In the Snow, a Bond Forged in Flame

The morning sun crowned the Gaya monastery with a halo of soft light. The courtyard, once marred by battle, had been swept clean. Prayer flags fluttered gently in the breeze, whispering blessings as they always had—whether for monks or warriors.

Pralay stood at the monastery's lower gate, talwar slung across his back, bag resting against his hip. Beside him stood Satya, calm and silent as ever. The monks gathered behind them, standing in long, quiet lines—heads bowed, hands folded in farewell.

At their center stood Elder Dalai Pax, supported by a carved staff of sandalwood. His wounds had not fully healed, but he stood straight, his presence undiminished.

Dalai Pax (softly): "There is no debt between souls that shelter one another. You came wounded. You leave with purpose. That is enough. Whatever lies ahead, remember this—your fire is not a curse. It is a question. Only you can decide the answer."

Pralay bowed low, touching his forehead to his fingers.

Pralay: "Thank you… for your shelter. And for the silence I needed."

The elder waved a hand gently.

Dalai Pax: "I did nothing but hold the door. You walked through it yourself."

He then turned to Satya.

Dalai Pax: "And you… return to Nalanda bearing more than just a message, don't you?"

Satya nodded once. "A flame, Elder. Small now, but alive."

They clasped wrists briefly in quiet respect.

Dalai Pax raised his hand, offering a final blessing:

Dalai Pax: "May your paths be shadowed by trees,

your minds be still as mirrors,

and your hearts burn clean."

The monks behind him echoed in unison—

Monks: "Om Shanti."

Satya and Pralay descended the final steps, the sounds of the bells growing softer behind them with each pace.

And as they reached the monastery gate, Pralay paused, casting one last glance back.

A soft breeze carried the scent of incense and morning rain. Somewhere, a monk began to chant. And then, the two travelers turned toward the rising hills of the north—

—toward Shimla.

The forest south of Gaya stretched long and hushed, its canopy thick with whispering leaves. Patches of golden sunlight flickered across the path, broken by the sway of vines above. The trail wound gently through the underbrush like a forgotten thought trying to remember itself.

Pralay walked in silence beside Satya, adjusting the strap of his satchel as the chill of the morning faded into warmth. Every now and then, the wind stirred the branches above, scattering dry petals across their steps.

After nearly an hour, Satya spoke—his tone casual, almost like a traveler making conversation.

Satya: "Why do you want to go to Nalanda?"

Pralay blinked.

The question caught him off guard. Not because it was suspicious—but because it was... fair.

His lips parted to answer. "I…"

And then—

A voice in memory: His grandfather's final words, blurred by battle, burned into the space behind his eyes:

"Take this ring, and protect it. Trust no one. Understand later—survive now."

Another voice—cool, ageless:

Kaalratri (memory): "Because some names are not names anymore. They are triggers. Burdens. Warnings. That name was supposed to disappear with the last cycle."

A chill crept up his spine.

He glanced sideways at Satya, then down at his own hand—where the red ring sat, silent but very much alive.

Pralay inhaled sharply and forced a nonchalant shrug.

Pralay (casual, cutting off any chance to press further): "Just… someone I might meet there. That's all."

Without waiting for a reply, he pivoted smoothly—

Pralay: "And you? Why the detour? Why Shimla?"

The shift was clean—too clean.

Satya paused only for a moment, as if noting the suddenness, but didn't press.

Satya: "There's someone I know in Shimla. Someone I haven't seen in many years."

Pralay: "Friend?"

Satya (smiling faintly): "More like my Disciple"

They walked in silence again, but this one felt easier—shared.

The trees swayed above them, casting shifting light across the path. A single bird flew low across the trail, then vanished into the woods ahead.

Neither of them spoke again for some time. But Pralay's thoughts stirred with every step. He wondered if Satya could feel the ring pulsing through the silence.

The tiger's growl rumbled low across the path.

Its massive paws crushed leaves with deliberate silence as it stalked closer. Muscles coiled beneath its striped frame like a loaded spring.

Pralay's hand hovered over his blade.

Pralay (urgent): "We can't just stand here—"

Satya (calmly): "We can. And we will."

He stepped forward slowly, planting his staff upright into the earth.

His eyes closed.

