"Even the purest flower burns when the fire is divine."
---
The scent of ash greeted Asma-Ra before the horizon did.
What was once the sacred city of Padma-Kshetra, the Lotus Sanctuary where sages and Bodhisattvas once meditated under moonlight and silence, now lay in ruin. The petals of stone lotus towers had crumbled, their golden domes shattered. What remained was a graveyard of prayer and fire.
> "This is recent," murmured Vāma-Sattva, scanning the smoldering horizon.
Asma-Ra's heart clenched.
This city had once been untouched, blessed by Avalokiteśvara—the Bodhisattva of Compassion. Its people, pacifists. Its monks, guardians of ancient teachings even the Vedas dared not transcribe. And yet now… a holy massacre.
Burned scrolls littered the wind. Statues of Padmapāṇi wept soot.
And in the center of the city, nailed to the sacred Tree of the East, was a monk—crucified in silence. A prayer still carved into his chest in his own hand:
> "Forgive even the gods."
---
Vāma-Sattva knelt beside the tree, whispering a hymn. But Asma-Ra could not move. His hands clenched. The fire within him trembled.
It wasn't just destruction.
It was a message.
And then the wind shifted.
Ash parted, and they emerged.
Not demons.
Not men.
But something in-between.
Clad in cracked crimson armor and masks shaped like serene Buddha faces—twisted mockeries. Their weapons were jagged, their presence foul.
> "Raksha-sattvas," said Vāma-Sattva bitterly.
"Once monks who sought transcendence… now husks, twisted by a false moksha."
---
They attacked with chanting.
Every swing of their blades came with mantra.
Every step a corrupted mudra.
Flesh and spirit blurred in their violence.
Asma-Ra fought without mercy.
Each kill was not rage, but sorrow.
Each mask shattered was a memory lost.
Vāma-Sattva's flames turned blue—mourning fire. They did not burn the Raksha-sattvas. They released them.
But then came her.
---
She descended like twilight—clad in red silks scorched black.
A blindfold over eyes that once saw truth.
She moved with elegance, like prayer turned to poison.
Ravana-Kanya.
The Daughter of Ravana—not the demon king of Lanka, but the ideology he became. She was born not of flesh, but of vengeance. A guardian of "Righteous Reversal"—the belief that gods had stolen dharma, and it must be seized back.
> "I have waited for you, Reborn Flame," she said, her voice like temple bells in decay.
> "You burned the lotus," Asma-Ra growled.
> "I purified it," she answered.
"Compassion weakens the spine. Padma-Kshetra was a lie. Their silence fed the gods."
---
Their battle was like poetry shattered.
She fought with dual blades shaped like broken prayer wheels.
Asma-Ra met her strikes with the weight of truths remembered.
They were evenly matched—until she whispered:
> "Your sister died screaming.
Not in war… but as sacrifice. For a god you now carry in your soul."
That broke him.
He faltered.
And in that moment, she struck—not his body, but his heart.
> A vision.
A memory buried deep.
A young girl, eyes like dusk, hands clutching his own.
> "Don't forget me, brother."
And then flames.
---
When Asma-Ra awoke, Vāma-Sattva had carried him away.
The Shards still pulsed, but one beat weaker.
Something inside him had cracked—not a bone, but a belief.
The gods were not just fallible.
They were afraid.
Of knowledge. Of mortals. Of him.
And the Daughter of Ravana still lived.
---
> "I remember her now," Asma-Ra whispered.
"My sister. She was the Lotus."
> "Then you must become the Fire," Vāma-Sattva replied.
"And burn the heavens if you must."
---
END OF CHAPTER XXII
Next: Chapter XXIII – "When the Gods Trembled"