The ruins were behind him, but their weight pressed on Shiv's mind like the echo of a forgotten storm. The Guardian's final words rang with a quiet, burning gravity—each syllable lingering longer than it should have. "You are not just your father's son… You are a serpent born in fire." And before that, "You've opened the base gate… and lived. That makes you heir to the Serpent Sutra."
He hadn't spoken his name aloud inside that tomb, yet the Guardian had called him Shiv Verma. The name wasn't just a formality. It was recognition. Memory. Perhaps even history. Shiv's brows drew together as he made his way through the forest, boots sinking into moss-softened soil. "Just who was that ancient master the Guardian spoke of?" he muttered. "And why did he leave such a legacy buried where even the Varma Clan never dared tread?"
He reached into his satchel, fingers brushing against the cold surface of the obsidian bottle. Even without opening it, the core of Nāga-Tejas within pulsed with restrained fury, as if aware of him, watching. He could feel the tension in its sealed energy, calling to his blood — and yet, it remained just beyond reach. The Guardian had been clear: he wasn't ready. Not until he had awakened four chakras. Attempting to claim its power now would mean death — not the noble kind, but one that shattered soul and flesh in equal measure.
And besides, his body was already groaning under the strain of awakening just the Mulādhāra — the root chakra. The first gate had opened, but forcefully. The foundation of his energy, his will to survive, was unstable. With every step, Shiv could feel the fire within coiling erratically. If he didn't stabilize it, his energy channels — the nāḍīs — could rupture, leaving him crippled, or worse, consumed by the very flame he'd barely learned to touch.
He returned to an old riverside shrine tucked into the woods, where moss had overtaken stone and silence wrapped the air like prayer. Sitting cross-legged on the cool earth, he began the ancient breathing rituals. The flames inside writhed at first — wild, unanchored. His muscles convulsed. Veins pulsed. The serpent of Tejas he had awakened refused to settle, threatening to spiral upward before he was ready. Gritting his teeth, Shiv dug his hands into the dirt, grounding himself physically and spiritually. "I will not fall here," he growled. "I will live. I will rise."
The battle was long and brutal, not of fists but of breath and will. At last, the fire ebbed into a steady, warm ember. The root chakra glowed faintly at the base of his spine, solid and stable. Shiv collapsed onto his back, chest heaving, the grass cool beneath him. A small victory — but a necessary one. He was now ready to walk forward without crumbling.
The next step loomed like a mountain: a weapon. The Agni-Kṣetra — the brutal clan tournament — was not one he could survive with fists alone. Yet within the Varma family, he was still branded a disgrace. No spirit bond. No ancestral fire. Just a name many wished to forget.
Still, he made his way to the family armory — a sandstone fortress of blades and memories carved into the hillside. Warriors came and went without acknowledging him. That was expected. Shiv had learned the art of invisibility long ago.
But the moment he stepped near the entrance, a familiar sneer stopped him.
"Well, look what the fire dragged in," said Devraj, his cousin, arms crossed and smile sharp. "Didn't think you'd have the guts to show your face here."
"I need a weapon," Shiv said simply, stepping forward.
Devraj blocked him. "For what? To meditate your enemies into submission?"
A ripple of laughter echoed from the others nearby, all older, all confident in their standing.
"For the Agni-Kṣetra," Shiv replied.
The amusement died.
Devraj's eyes narrowed. "You think you can even qualify? You barely scraped past the initiation trials years ago."
"I've changed."
"No," Devraj said with a cold smile. "You've just returned to embarrass yourself again."
Shiv didn't blink. "Step aside."
Devraj studied him, expecting defiance, but finding something steadier. Eventually, with a smirk, he moved. "Fine. Be my guest. The rejects are kept at the back."
The inside of the armory was a cathedral of steel and legacy. Blades hung like banners. Spears shimmered with old enchantments. Bows once drawn by flame-summoners rested on carved racks. Shiv walked past them all. They didn't call to him. There was no resonance, no whisper, no pulse.
Until… there was.
In the shadowed rear corner, half-buried in dust and disregard, lay a staff — short, serpent-handled, black as starless sky, with a thin line of silver running through it like a spine. Runes, faint and ancient, curled along its surface. Nāga-script.
The moment his hand touched it, warmth surged through him — not violent, but curious. Recognizing.
The staff pulsed gently.
Shiv exhaled. "This one… it chooses me."
Behind him, Devraj stared, expression unreadable. The staff shimmered faintly in Shiv's hand — not enough to announce glory, but enough to demand silence. Shiv turned and walked away. For once, no one spoke. No one laughed.
And as he stepped out beneath the crimson evening sky, Shiv felt it — not pride, not yet — but a spark. A quiet spark rising from embers beneath long-dead ash.
The journey was only beginning.
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