The land of Malava was not marked on any living map.
It sat far east of Utkala, beyond the dust dunes and skeletal shrines—behind canyons carved by screams and lava flows that moved like veins of a dying god. No wind howled here. Only the earth whispered, and the sky pressed low.
Astha, Luv, and Naira stood at the edge of a jagged cliff, where the red-glowing gates of Malava pulsed like a beating heart carved into the mountain's face.
"So this is it," Luv muttered, squinting through the molten mist. "The place where gods were once dragged and burned."
"No," Naira corrected softly. "This is where mortals dragged gods."
---
[The First Rebellion's Graveyard]
They entered the gates.
Ash fell like snow. Black petals of charred memory drifting through the dark. The stone beneath their feet was scorched and uneven—engraved with old battle marks and footprints fossilized mid-run.
The deeper they went, the more statues appeared. Hundreds. Thousands. Lined along both sides of the path. Warriors—cloaked, horned, winged, blindfolded—all kneeling. Their faces covered with melted iron masks.
"Who were they?" Astha asked.
"The first rebels," Naira answered. "The ones who rose against the gods during the Age of Nine Suns."
"And?" Luv said.
"They lost. Their punishment was not death… but erasure of purpose. They forgot why they fought."
Astha stepped toward one statue. The mask looked… pained. Almost human. His fingers brushed its shoulder—and his mantra-scarred palm burned.
Memory surged.
A flash.
A warrior screaming, sword glowing white-hot, hurling himself into a divine maw.
Astha gasped.
"They're not dead. They're trapped in a loop."
---
The lava near the heart of the chamber began to stir.
It bubbled. Split. And rose.
A colossus made of molten stone and rusted armor formed from the lake—its face a twisted helm with six eyes burning in vertical alignment. In its hand: a massive flanged mace pulsing with sealed mantras.
"Turn back," it growled, voice a quake.
"None pass the Gates of Ash unless they carry the mark of pain."
"We've got pain," Luv muttered, stepping forward.
"Plenty of it."
The guardian raised its mace—and struck.
---
Luv teleported upward, lightning spiraling around him. He brought down a thunder-kick that cracked the guardian's shoulder, but the magma body reformed instantly.
Astha hurled Vaayutal—now glowing in mid-range attack mode—and the wind blade sliced through the guardian's midsection, scattering lava. At the same time, Smritidhaara coiled up his back and launched forward, binding one of the six glowing eyes.
"It can regenerate," Naira shouted, weaving sigils to reflect the flying debris.
"Aim for the memory core in its chest!"
Astha sprinted forward—barefoot now, robes scorched and flaring behind him. He leapt, spun midair, and punched through one layer of molten stone.
Then he screamed—
"Vaayutal—Rakta Dhaara Mode!"
The sword lit up in crimson mantra and changed shape mid-air—becoming a jagged, storm-fed blade with mantra carvings glowing like rivers.
He drove it through the chest of the colossus.
BOOM.
A wave of memory flame spread outward, melting the masks of several stone warriors around the room.
The guardian stopped. Shuddered.
And collapsed backward—dead, but finally remembering why it stood.
---
One by one, some statues began to shift.
Eyes blinked open behind broken masks. One warrior stepped forward—a woman with spiral tattoos across her arms.
"You... freed us," she whispered.
"Only a few," Naira said. "Most are still lost."
Astha walked through the silent crowd, sword glowing faintly in his hand. The freed warriors bowed—not to a king, not to a god—but to a rememberer.
"We'll need them soon," he muttered. "The Architect was just the whisper before the storm."
Luv glanced at him.
"And the storm?"
Astha's eyes flicked toward the dark passage at the end of the gate. A door sealed with nine locks, each made of divine bone.
"It's coming. And it's not a storm."
"It's a god who forgot what fear tastes like."