The night after the ruins of Wayanad was eerily quiet. No bird called, no insect stirred. Even the flames had burned themselves out, leaving only the scent of ash clinging to the earth.
Aadi sat on the banks of the swollen Kabini River, his reflection fractured by ripples. He could not rid himself of Ashwatthama's words, nor of the images of his people's charred faces. His hands shook whenever he tried to sleep, guilt gnawing at his bones.
It was then that he heard the sound: not footsteps, not rustling leaves, but the faint hiss of serpents moving through grass.
From the darkness emerged three figures draped in ochre cloth, their bodies smeared in ash, their matted hair coiled high like crowns. Around their necks and arms writhed live serpents, docile and unthreatening, as though they were extensions of the ascetics themselves. Their eyes glowed faintly in the moonlight—not with divinity, but with a knowledge older than gods.
The Naag sadhus had come.
Aadi rose to his feet, heart pounding. "You—you were there at the temple," he stammered. "When the trident struck. Who are you?"
The tallest of them stepped forward, his voice low and resonant, like the rumble of stone beneath the earth."We are the keepers of the serpent's oath. We guard the truths that gods fear and demons covet. And you, Aadi, son of the forest, have seen too much to remain ignorant."
Another sadhu drew from his cloth a circular disc, carved from black stone veined with silver. Etched upon it were coils of serpents, devouring their own tails, each loop interlocking with another until no beginning or end could be found. The disc shimmered faintly, as though alive.
"This is the Kala Chakra," the sadhu intoned. "The wheel of serpents. It is no weapon. It is no prayer. It is the map of time itself."
Aadi's breath caught. He stepped closer despite himself. The patterns seemed to move as he looked at them, the serpents twisting, tightening, unraveling. For a dizzying instant, he saw flashes—jungles flooded, cities in flames, stars burning and dying, and always the same figures repeating across ages. Gods. Demons. Mortals crushed between them.
"What is this?" Aadi whispered.
The sadhu's gaze did not waver. "Time does not flow as men believe. It coils, like the serpent. Each yuga devours the last, and what was lost becomes seed for what is born again. Rahu's prison, the veil of Maya, even your suffering—it is all part of this cycle."
Aadi staggered back, clutching his head as visions seared his mind. He saw Rahu's severed face grinning across centuries, battles fought again and again, his own reflection standing in ruins that were both past and future.
"Why show me this?" he demanded, his voice breaking. "Why curse me with this knowledge?"
The third sadhu, older than the others, leaned on his staff, his voice a rasp like dry leaves."Because the wheel is breaking. The devas and asuras tear at its edges. And when it shatters, there will be no new dawn—only endless night. Unless someone steps beyond it."
Aadi's chest tightened. "Beyond… time?"
The sadhus bowed their heads. "That is the path you are being called to walk. The path no god, no demon, no immortal dares tread. The path of the serpent."
The disc glowed faintly, its coils tightening. Aadi could not look away. He felt as though the wheel was no longer in their hands, but inside him, turning, waiting.
And in that moment, he understood—whatever he had thought his struggle was, it was nothing compared to what lay ahead.
The war of gods and demons was not just for the sky. It was for the wheel of time itself.