Satya (softly): "First… stillness. Then breath. Then energy."

He brought his hand down to the base of his spine and breathed in deep.

Satya (mantra): LAM.

The sound vibrated through the air—deep and grounding. The earth itself seemed to pulse in answer.

A blood-red lotus symbol bloomed in light at the base of Satya's spine—four petals, anchored and unwavering. Muladhara. The Root.

Dust lifted gently from the path beneath his feet.

The tiger paused—snarling, confused.

Then Satya raised his hand slightly, resting it just below his navel.

Satya (mantra): VAM.

The sound shimmered higher, fluid and flowing. The air grew cooler, smoother.

An orange lotus flared at his sacral region—six petals—rippling like water. Svadhisthana. The Sacral Chakra.

The tiger's tail flicked once. Then it lunged.

Satya stepped cleanly to the side—fluid, like water—and placed two glowing fingers on the tiger's shoulder as it passed.

A pulse of chakra energy surged through the animal—not violent, but overwhelming.

The tiger froze mid-leap, as if caught in suspended animation—then crashed harmlessly to the ground with a low yelp. It writhed slightly, staggered to its feet, and retreated into the forest, its wild instinct softened by the aura that had touched it.

Silence returned.

The symbols faded from Satya's body, dissolving into the air like mist.

He turned to Pralay, brushing his hands clean.

Pralay: "It was just like Dalai Pax."

Satya: "You will be able to do this too."

Pralay stared at him, eyes wide. "You didn't even flinch."

Satya: "Not strength. Flow. Control."

He picked up his staff and resumed walking, his tone returning to calm instruction.

Satya: "But to do any of it—

You must master the basics of yoga and dhyan.

You must first learn to breathe, then learn to move.

Only then will the energy rise."

Satya glanced sideways.

Satya: "Starting today, you will practice every day. Until we reach Shimla. And long after that."

Pralay swallowed hard. The path ahead didn't seem so quiet anymore. It pulsed with purpose.

The deeper they traveled, the denser the forest grew.

But it wasn't just foliage that thickened—it was the air itself. The warmth began to fade. Subtly at first. A cooler breeze curled through the branches. The birdsongs became fewer. The trees, once green and golden, grew tall, shadowed, and ancient. Moss thickened along the roots, and silence began to reign.

Pralay pulled his shawl tighter.

Pralay: "Is it just me or is it getting colder?"

Satya (quietly): "We're climbing. These hills feed the spine of the southern range."

The temperature dropped further. By midday, snowflakes had begun to fall—soft, silent, and slow, like feathers dislodged from forgotten clouds. They landed on Pralay's shoulder, clung briefly, then melted into damp memory.

Still they walked.

The trees thinned gradually. The sky opened up. And with it, a panoramic view unfolded—valleys carved between white-dusted ridges, narrow trails winding like veins through a silvered earth.

Over the following days

They traveled quietly, stopping only at streams, clearings, or flat rock shelves large enough to rest.

Each morning and evening, Satya instructed Pralay in the basics.

At first, Pralay struggled.

One dawn, on a frost-bitten stone ridge

Pralay stood in Vrikshasana, the Tree Pose—arms raised, one foot pressed against his thigh, his balance shaking like a leaf in the breeze. His breath came in short bursts.

Satya (seated cross-legged): "Don't force the stillness. Invite it. You are not a stone. You are a flame waiting to steady."

Another day, in a misted valley beside a frozen creek

Pralay sat with closed eyes, palms resting upward on his knees, trying to match his breath to the rhythm Satya had taught.

Inhale four counts. Hold four. Exhale six. Repeat.

But every sound—bird call, cracking branch, distant howl—broke his concentration.

Satya (gently): "Let the world move. You do not have to move with it. The breath is your anchor."

Evening, deep in the forest, fire flickering between them

Satya demonstrated Surya Namaskar, his motions graceful even in silence—each posture flowing like water, each movement tied to breath.

Pralay followed, imperfectly but earnestly. His body ached, his joints resisted, but something inside him… clicked.

Each night, his muscles felt heavier.

But his thoughts felt lighter.

Finally, on the seventh day of walking, the trees parted for good.

And there it was—Shimla.

