Svetavastra and Aryaman had fallen into a steady rhythm as they traversed the undulating landscapes beyond the kingdom of Dayita, cleansing ley line intersections with a quiet determination. Their journey was marked by long stretches of silence, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of wind through the trees or the distant call of a bird.

During these travels, much of their time was spent in cultivation. Svetavastra would slip into deep meditation, his presence like a still pond, undisturbed by the world around him. Aryaman, initially uneasy with the vast stretches of silence, found himself gradually drawn into this practice. He would sit beside Svetavastra, feeling the earth solid beneath him, the breath within him slowing to match as he went into deep meditation himself.

As the days passed, Aryaman discovered a growing comfort in these moments of stillness. He began to look forward to them, the quiet allowing him to tune into the subtleties of the world around him—the slight shift in the wind, the soft hum of energy beneath the ground. After each session, he felt a clarity in his thoughts, his body responding with a newfound agility, his reflexes sharp and quick like the flash of a blade.

This evening, they were in a cave in a kingdom north of Dayita. The cave was dimly lit, the air thick with a chill. The flickering light from Aryaman’s celestial sword cast eerie shadows on the cave walls as he moved forward, his eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of movement. A low, guttural growl echoed through the cavern, sending a shiver down his spine.

"There!" Svetavastra's voice was a whisper, barely audible over the soft hum of energy that filled the space. Aryaman followed his gaze, spotting the faint, shifting shapes of the rogue pretas lurking in the shadows.

With a swift, practiced motion, Aryaman raised his sword, its blade shimmering with a celestial glow. He chanted in divine tongue under his breath, and the air around him crackled with energy. The rogue pretas hissed as they sensed the impending trap. But Aryaman was faster. He swung his sword in a wide arc, the blade carving through the air, leaving a trail of light in its wake. The light coalesced into a giant sphere, trapping the pretas within its glowing confines.

The creatures thrashed against the walls of the sphere, their wails echoing through the cave. Aryaman's grip on the sword tightened, sweat beading on his forehead as he concentrated, holding the cosmic sphere steady.

Svetavastra extended his hand and the pretabandana floated above his open palm. He went inside the cosmic sphere and opened the spiritual artifact and at once the rogue pretas were captured and the cave fell into silence.

Aryaman lowered his sword, the light from the blade fading as the energy dissipated.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“Nicely done,” Svetavastra told Aryaman as the latter sheathed his sword.

“Thank you, gurudeva,” said Aryaman with a bow.

“Next time, try not to sweat so much,” Svetavastra said. “That’s too much exertion. You will be drained in no time if you continue that way.”

“But I got the job done so quickly!” Aryaman protested.

“This was a simple case with a limited number of rogue pretas in a controlled environment,” said Svetavastra. “You have to be prepared for all sorts of scenarios. It’s not a sprint.”

“It’s a marathon,” finished Aryaman. “I get it. I get it.”

They stepped out of the cave into the cool evening air, the fading light of twilight casting long, soft shadows across the forest floor. Their horses stood waiting at the entrance, ears twitching at the sound of their approach. Aryaman reached out to stroke Himmat’s neck, the horse nuzzling his hand in response.

“Did you get scared so soon?” Aryaman said to Himmat.

The horse neighed in protest.

“You had company too!” Aryaman said in fake rebuff.

The horse neighed again and threw air at him.

“Fine fine, I’m here,” Aryaman cajoled Himmat.

“Let’s camp here for the night,” Svetavastra said as he found a sturdy tree to meditate under.

As Aryaman gathered wood to start a fire, he noticed Svetavastra’s face tense, concern flashing across his features. In a swift, instinctive motion, Svetavastra summoned the luminous diksuchi, which blinked erratically, casting chaotic red and black light in all directions.

“What’s wrong, gurudeva?” Aryaman asked, settling into a cross-legged posture.

“The spiritual compass usually points toward a concentrated source of energy,” Svetavastra said, his voice laced with unease.

“But it’s glowing in all directions,” Aryaman observed, his own anxiety rising.

“Yes,” Svetavastra confirmed, his eyes narrowing.

“Is dark energy surrounding us?” Aryaman asked, scanning their surroundings. “But nothing seems different.”

Before Svetavastra could respond, the diksuchi glowed bright, and a small projection of the Preceptor of Heavenly Conduit appeared above it.

“Greetings, Svetavastra!” the preceptor’s voice resonated through the air.

“Greetings,” Svetavastra said.

“Greetings, Prince Aryaman,” the preceptor acknowledged.

“Greetings, sir,” Aryaman replied, unsure of whom he was addressing.

“I bear unfortunate news,” the preceptor said gravely, his voice barely masking the panic beneath.

“Go on,” said Svetavastra.

“The Abyss of Talatala has been breached,” the preceptor said.

Aryaman looked in confusion from Svetavastra to the astral projection of the preceptor.

“It’s one of the seven portals to the underworld,” explained Svetavastra.

The preceptor's voice quivered as he continued, “A great demon lord has emerged. He does not march alone—an unending horde of twisted, ravenous demons follows in his wake. The ground trembles beneath their feet, and the sky darkens with a miasma so thick it blots out the sun. They devour everything and everyone in their path.”

Aryaman felt a cold dread seep into his bones as the words sank in. Svetavastra, his expression unreadable, broke the heavy silence. “Who is this demon lord?”

The preceptor’s reply was almost a wail.

“It is Raktabija, the one who cannot be slain, not even by the gods.”

Svetavastra responded with a contemplative “Hmm,” but the preceptor’s panic only grew.

“How will this world withstand such an onslaught, Svetavastra? The gods cannot descend! How will we survive this calamity?”