Dawn came too fast.
And not fast enough.
Bharat stood outside the Royal Temple—white robes they'd given him hanging loose on his frame, the fabric rough against his skin like it was woven from regret. The building rose before him: all marble and gold, columns that stretched toward the sky like they were holding up something heavier than stone.
The weight of divine judgment.
Or divine indifference.
He wasn't sure which was worse.
The temple entrance was open. Inside, candlelight flickered—hundreds of them, maybe thousands, turning the interior into a cave of shadows and flame.
The High Priest waited at the threshold.
Old man. White beard down to his chest. Eyes that looked like they'd seen too much and forgiven too little. He wore robes that probably cost more than Bharat's life—deep crimson with gold threading, symbols stitched into the fabric that seemed to move when you weren't looking directly at them.
"You came," the priest said.
Not surprised.
Disappointed, maybe.
"I came," Bharat confirmed.
"Do you know what you're asking for?"
"Entry to the sacred inner sanctum."
"And what will you give in return?"
Bharat met his eyes. Held them.
"Whatever it takes."
The priest smiled. It was the saddest thing Bharat had seen in days—and he'd seen Mira bleeding out on a safehouse floor.
"They all say that," the old man said quietly. "And they all mean it. Until the temple asks."
"I'm ready."
"No one's ever ready."
"Then I'll be the first."
"We'll see."
The priest stepped aside. Gestured toward the entrance.
"The ritual is simple," he continued. "You'll walk to the altar. Kneel. Place your forehead to the marble. And swear the oath I give you."
"Three minutes."
"Yes."
"And then?"
"And then the temple decides if you're worthy."
"What if I'm not?"
"You won't leave."
The priest said it like he was discussing the weather. Casual. Easy. Like people failed this test every week and their bodies just got added to the temple's collection.
Maybe they did.
Bharat stepped forward. The white robes caught on his shoes—too long, designed for someone taller. Or someone used to kneeling.
He was neither.
The interior of the temple opened before him. Vast. Cavernous. The ceiling disappeared into darkness above, like the building had no top, just kept going up forever into some unreachable heaven.
Candles lined the walls.
Hundreds of them.
Each flame perfectly still—no wind, no movement, like they'd been frozen mid-flicker.
The floor was marble. White. Polished to a mirror shine. Bharat could see his reflection walking beside him—pale, tired, the face of someone who'd stopped sleeping three days ago and forgotten how to start again.
The altar waited at the far end.
Gold.
Massive.
Carved with symbols that hurt to look at directly—like they were written in a language his eyes couldn't process without pain.
The High Priest followed behind him. Silent. Each footstep echoing in the empty space like a judgment being pronounced.
Bharat reached the altar.
Stopped.
The marble was cold beneath his feet—so cold it burned.
"Kneel," the priest said.
Here it was.
The moment he'd been dreading.
The second humiliation.
Bharat's knees locked. His body refused to obey—some deep, animal part of his brain screaming that bowing here meant surrender, meant giving up something he'd never get back.
But Mira was dying.
Ayesha was running out of time.
The countdown was negative.
And pride was a luxury he couldn't afford.
He knelt.
The marble bit into his knees like teeth. Cold radiated up through his legs, into his chest, settling somewhere behind his ribs where it started to ache.
"Forehead to the ground," the priest commanded.
Bharat bent forward. Pressed his forehead to the marble.
It felt like kissing a grave.
"Repeat after me," the priest began. "I surrender my will to the divine order."
Bharat's mouth opened.
Words came out.
But they weren't his.
"I surrender my will to the divine order."
"I pledge my life to the temple's judgment."
"I pledge my life to the temple's judgment."
"I forsake all oaths made before this moment."
Bharat hesitated.
All oaths. That included the system contracts. The promises to Mira, to Ayesha, to the twelve people who'd signed on to help him.
"Say it," the priest insisted.
"Or leave."
Bharat's forehead pressed harder against the marble. He could feel something building in the air around him—pressure, like the temple itself was leaning in to listen.
"I forsake all oaths made before this moment."
The words tasted like ash.
The temple shuddered.
Candles flickered.
And something locked into place—not physical, not visible, but Bharat felt it like chains wrapping around his chest, his throat, his will.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
[WARNING: Divine Oath Detected]
[CONFLICT WITH EXISTING OBLIGATIONS]
[VIOLATION IMMINENT]
[RECOMMENDATION: ABORT]
Bharat ignored it.
"Rise," the priest said.
Bharat stood. His knees screamed. The cold had settled into his bones—he wondered if he'd ever feel warm again.
"You are bound," the priest declared. "The temple has accepted your oath. You may proceed to the inner sanctum."
"How do I get there?"
The priest pointed toward a corridor Bharat hadn't noticed before—narrow, dark, leading deeper into the temple's heart.