The Town of Shimla

Nestled on the sloping edge of a vast hill range, Shimla looked like it had grown out of the stone itself. Homes built from carved wood and slate clung to the slopes like birds on a cliffside. Smoke curled from narrow chimneys. Flags bearing ancient symbols fluttered between spires.

The roads were stone-laid and steep, winding like rivers between the ridges. Temples and shrines dotted the high points, some hidden in cliffside alcoves, others rising like watchtowers into the pale sky.

The people were wrapped in wool, their cheeks red from cold. Monks, merchants, and children moved through the narrow paths with practiced ease.

Above it all, on a flat ridge near the summit, sat a large structure built into the rock—an old monastery, silent but alive, its gates sealed in heavy bronze.

Pralay (quietly, taking it in): "It's… peaceful."

Satya (softly): "Yes it is."

He stepped forward.

Satya: "Come. My business here won't wait. And neither will your training."

The wind that swept through Shimla carried the sharp scent of snow and pine. As they climbed the stone path that wound through the town's upper tier, Pralay's boots crunched against thin layers of frost, and his breath clouded before him like soft steam.

They approached a narrow courtyard tucked behind a temple spire and a prayer wall. Children's laughter echoed in the air, fading as they passed into quieter streets.

On a sloped rooftop, bent over with a snow rake in hand, a young boy in a woolen tunic worked diligently—clearing the snowfall from a wooden eave.

His dark hair was damp with sweat despite the cold. His scarf trailed behind him like a loose tail. As he looked up, eyes adjusting against the light—

He froze.

Then grinned wide.

Boy (shouting): "SATYA–JI!"

He leapt down from the roof in two swift jumps, nearly slipping, then sprinted barefoot across the icy courtyard.

Satya turned just in time to catch the boy in a warm, quick embrace—brief but full of joy.

Satya (smiling softly): "Careful. You'll break something."

Ratan (laughing): "What? I'm stronger now. You said so!"

He stepped back and looked up with bright, shining eyes.

Ratan: "You said you wouldn't come back until you had 'stars in your hands.' Did you bring any?"

Satya chuckled and gestured toward Pralay, who stood a short distance behind, watching with curiosity.

Satya: "Close enough."

Ratan (grinning, tilting his head): "Is he… like me?"

Satya (glancing at Pralay): "Not yet. But he will be."

Ratan turned to Pralay and offered a hand with the kind of friendly boldness that needed no invitation.

Ratan: "I'm Ratan. You?"

Pralay (shaking his hand): "Pralay."

Ratan: "That's a big name."

Pralay (half-smiling): "I've been told."

The three of them walked into the courtyard as monks passed by with baskets of wood and cloth. The snow had stopped now, and the afternoon sun glimmered gently through the misted sky.

As they neared a low step-wall, Ratan sat cross-legged on it and patted the space beside him for Pralay.

Ratan: "Satya-ji saved me two years ago. I'd wandered into the jungle near Shimla looking for wild berries and—well—I didn't notice the python coiled in the brush until it was too late."

Pralay's eyebrows lifted. "A python?"

Ratan (grinning): "Big one. I froze. I couldn't even scream. But then he showed up—out of nowhere—pulled me out and scared it off. Said I owed him ten thousand sun salutes."

Satya (raising a brow): "Still waiting on number nine thousand and something."

Ratan (laughing): "I've been trying!"

He looked at Pralay again, softer now.

Ratan: "He trained me. Just a little, but enough to not freeze next time. I wasn't strong. I was scared all the time. I'm not… there yet. But I'm not the same boy either."

There was no pride in his voice—just gratitude.

He looked up at Satya.

Ratan: "I never said thank you properly."

Satya (quietly): "You lived. That's thanks enough."

The silence that followed was warm.

For the first time since leaving Gaya, Pralay felt something loosen in his chest—not trust, not yet, but maybe… curiosity. This world Satya moved through, the people he touched—it wasn't just myth or power.

It was real.

And maybe he wanted to be part of it.

The courtyard at the edge of Shimla monastery was cleared of snow, revealing smooth stone etched with faded mantras. Prayer flags swayed above them, and faint chimes echoed in the mountain air.

Ratan, cheeks flushed with excitement, spun a wooden staff once through his hands.

Ratan: "So you're heading back to Nalanda? For good?"

