundalini Shakti. To glimpse beyond the curtain of what most call reality."

Pralay (genuine): "And Nalanda teaches that?"

Satya (nodding): "Nalanda guides those who are ready. It isn't just a place to learn—it's a crucible. I went there when I was sixteen. Left Ayodhya with nothing but a scroll of initiation."

He paused, exhaling.

Satya: "I became a disciple. Trained under ten teachers. And after thirteen years... I earned the right to be called yogi."

Pralay (softly): "How many get that title?"

Satya: "Few. Most either lose themselves in the search... or turn their backs before the path finishes."

The wind stirred again.

The moon had climbed higher, painting the clay roofs silver.

Pralay glanced at the glowing talwar beside him—then turned toward Satya with quiet intensity.

Pralay: "What are these stones? Why do they… feel alive?"

Satya looked at the bracelet on his wrist.

Satya (carefully): "We call them Devmani—God Stones.

Or more simply… Gems of the Gods."

He raised the bracelet into the moonlight, letting the glow catch Pralay's eye.

Satya: "They are fragments of something higher. No one remembers where they came from. Not truly. Not even the oldest scriptures at Nalanda explain their origin."

He let his hand fall.

Satya: "But we know this: each stone resonates with a divine principle. A force. A god."

Pralay furrowed his brow.

Pralay: "And the one I carry…?"

Satya looked at it for a long moment. His face didn't show fear—but there was unmistakable weight in his silence.

Satya: "I don't know much about it. Not the way I do mine.

But it's not ordinary. That's for certain."

He tapped the silver bracelet on his wrist—the blue stone inside shimmered once.

Satya (firmly): "What you have is definitely a God Stone.

One of the Devmani. It responds to will, to spirit… to something older than blood."

He looked back at Pralay.

Satya: "You may not know why it chose you yet.

But it didn't make a mistake."

Pralay didn't speak.

Satya continued, voice low but steady.

Satya: "Only a few can wield them. The chosen—or the cursed. We call them God Stone Users. In ancient times, some were revered as avatars. Others... as demons."

Pralay: "So which are you?"

Satya met his eyes.

Satya: "I carry the Rama Stone. I wield it to preserve harmony.

But not everyone sees it that way."

He leaned back slightly, elbows on his knees.

Satya: "There are people—many of them devout—who believe we offend the gods by using their power. That no mortal should ever walk their path. They call us arrogant. Dangerous. Unnatural."

Pralay (bitterly): "But people like Kaalnemi… they get to use it however they want?"

Satya: "They don't ask permission. They just take."

He turned his head toward the eastern horizon, where somewhere far beyond the dark hills, Nalanda waited.

Satya: "So we use what we've been given. Not to ascend… but to protect. To balance.

So those like him don't decide how the world ends."

The silence between them now was full.

Not empty.

Shared.

Pralay (after a long pause): "And me? Why would I get something like this?"

Satya didn't answer immediately.

But when he finally spoke, his voice held no echo of doubt.

Satya: "Because your fire is real.

You just don't know what it's for yet."

The stars above seemed to pulse, dim and distant, like the scattered lights of another life.

Pralay sat quietly for a long moment after Satya's words. The weight of everything—the stones, the yogis, the dead—settled around him like a second skin. Heavy… but

Satya, still standing, looked down at him with a faint smile.

Satya: "Come on. Get rest. We leave with the sunrise.

I'll begin teaching you the basics of Kundalini shakti on the road. You've awakened something. Time to understand it."

Pralay (surprised): "To Nalanda?"

Satya (nodding): "Eventually. But first… Shimla."

Pralay: "Shimla?"

Satya (over his shoulder): "I have business there. You'll learn quickly—paths rarely go straight in this world."

Satya: "South of here. Past the Forrest.

A small city, but old. Older than most realize."

He extended a hand—not as a command, but as a gesture of kinship.

Pralay looked at the hand.

And then, without hesitation, took it.

They walked down the stone steps side by side, moonlight casting twin shadows along the wall as they left the rooftop behind.

The talwar lay quiet in his sheath. But the fire within it—and within Pralay—was just beginning to stir.

[End of Chapter]