"The Corridor of Oaths. Walk it. Reach the end. The vault awaits."
"That's it?"
"That's everything."
Something in the old man's tone made Bharat's skin crawl.
"What's in the corridor?"
"Truth."
"What kind of truth?"
"The kind you've been running from."
The priest turned away. Dismissed him with a wave.
"Go," he said. "Or stay. The temple doesn't care which."
"But you do."
The old man paused.
"I care that you'll regret it either way."
Then he was gone—vanished into the shadows like he'd never been there at all.
Bharat stood alone in the temple. The candles flickered. The altar gleamed.
And the corridor waited.
Dark.
Patient.
Hungry.
He stepped toward it. Each footstep echoed—but wrong, like the sound was coming from behind him instead of beneath him.
The entrance swallowed him whole.
Darkness closed in.
Absolute.
Complete.
Then light.
Not from candles.
From nowhere.
Everywhere.
The corridor stretched before him—long, narrow, walls lined with mirrors that reflected nothing, floors that seemed to shift beneath his feet like they couldn't decide if they were solid.
And voices.
Whispers at first.
Then louder.
"Bharat."
He stopped.
That was Mira's voice.
"Bharat, please."
Coming from ahead. From the darkness at the corridor's end.
"Help me."
His heart kicked against his ribs. Logic screamed at him—it's a trick, it's the temple testing you, she's not really there—but his feet were already moving, carrying him forward without permission.
"I'm coming," he shouted.
"Hurry."
"They're hurting me."
"Please."
The corridor stretched. Longer. Like it was growing as he ran, adding distance faster than he could close it.
"Mira!"
"It hurts."
Her voice cracked. Broke into sobs.
Bharat ran faster.
The mirrors on the walls started showing images:
Mira in the safehouse. Blood pooling beneath her.
Mira at the temple altar. Burning.
Mira screaming his name while he knelt and did nothing.
"This is what happens when you choose wrong," the temple whispered.
"This is what you deserve."
"You can't save her."
"You can barely save yourself."
Bharat's vision blurred. Tears—or sweat, he couldn't tell anymore. His lungs burned. The corridor wouldn't end.
"Mira!"
"I'm here."
And suddenly she was.
Right in front of him.
Real.
Solid.
Bleeding.
She collapsed. Bharat caught her—felt the weight of her, the warmth, the pulse fluttering in her throat like a trapped bird.
"You came," she whispered.
"I'm here."
"Don't leave me."
"I won't."
"Promise."
"I promise."
She smiled. Small. Fragile.
"Liar."
Then she was gone.
Dissolved into smoke.
Into nothing.
Bharat knelt there—alone in the corridor, hands empty, Mira's warmth still lingering on his skin like a ghost.
The temple laughed.
"Did you really think it would be that easy?"
"Did you think we wouldn't know?"
"You made an oath to us. Forsook all others."
"That includes her."
"That includes everyone."
The corridor walls pressed inward. Closer. Tighter. Bharat's chest constricted—he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything except kneel there and let the truth crush him.
He'd sworn an oath.
Forsaken Mira.
Forsaken them all.
And for what?
A book that might not even be real.
A plan that had maybe a one percent chance of working.
"You're pathetic," the temple said.
And Bharat couldn't disagree.
But then—
In the corner of his vision—
The system:
[DIVINE OATH: ACTIVE]
[SYSTEM OBLIGATIONS: CONFLICTED]
[LOOPHOLE DETECTED]
[EXPLOIT? Y/N]
Bharat's breath caught.
Loophole.
The system had found something. Some gap in the temple's oath that he could slip through.
But it would cost.
Everything had a cost.
[WARNING: Exploiting divine loopholes carries severe penalty]
[ESTIMATED LIFESPAN REDUCTION: 180 days]
[PROCEED?]
One hundred eighty days. Half a year.
For a maybe.
For a chance.
For the thinnest sliver of hope that he could save them all.
Bharat stood.
Wiped his eyes.
Looked at the darkness ahead.
"Yes," he said.
To the system.
To the temple.
To whatever was listening.
"I proceed."
The corridor shuddered.
The walls cracked.
Light poured through—
Not gentle.
Harsh.
Burning.
And ahead—
Finally—
The vault door.
Gold.
Massive.
Sealed with seven locks.
But no guards.
No priests.
Just him.
And the choice he'd already made.
Bharat reached for the first lock.
Behind him, Mira's voice whispered one last time:
"What if I'm real?"
"What if I really need you?"
"What if you're wrong?"
His hand trembled.
Just once.
Then steadied.
"Then I'm wrong," he said quietly.
"And I'll live with it."
Or die with it.
Whichever came first.
He opened the lock.
The temple screamed.