The train to Hospet was late.
Not by hours — by time itself.
Arjun sat on the station's edge, watching a spider build its web on a broken speaker. Dust hung in the air like breath held too long. The Spiral on his hand pulsed quietly beneath his bandage.
It no longer hurt.
Now, it whispered.
Ever since Ujjain — ever since Vyasa had chosen oblivion — something had changed in the pattern. The Spiral was no longer just a tracker or a memory shard. It had begun to anticipate him. It woke him before sunrise. It responded to questions he didn't ask aloud.
It had, in some strange way, become aware.
And this time, it pulled him toward a city of ruins.
Hampi.
Ancient seat of empires. A stone mirage. A city built for gods and abandoned by time. Some believed it was once part of Kishkindha, the monkey kingdom of the Ramayana. Others said it was older still — a city that dreamt itself into existence long before humans could write.
But what Arjun sought wasn't architecture.
It was Hanuman.
The immortal of devotion. The warrior who chose service over death. The god who had sworn to remain until the end of the Yuga.
The vow still echoed.
Arjun could feel it in his spine.
He arrived by dusk.
Hampi glowed in the twilight — giant boulders balanced on ridges, temples half-swallowed by vines, and colossal statues eroded into reverence. The Virupaksha Temple stood like a broken crown, its gopuram worn smooth by wind.
Tourists came here. But they didn't see what Arjun saw.
The cracks in reality.
The glitches in shadow.
The patterns in the carvings that rearranged themselves when no one looked.
He walked through the bazaar ruins and followed the Spiral's pulse.
It led him away from the monuments.
Into the rocks.
And toward a cave that wasn't on any archaeological record.
A place that shouldn't exist.
The entrance was sealed by vines.
Carvings ran across the archway — a tail wrapped in flame, and below it, a vow in ancient Sanskrit:
"Until the final name is spoken, I remain."
He touched the stone.
The vines recoiled.
And the Spiral flared.
He stepped inside.
The cave wasn't deep.
But it was wrong.
The air was too thick, as if memory had weight here. The stone beneath his feet vibrated with faint rhythms — not sound, but intention.
At the center of the chamber was a statue.
Not Hanuman as he was known — no mace, no mountain, no folded hands.
This Hanuman was seated cross-legged, head lowered, arms cracked and empty.
And around him were dozens of identical statues — all slightly different.
One with open eyes.
One broken at the knees.
One headless.
One whispering.
They weren't tributes.
They were attempts.
Someone had been trying to recreate him.
And failing.
"Do you know which is the real one?"
The voice came from the shadows.
A woman stepped out.
Young. Barefoot. Hair coiled into a tight braid. A shawl of coarse cotton over her shoulder. Her eyes glinted with amusement, but something behind them was bruised.
"I don't," Arjun admitted.
"I didn't come for an idol."
She circled him slowly.
"You came for the vow."
Arjun nodded.
"The vow that made him immortal."
She walked to one of the statues — the one with no mouth.
"This place," she said, "is called Agnitula. The Flame of the Tongue."
"It was built by devotees who believed that the vow had to be spoken again every century, or Hanuman's spirit would fade."
"They failed."
Arjun stepped closer.
"You were one of them?"
She hesitated.
"I was born here. Into the brotherhood. I was the last voice."
"But the Spiral told us to go silent."
"Because something… was listening."
Arjun felt a chill.
"You're saying the vow is real?"
The woman nodded.
"Hanuman is alive."
"But his memory has been fractured."
"Someone broke it."
She pointed to the statue with open eyes.
"His consciousness is scattered across the earth. But this is one of the seats."
"His mind sits here."
"But without the spoken vow, he cannot awaken."
Arjun sat before the statue.
He didn't know the words.
But the Spiral did.
It pulsed once — then again — then carved the vow into his thoughts.
"Until the end of Yuga, I walk unseen.Where dharma fades, my feet shall tread.Until the last fire dims, I will remember."
He spoke it aloud.
The cave breathed.
The stone eyes blinked.
And the statue cracked down the middle.
Inside: nothing.
No relic. No glow. Just a small wooden bead, blackened by age, strung on a red thread.
The Spiral flared.
Arjun reached for it.
And the woman screamed.
"NO!"
But it was too late.
The bead burned his skin.
Memory poured into him — a roar across time.
He saw a battlefield soaked in ash.
He saw Hanuman screaming into the wind, body aflame, holding a boy's corpse.
He saw himself — Arjun — dying again and again.
He saw Hanuman swear a vow to stay.
And he saw the vow being broken.
By a hand not human.
By a mouth that spoke backward.
He dropped the bead.
The Spiral retracted.
The woman stared at him.
"You saw it?"
He nodded.
"The vow was violated. Someone used the Spiral to undo it."
She picked up the bead.
"This is all that remains of him."
"His vow is incomplete now. Which means…"
She didn't finish.
She didn't need to.
Hanuman was no longer bound.
He was no longer watching.
And that meant they were alone.
Outside, the Watcher stood atop Matanga Hill.
He had arrived hours earlier.
Watched everything.
Smiled quietly.
Now he turned to the agent beside him — a young boy with grey skin and no pupils.
"The fourth fragment is waking."
"He will be ready by the seventh."
The boy blinked.
"But what if he remembers everything?"
The Watcher smiled wider.
"Then we will finally have a worthy rewrite."
"Even gods fall, if you erase their reason for standing."
Arjun left the cave by night.
The woman walked with him.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Ishaani," she replied.
"I'll come with you."
Arjun hesitated.
"This war gets darker every step."
She smiled.
"I've lived in a cave of forgotten gods. I know darkness."
He nodded.
The Spiral glowed between them.
Not hot.
But ready.
The fourth node on the map now pulsed with life.
Far to the northeast — Dronagiri.
And the next immortal.
Kripacharya.
The man who taught death and never received it.