The forest had grown eerily silent after the sadhus departed, but Aadi did not trust silence anymore. Silence was not peace—it was the breath before thunder.
He walked alone along the charred edge of the forest, past the stumps of trees that had once sheltered his people. His body ached, his clothes were torn, and every muscle screamed for rest. Yet his mind refused him sleep. The visions of Markandeya still churned in him, and the weight of memory pressed on his shoulders like a yoke of stone.
It was there, in that silence, that the ground trembled.
At first it was subtle, like distant thunder. Then the trees shook, branches snapping, dust lifting into the air. Aadi fell into a crouch, his heart hammering, expecting devas or asuras. But instead—something else stepped from the forest.
A giant.
Not monstrous, not demonic—but radiant in its own strange way. His skin was the hue of the monsoon cloud, his chest broad and powerful, his frame larger than any man's but not grotesque. His eyes gleamed golden, fierce yet kind, and his tail, long and restless, flicked behind him like a banner of living energy.
Aadi knew the figure at once. His father had spoken of him with reverence, Angoor had chanted his name in prayers, children had sung songs of his leaps across oceans.
Hanuman.
The air itself seemed to hum with strength at his presence. Birds scattered, though he did not threaten them. Aadi's knees nearly buckled—not out of fear, but out of awe.
Hanuman's voice was deep, yet not thunderous. It was steady, measured, like a river that had seen many storms."Son of the forest," he said, his gaze fixed on Aadi. "Why do you walk with such weight in your heart?"
Aadi swallowed hard. "Because I cannot save them. Not my people. Not my brother. Not even myself. Gods fight, demons fight, and we are crushed between. What strength do I have against them?"
Hanuman's brow furrowed. He stepped closer, the ground quaking under each footfall. "Strength is not given to you to match gods, boy. Strength is given to lift others. To carry those who cannot walk. To protect even when no one sees."
Aadi's chest tightened. "And what if that strength is not enough? What if I carry them, and still they fall? What good is faith when the world burns anyway?"
Hanuman's golden eyes flared. He struck his chest with his fist, the sound echoing like a drum."Faith is not for gods, Aadi. Faith is for the people you love. For the weak who look to you in the night. Do you think I leapt across the ocean for glory? No—I leapt because one woman's cry mattered more than all the armies of Lanka. One cry was enough."
Aadi felt his throat burn, his fists clenching. He remembered the cries of his people under fire, the eyes of the children who had clung to him. One cry, one face—each had mattered. Yet he had failed them.
Hanuman's gaze softened, though his voice carried iron."You have strength, Aadi. I see it. But if you use it for gods or demons, it will betray you. Use it for your brother. For your people. For the ones who cannot fight. That is where strength becomes truth."
The air trembled again as Hanuman's form began to waver, his giant frame shimmering like mist. He began to fade, his body dissolving into the dawn light.
But before he vanished, his voice lingered, low and commanding:"Remember this, son of the forest. The truest test of strength is not how you fight gods, but how you hold your people when the sky falls."
And then he was gone.
Aadi stood alone, trembling, yet for the first time since the war began, his hands no longer shook from despair. They shook with something else—something raw, dangerous, and alive.
Not hope. Not yet. But resolve.