Satya (nodding): "Yes. But I came through Shimla to see you. And I've taken on a student."

He glanced at Pralay, who adjusted his stance with a cautious brow.

Satya: "You're more experienced. I thought you could spar with him. Teach him something."

Ratan (grinning wide, chest puffed out): "Me? Teach him?"

He turned toward Pralay and tapped the staff on the ground.

Ratan: "Then get ready, newbie. I'm stronger now. I'm not the scared kid I was."

Satya (amused): "Then show him."

They squared off.

Pralay took his stance carefully. He'd trained for days now—breathwork, balance, flow—but this was different. Ratan moved with ease, circling like a flame through dry grass.

The match began.

Pralay struck first—cautiously. Ratan deflected with a spin, tapped him on the ribs, then backed off, laughing.

Ratan: "That's it? Come on! The tiger gave me more trouble!"

Pralay scowled, advanced again. This time harder. Faster.

But Ratan's balance was uncanny. He moved with agility that didn't match his size—fluid, grounded, and precise. Every blow Pralay delivered, Ratan turned aside with practiced grace.

Then Ratan paused mid-motion—his body dropped lower, breath deepened.

Ratan (focused): "Watch carefully."

He closed his eyes.

Ratan (mantra): LAM.

A deep vibration pulsed through the stone floor.

A glowing red lotus symbol formed at the base of his spine—four petals. The Root Chakra had awakened.

The air shifted.

His stance widened. His legs planted like roots.

Ratan: "This is Kundalini Shakti. It stays coiled inside you, like a serpent. Waiting.

But it doesn't rise just because you want it.

You train the body. Then the breath. Then the mind.

Only then does the energy move."

With newfound power, he rushed forward—his blows heavier, grounded. Pralay was forced back.

Frustration flared.

Each hit reminded him: You're behind. You're late. You're unworthy.

The Kalki ring began to pulse.

One beat. Then two. Then burning.

Pralay's breath caught. The pain behind his eyes flared.

Ratan (startled): "Wait—what's—"

The ring flared bright red. The talwar on Pralay's back rattled—then burst into flame.

The Kalki Stone had awakened.

The blade flew into Pralay's hand on its own—but he didn't swing.

Instead, a wave of red light pulsed outward from his chest—Satya-Darpan. The Mirror of Truth.

The red pulse struck Ratan. His body glowed briefly with divine markings—revealed, exposed.

The sword flew forward—guided, not aimed.

Ratan readied to block—

—but the blade veered mid-air, twisting unnaturally.

It shot toward Ratan's exposed side—too fast. Too smart.

Satya appeared between them.

With one hand, he caught the blade in midair.

A flash of red burst from his palm as the sword's fire extinguished.

He stood still, the blade shaking faintly in his grip.

Satya (sharply): "Enough."

Pralay blinked. The glow vanished. His legs gave out. He dropped to his knees, gasping.

Ratan stumbled back, wide-eyed—but unharmed.

Satya (calm but cold): "You must never let your pain touch your power without discipline.

This stone will not protect you from yourself."

He turned the sword, blade-first, and gently placed it beside Pralay.

Satya: "You are not ready for it. Not yet."

Pralay could only nod, drenched in sweat, his chest heaving—not from the fight, but from the power he could no longer ignore.

The fire within him had cooled.

For days after the duel, Pralay practiced in silence—not for power, but for control. Under Satya's watch, he trained in dhyan beneath the snow-clad cliffs and by the rushing forest streams, learning to sit still… even when his blood wanted to burn.

Each morning began with breathwork—slow, rhythmic, precise.

Each night ended in meditation, seated in silence with a candle and the fire of the Kalki Stone dimmed to a whisper in his palm.

And when the talwar appeared again—on the fourth morning—it came without a pulse of rage.

It came like breath.

Pralay had begun to master it. Not command. Not conquer. But align.

On the eighth day, they stood on the timber dock at the southern edge of Shimla, where the white river widened into a vast inland sea. A wooden wind-sailed ship awaited—its hull painted with ancient Aryavarta script, its sails adorned with the symbol of Nalanda: a blooming lotus wrapped in seven rays of light.

Satya, Pralay, and Ratan stood together as monks finished loading supplies.

