The wind over Asirgarh was dry tonight.
It howled between the black stones like a beast wounded, echoing across the cliffs where no birds flew and no grass dared grow. Only the bones of old temples clung to the earth here. Stone eaten by time. Roots twisted into forgotten walls.
And standing in its center—
A figure.
Bare-chested, cloaked in dusk.
Skin ash-smeared.
Eyes burning.
Ashwatthama.
He moved like a shadow unbound from its owner, silent except for the crunch of his calloused feet on dust. His hair was wild. His breath shallow. Yet his stance was alert—spine straight, one hand near the dagger hidden in his waistcloth.
He wasn't just wandering.
He was hunting.
The cursed gem that once crowned his forehead no longer glowed—but beneath the skin, it pulsed with an ache. A phantom pain. A reminder of the curse that never truly left.
And tonight, it stirred again.
He felt it hours ago. A whisper of wrongness in the air. An energy thick and cloying, like honey turned to rot. Something had arrived at the edge of the forest, near the ruins — and it wasn't mortal.
Ashwatthama had followed it.
Now, he waited.
And then —
It stepped into the clearing.
Not a beast. Not a rakshasa.
A man.
Dressed in hospital whites. Shoes clean. A bag slung over his shoulder like any student or intern. His face was oddly pleasant. Too still. Too calm. As if stitched together from different expressions that didn't belong.
Ashwatthama didn't blink.
"You're far from the city," the man said lightly, in flawless Hindi. "This place isn't safe, you know."
The cursed warrior tilted his head. "I could say the same."
The man chuckled. "I'm here for research. EMF studies. You know, residual spiritual radiation. I'm very interested in… places like this."
His eyes glinted.
Ashwatthama took a slow step forward. "Say your real name."
"I have many," the man said pleasantly. "But the one you'll scream before you die? I think that one will do just fine."
He dropped the bag.
And the ground rippled.
Ashwatthama's hand flew to his dagger.
The air twisted — not with heat, but pressure.
Like something too large was trying to fit inside a skin too small.
The man's smile cracked.
From his back, dark veins pulsed.
From his mouth, a hum—too deep for a human throat.
A second set of eyes blinked beneath his skin.
Kali's servant. In human form.
A possessed shell, smiling and polite, dressed for classrooms and lectures.
Ashwatthama didn't hesitate.
He attacked.
Steel flashed.
The dagger met skin.
And the illusion shattered.
The thing screeched — too high, too wrong — and slammed him backwards with a force that cracked stone. Ashwatthama hit a wall and rolled, ribs aching.
But he grinned.
"Good," he whispered. "I've missed pain."
He surged again.
No fear. No words.
They clashed like thunder.
Flesh against flame. Curse against corruption.
At times, the possessed man flickered — now a smiling intern, now a yawning beast, now something void-shaped with hands that bent backward.
Ashwatthama fought anyway.
He remembered his father's training.
The weight of a bow.
The loss of brothers.
The fire of Draupadi's scream.
The moment Krishna turned his back.
He remembered the gem being torn from his head as the earth spat him out.
And yet he fought.
Not for glory.
Not for forgiveness.
But because he still could.
And in the end —
He stood.
Bleeding, barely breathing.
But the creature at his feet no longer smiled.
Ashwatthama looked down at it.
"You wore a man's face," he rasped. "But you're just another coward hiding behind this age."
The thing gurgled.
Its form began to wither — not die, but retreat, into shadow.
"You'll see me again," it croaked.
Ashwatthama crouched, pressing two fingers to its forehead.
"And next time, I'll burn your real name."
The thing screamed.
And then —
It vanished. Like smoke.
Only silence remained.
Ashwatthama slumped to his knees.
Sweat. Blood. Dirt.
His chest heaved with every breath.
From somewhere, a wind stirred.
And a presence.
Soft.
Golden.
Unseen — but not unfelt.
A voice like dusk over Vrindavan.
> "You've walked alone long enough, Dronaputra."
He didn't raise his head. But his eyes closed, and for the first time in centuries, tears burned behind his lids.
"Was this my redemption, then?" he whispered. "Not in prayer. Not in peace. But in war again?"
The wind answered gently.
> "Even ashes, if they remain true, can lead the next fire forward."
And just like that—
Ashwatthama smiled.
Not with joy.
But with the quiet knowledge that he was no longer damned,
Just… necessary.
He rose.
Somewhere in the distance, a temple bell should have rung.
It didn't.
He turned eastward.
Toward the city.
Toward the rising tide.
Toward a boy with the soul of a prince.
Parth.
> "Time to see you again, old friend."
And the shadows parted before him.
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