The night air around Shyam Baba's hut was quiet — too quiet for the world Shiva had come to know. No growling beasts, no smoke, no scent of blood. Just the soft hum of crickets and the crackle of burning wood.
A pot simmered gently on the small clay stove. The smell of lentils and ghee drifted through the air — simple, but heavenly.
Shyam Baba sat cross-legged beside the fire, eyes half-closed. He looked older than time itself, skin wrinkled like old parchment but glowing faintly, as if lit from within.
"Eat," the old man said, sliding the bowl toward Shiva without opening his eyes. "You've walked through death again. Let your stomach remember life."
Shiva hesitated for a moment, then took it. The first bite hit him with a warmth he didn't realize he'd been missing — human, grounding.
But questions burned in his mind.
"Baba," he began, voice low. "How did you know I'd come? And… at this exact time?"
The old hermit only smiled.
"Some things walk in circles, Shiva. You were always meant to return tonight. Even the stars knew that much."
Shiva frowned. "I have so much to tell you—about Yaksha, the ruins, the scroll—"
"Not tonight," Baba interrupted gently. "The night listens better when words are few. Rest now. Speak when the sun comes."
Something in his tone left no room for argument. Shiva nodded slowly, finishing his meal in silence.
He lay down on a thin mat inside the hut. The scent of sandalwood and ash clung to the air. The hum of insects outside lulled him toward sleep.
The last thing he saw before drifting off was the faint shimmer of his ring, glowing softly under the moonlight — the blessing of the Yaksha.
Morning
The first rays of dawn spilled through the cracks of the hut.
Shiva sat upright, body aching but mind sharp. Shyam Baba was already awake, brewing tea over the same small flame.
"Speak," the old man said without turning.
So Shiva did.
He told everything — from the moment he'd faced the Yaksha, the gatekeeper of Takṣaśilā, to the statue of Indra that responded to his weapons. The spark, the vault, the countless scrolls and the one that called to him. The mysterious System, his rising levels, and the ring that could store anything.
He spoke until his throat turned dry.
Baba listened without a word, eyes half-closed, as if seeing beyond the story itself.
When Shiva finally finished, the silence stretched long. The wind outside rustled through the trees, carrying faint chants from somewhere far away.
At last, Shyam Baba opened his eyes.
"So," he said slowly, "you carry thunder in your hand and the breath of time in your chest."
Shiva blinked. "What do you mean?"
"The System," Baba said softly. "Whatever it is, it's not new. The ancients wrote of such powers — voices of the cosmos, tools of the divine. You, child, are not the first to bear its mark. But perhaps, the last."
Shiva frowned, confused. "Then what should I do now?"
"Before you swing that hammer again, you must first understand yourself," Baba replied.
He rose slowly, every movement deliberate, graceful. "For the next twenty-one days, you will stay here."
Shiva stared. "Twenty-one days? Doing what?"
The old man smiled.
"Living."
He began listing it out, his voice calm but commanding:
"Each morning, you will wield the sword for four hours.
Then, the hammer for another four.
And when the night comes, you will sit — not fight, not speak, not move — and meditate for eight hours. The fire will teach you more than battle ever could."
Shiva frowned. "And after that?"
"After that," Shyam Baba said, turning toward the horizon, "you will no longer be the same man who walked into my hut."
There was something final in his tone — a promise, or a warning.
Shiva clenched his fist, the faint pulse of the ram's spirit steady inside him.
He nodded once. "Alright. Twenty-one days it is."
The old hermit's lips curved into a faint smile. "Good. Then let this be your first lesson — patience."
As the sun climbed higher, Shiva stepped outside the hut. The forest stretched endlessly before him, alive yet silent.
He felt the weight of his weapons, the hum of his system, and the whisper of fate itself moving just beyond sight.
For the first time since his resurrection, Shiva wasn't fighting the world. He was preparing to master it.
End of Chapter 12: The Hermit's Routine