Ratan (trying not to show emotion): "So this is it?"

Satya (smiling faintly): "For now."

Ratan turned to Pralay, his grin softening. "Don't forget to get your butt kicked again. That's how you get better."

Pralay (smirking): "You might not win next time."

Ratan: "I hope not."

They clasped forearms—brothers forged by snow and training—and stepped apart as Satya signaled the crew.

The wind at the southern harbor of Shimla carried a crisp salt edge as the wooden wind-sailed ship gently pushed off from the stone dock. Ropes creaked, monks gave silent nods from the high cliffs, and snow fell like a final blessing as the boat turned slowly into the wide, cold waters.

The ship pushed off.

Pralay stood at the stern, wrapped in a woolen cloak, the fire-forged talwar now sheathed across his back. Beside him, Satya gazed steadily into the horizon. And on the dock, still waving despite the cold, was Ratan—barefoot, grinning, and standing on the edge of the highest stone post.

The wind carried voices faintly across the water.

"Don't forget us!" Ratan shouted, his scarf fluttering like a flag.

Pralay smiled and gave a wave in return. But before he could call back—

The water stirred.

Not a wave. Not wind.

A silence, thick and immediate, settled across the ship. The crew stiffened. One man dropped a coil of rope as a dull thud echoed from beneath the hull.

Then it rose.

A serpent—long, silver-green, glistening in the morning light—burst from the water with a hiss that seemed to tear the sky. Its eyes burned like blue coals, and the sharp ridges along its spine shimmered like wet obsidian.

It let out a roar that cracked across the deck.

One of the monks stumbled back.

Pralay's heart surged—but not with fear.

The ring on his finger pulsed once, then again—faster, hotter.

He didn't think.

He moved.

Before Satya could react, Pralay leapt from the ship's edge, soaring across the short stretch of sea as if pulled by an unseen force. The ring on his hand flared, and in a breath of light, the talwar appeared—its flame erupting mid-air, trailing heat and smoke in its arc.

The serpent—enraged, confused—reared to strike.

But it never got the chance.

With one clean slash, the burning blade tore across its scaled head.

A flash of steam and light exploded as it dropped into the waves with a dying screech. Boiling mist rose in columns from the surface.

Pralay landed back on deck, knees bent, sword held steady in a defensive guard. His breath came slow. Focused.

He looked to Satya.

Satya studied him for a long second, unreadable.

"That was rash," he finally said.

"That was necessary," Pralay replied, not flinching.

"You're improving," Satya said after a pause. "But that was a cub. Barely a newborn."

Pralay's brow furrowed.

Satya turned toward the sea, voice even. "That was a Jalnāg. Sacred guardian of the sea paths. They protect the waters of Naglok—the serpent continent. Most people live their whole lives without seeing one. They are revered. Worshipped. And the fully grown ones… can encircle shrines with a single coil."

Pralay turned back to the water where steam still danced, the surface now eerily still.

"Then I'm lucky," he muttered.

"No," Satya corrected. "You're not lucky. You're training. And this is only the beginning."

From the edge of the dock, the boy still stood.

Ratan hadn't moved since the serpent rose. His eyes had widened to the size of copper coins, his hands half-raised, slack at his sides.

He finally blinked, then shouted, "THAT—WAS—INSANE!"

Pralay laughed, the sound echoing across the water.

"You're not allowed to get that cool without warning!" Ratan added, waving wildly again. "You better become something great, Pralay! You hear me?! Don't waste that fire!"

"And you better be ready next time!" Pralay yelled back. "I'll still be waiting on that rematch!"

The boy beamed, then slowly lowered his hands. His expression shifted—not to sadness, but something more complicated. Pride. Longing. Hope. He pressed his palm to his chest in a silent gesture of farewell.

Satya raised a hand in return—calm, poised, knowing.

As the ship drifted further from the port, the dock shrank into mist. Ratan's figure faded like a shadow into snowlight.

Pralay turned to face the sea. For a moment, everything was still again. The serpent was gone. The city behind them. The mountain wind silent. All that remained ahead… was the open water.

And somewhere far beyond that horizon…

Nalanda awaited. (**Map of Bhoolok-Antar in Comments Section**)

[End of Chapter]