The southern winds carried the scent of rust and fire.
Shiva walked through the skeletal remains of Patliputra's outskirts, the hammer slung across his back, its faint glow casting long shadows on cracked ground.
Every few steps, the soil shimmered faintly green — the corruption that Manu had spoken of. The air buzzed with unseen energy, like the static before a storm.
[Status: Corrupted Zone — Minor Radiation Detected]
[Ram Fusion Counteracting Toxin Spread]
He glanced at his arm — faint, molten-green veins flickered under the skin. The beast within was protecting him, even now.
"Guess you're earning your share, partner," he muttered.
After an hour of walking, he saw it — a small hut perched beside a dead tree.
Smoke curled lazily from a hole in the roof. Strange windchimes made of bone and copper fragments clattered in the breeze, whispering like voices too faint to understand.
He stopped at the threshold.
"Shyam Baba?"
Silence.
Then a voice came from within, old and smooth as river stones.
"You took your time, blacksmith."
The hut's door creaked open. A frail figure stood there — skin like wrinkled parchment, beard streaked with silver and soot. But his eyes — bright amber — held the sharpness of someone who had watched centuries burn.
"Manu sent me," Shiva said, bowing slightly.
"I know," Shyam Baba replied, turning inside. "The forgemaster doesn't send the living to me often."
The hut smelled of herbs, smoke, and something older — like thunder trapped in wood.
Scrolls and cracked tablets littered the floor. Symbols glowed faintly on the walls, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Shiva felt the weight of the place press down on him.
"This… feels alive."
Shyam Baba smiled faintly. "This was once the way of Bharat. Everything lived — stone, fire, even words. You feel it because you carry the old spark."
Shiva frowned. "Old spark?"
The hermit's gaze lingered on the glowing lines under Shiva's skin. "Once upon a time, this land sang with sādhanā. Every city, every village — from Kashi to Kanyakumari — thrummed with mantras that bent the world itself. Magic wasn't a gift then. It was breath."
He paused, eyes dimming. "But greed kills even gods. The seekers wanted immortality. Power. They tore the veils open — and something answered."
"The corruption?" Shiva asked.
Shyam Baba nodded. "It devoured the world's soul. Now only fragments remain — like the light in your veins. The few who survived became beasts or worse. You… are different."
"I was dead," Shiva said quietly. "Someone brought me back. A… system."
The old man blinked. "System?"
"Yes — a green interface. Talks to me. Guides me. It's like… the world's code."
Shyam Baba stared for a long time, then shook his head slowly. "I do not know of this 'system'. Perhaps it is a new name for an ancient curse. The land remembers — even when we forget. The gods rewrite themselves when broken."
Shiva clenched his fists. "You mean this isn't divine?"
"Nothing divine remains," the hermit said softly. "Only echoes pretending to be gods."
For a long moment, silence filled the hut — broken only by the crackling of herbs in the fire pit.
Then Shyam Baba stood and shuffled to a wooden chest.
He opened it slowly, pulling out a long object wrapped in dark cloth. When he unwrapped it, the air shimmered faintly — a sword, black as obsidian, faint runes glowing along the blade.
"This belonged to a Kṣhatriya of Takṣaśilā," Shyam Baba said, holding it out. "Forged before the fall. It has slept for years, waiting for a bearer who breathes both life and death."
Shiva stared at it. "Why give this to me?"
"Because your hammer sings of war, not wisdom," the hermit said, eyes sharp. "And you will need both where you are going."
"Where?"
Shyam Baba looked past him — through the hut's window, toward the dead horizon.
"To the north. To the ruins of Takṣaśilā University. It was once the heart of all sādhanā, where even gods came to learn. Now it's nothing but bones — but bones remember."
He leaned closer, whispering, "If you want answers about your resurrection… and about the one who moves behind the shadows, you will find the first trace there."
Shiva took the sword. It was lighter than it looked, humming faintly in his palm.
[New Artifact Acquired — "Vajra-Vayu"]
[Type: Relic Blade]
[Status: Unknown Origin]
[Compatibility: 74%]
The blade pulsed once — a green spark traveling from it into his arm, merging with the same rhythm as the ram's energy.
He exhaled. "Feels… right."
"Because it knows you," Shyam Baba said. "You carry death's scent. The weapons of Bharat remember that."
Shiva bowed slightly. "Thank you, Baba."
The hermit smiled faintly. "Go before night finds you. The ruins are restless after dusk. And beware of the voices in the mist — they speak truths that break minds."
As Shiva turned to leave, Shyam Baba added quietly, "One more thing, child."
Shiva stopped at the door.
"If you find The Wanderer — do not fight him. Not yet. He was once like you."
Shiva's breath hitched. "He… was human?"
The hermit's eyes burned like dying suns. "Once. Until he learned how to rewrite life itself."
The wind outside howled, carrying the scent of rain and ash. Shiva stepped out, sword gleaming faintly at his side.
[Quest Updated — "Journey to the Ruins of Takṣaśilā"]
[Objective: Investigate the Fallen University]
[Reward: Truth (or Madness)]
He looked back once — the hut already fading into the storm.
"Magic, beasts, gods, and now… ghosts of scholars," he muttered. "Fine. Let's see what's left of the old world."
The ram's pulse thudded in his chest. The sword shimmered.
And somewhere deep within the Interface, a whisper answered —
[Observation: Subject trajectory confirmed. The Wanderer approves.]
The sky above crackled green as Shiva walked north, toward the ruins of forgotten knowledge.
End of Chapter 5: The Last Hermit of Bharat