Later that evening, they stopped at a small restaurant on the edge of town. Warm yellow lights, the scent of spices, fans whirring lazily above.
The students filled two long tables, all talking over each other—wildlife photos, snacks, and who spotted the weirdest animal.
Savitri joined quietly, her notebook tucked under her arm. Shankar sat near the end, silent, scrolling through pictures.
The carvings showed up again. He stared at them for a second too long.
Then locked his phone.
That's when the door creaked open.
A tall man stepped inside.
Black cloak. Leather boots. A thick scar running over his left eye—and that eye was blank, white, as if it had given up seeing.
He looked like someone who belonged in a darker century.
He sat at the table next to theirs. Alone. Quiet. Head lowered.
At the table, someone joked:
"You know Rajgir has more ghosts than history. Half of it's just made up."
Laughter followed.
Then, the man spoke.
"Rajgir holds more lies than truth."
His voice was low, deep—the kind that made people stop mid-sentence.
He didn't raise it, but it cut through the chatter like a blade.
A few students turned. Even the teachers paused.
The man glanced toward the table—his gaze cold, but not cruel.
"The truth is buried deeper here than the ruins.
And most people stop digging once it gets uncomfortable."
He leaned back.
One of the braver students asked, "Do you come here often?"
"Every year," he replied simply.
Another asked, "Are you a historian?"
"No."
A pause.
"Just someone who's... interested in things people forget."
The restaurant manager quietly approached the teachers.
"Oh, he's from London. Comes here every year like clockwork. Talks to kids more than adults, funnily enough."
Eventually, the man stood, nodding once to the group.
And just like that, he walked out. No goodbye. Just quiet leather footsteps fading into the warm night.
Everyone sat in silence for a moment.
Then Savitri, watching the door where he'd gone, said softly:
"He looks like a friendly person."
Shankar didn't say anything.
But the scar. The eye.
The cloak.
He'd seen him before.
The group returned to the hotel—tired but buzzing with leftover energy. The day had been long, full of safaris and old stones, but no one was ready to sleep yet.
The main hall turned into a lounge. Students flopped onto couches, sat cross-legged on carpets, leaned against window ledges. Phones were out. Photos passed around. Inside jokes formed instantly.
Shankar sat with Varun and Aryan, flipping through his safari shots.
"Dude," Aryan laughed, "you took ten photos of the same deer."
Shankar smirked. "Not the same. Look closely—it blinked in two of them."
Varun snorted. "You need a life, bro."
Shankar smiled, but his mind was elsewhere. He glanced at the photos from Swarn Bhandar—the scorched wall, the carvings—and that man.
The white eye. The voice.
Rajgir holds more lies than truth.
He wasn't sure why it still echoed.
Across the room, Savitri was sitting with Meena and Rhea. They were laughing—mostly at Meena, who apparently almost fell near the gate trying to pose dramatically.
"Hey," Shankar nudged Varun, "let's go over."
Varun raised an eyebrow. "Sure."
As they joined the girls, Meena looked up. "The photographers arrive."
Shankar smiled awkwardly. "This is Varun. And… I think you already know Savitri."
Savitri offered a nod. "Deer still blinking?"
"Always."
The group relaxed into a comfortable rhythm—talking about the safari, the carvings, the weird food. For a while, it felt light.
"Didn't expect you to be the silent type," Meena said to Shankar.
"I'm not usually," he replied. "Just… thinking."
"Still about that weird guy?" Rhea asked.
Shankar blinked. "What?"
"You kinda zoned out after Swarn Bhandar."
Savitri added, gently, "He did say something odd."
Shankar nodded slowly. "Yeah. He did."
The moment sat there. Unanswered.
Dinner was called.
At the table, plates filled fast, but conversation stayed slower. Shankar sat with Savitri, Varun, Meena, and Rhea. The teasing quieted into stories.
"Heard Meena once got lost in a temple," Varun said.
"She didn't get lost," Rhea grinned. "The temple just shifted. Obviously."
Shankar looked up.
Meena wasn't smiling now.
"Maybe it didn't want me to leave," she muttered.
Silence. Just for a beat.
Then laughter covered it again—but Shankar didn't forget it.
After dinner, the group slowly returned to their rooms. Shankar and Varun were still riding the high of the day, tossing banter as they settled into bed.
"Man," Varun said, arms behind his head, "Swarn Bhandar was cool, but I don't buy that the treasure was ever there."
Shankar raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"
"Think about it," Varun said. "If I were the king, and I had actual treasure, why would I put it somewhere everyone could access, even with hidden doors or traps? I'd make a fake spot—let the noise, legends, and maps point there. People would waste years chasing it, while the real thing sits safe in some forgotten cave or sealed chamber nobody even suspects."
Shankar stayed quiet for a moment. That… made sense.
"A decoy," he finally said. "A well-crafted distraction."
"Exactly," Varun said, his voice already softening with sleep. "Keep their eyes where you want 'em."
The room grew quiet.
But Shankar's mind wandered.
His thoughts drifted back to that odd corner he'd explored—those carvings, those symbols.
Most people had walked past them like they were nothing.
Maybe they were.
But maybe... not.
He didn't know what they meant.
Wasn't even sure if they meant anything.
But they lingered—like a word stuck on the tip of his tongue.
He wasn't trying to solve anything. It wasn't that deep.
It was just... strange.
And that strangeness stayed with him.
As his eyes followed the lazy spin of the ceiling fan, another thought drifted in—soft, uninvited:
"Rajgir holds more lies than truth."
He hadn't even realized he remembered the man's voice until it was already there, echoing faintly in his head.
Something about the way he said it... like he wasn't guessing.
Like he knew.
Shankar exhaled slowly, his body tired but his mind still turning.
He didn't have answers. Just a feeling.
A quiet itch that said—look again.
Eventually, his eyes grew heavy. The gold ring, temple, and banyan tree drifted into his dreams—not with purpose, but as echoes of something ancient, quietly waiting.