The cave's mouth gaped like the jaws of Time itself, ancient guardian carvings adorning its threshold—not mere decorations, but sacred protectors marking the boundary between the material and spiritual realms. As Svetavastra dismounted from Shyena, his mind's eye traced the stories etched in stone—celestial beings caught mid-dance, their graceful movement frozen in eternal beauty; stern guardian kings with eyes of precious gems that seemed to follow every movement, their expressions both kind and fierce; and great serpents whose coiled forms spoke of dormant energy lying in stone.
"The air feels so still,” the preta whispered from the bracer, uneasy. "It's like a thousand hungry spirits holding their breath, waiting to devour ours."
Svetavastra understood. The cave's atmosphere pressed against them with the weight of accumulated ascetic practices—centuries of prayers and offerings had made the very air thick with spiritual energy. Each step deeper brought new sensations: the soft squelch of glowing fungi beneath their feet, their bioluminescence pulsing in rhythm with the universal sound; the steady drip-drip-drip of water that had witnessed countless meditations; and an odd light that seemed to dance with their own life-force.
Shyena, the divine bird, though powerful in its own right, grew increasingly agitated. Its talons scraped against stone as it refused to venture further, its golden eyes wide with the instinctual recognition of a power older than itself.
"Even celestial creatures know when they approach the threshold of the threefold path," Manu said softly, stroking the bird's feathers. The bird relaxed slightly under his touch, recognizing in him something eternal despite his mortal form. "We continue on foot from here."
The cosmic form hung back, her usual playfulness subdued by the cave's ancient presence. Through their shared connection, Svetavastra felt her divine energy dampen, like a flame struggling against sacred winds. Something about this place reached past surface power to touch deeper truths.
They hadn't gone far when the tunnel opened into a vast hall that could have rivaled the meditation halls of ancient sanctuaries. Three pathways branched outward like the strands of a sacred tree, each marked with different guardian symbols that glowed with a pure light.
"These signs," Svetavastra murmured, studying the mystical symbols with his mind's eye. "They speak of trials by spiritual fire. Each path represents one of the energies—purity, passion, and darkness." The ancient script resonated with something deep within him, stirring fragments of memories like leaves in a divine wind.
Is this why I feel pulled toward the path of purity? he wondered. Or is that very attraction an illusion meant to trap me?
"We should—" Manu began, but his words were cut short by a rumble that shook the chamber like an earthquake.
The ground beneath them shifted as if awakening from a deep sleep, stone grinding against stone with the sound of ancient chants. Svetavastra reached for Manu instinctively, but the floor between them split and reformed into an impenetrable wall, as unbreakable as illusion itself.
"Manu!" Svetavastra called out, his voice swallowed by the grinding stone like an offering to the earth.
"Keep your mind steady! This is an illusion!” Manu's voice returned, muffled but carrying the strength of truth. "Remember Sveta, illusion can only bind those who believe in its chains!"
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The chamber continued transforming, forcing Svetavastra down the path of purity while the grinding of stone masked Manu's voice entirely. The glowing fungi cast shadows that danced like spirits in ecstasy, taking forms that seemed almost human before dissolving back into the primordial darkness.
"No-god God," the preta's voice quavered, its very essence trembling. “This is a powerful illusion, even I cannot see through it."
Svetavastra felt it too—a pressure building behind his inner eye like the moment before a great awakening. The air grew cold as mountain peaks, and the walls pulsed with the light of some strange power. Each step forward brought new whispers, echoing fragments of conversations from past ages that teased at his dormant memories.
"You were divine once," the walls seemed to whisper in the voice of Time itself. "You were made of pure cosmos.”
The passage curved like a serpent seeking truth, opening into a small meditation chamber. There, standing in its center like an idol come to life, was a figure that made Svetavastra's heart still its mortal dance—a warrior in armor that shone like sunlight, divine weapons humming with cosmic power, radiating the terrible beauty of absolute divinity. Atisha. The God of War. His own true form.
The figure turned, and Svetavastra found himself gazing into eyes that held the weight of three worlds, filled with the power that maintains cosmic order and the judgment that ends ages.
"Behold what you've become," Atisha said, her voice resonating the chamber. "A mere shadow of divine light. You who once wielded the weapons of the gods now depend on borrowed power like a beggar at a temple door."
Svetavastra felt his throat constrict with the force of suppressed truth. How many beings had crossed into Death's realm because he wasn't strong enough? How many more would fall while he struggled to reclaim even a spark of his former glory?
But something else stirred within him—a quiet certainty that transcended both memory and power, steady as the sacred mountain itself.
"I may be diminished now," he said, his voice carrying the simple truth of a temple bell, "but I haven't forgotten what true righteousness means."
Atisha smiled—a terrible vision that held both creation and destruction in its depths. She moved grace that felt magnetic.
"Protection?" Atisha's laugh rang like an echo. "You speak of protection while wielding borrowed power from a mortal ascetic?" The warrior's form flickered like lightning, and suddenly Svetavastra saw his current form—blindfolded, bound by mortality's chains, dependent on others' light like a lamp without oil.
"No-god God," the preta stirred in desperate protest, its voice carrying anguish. "This is illusion's deepest—"
"Silence!" Atisha commanded with the force of divine law, and even the preta fell silent, though Svetavastra could feel its agitation buzzing against his skin like trapped energy.
I should feel anger, Svetavastra thought. I should feel shame. But instead, a strange peace settled over him—the peace that comes from seeing through illusion to truth. He remembered the monks at the monastery, their faith pure as the river's waters. He thought of Aryaman, learning to channel his powers not for ego but for service. He remembered Manu's unwavering support, asking nothing in return like true selfless action.
"You see this as weakness," Svetavastra said, his voice soft but carrying the power of realized truth, "but I've learned more about protection through vulnerability than I ever knew through divine might."
The chamber trembled like a struck gong. Atisha's perfect features twisted with something like anger—or was it fear?
"Pretty words," the god of war spat, "fit for wandering ascetics. But what of the dark forces? What of the darkness spreading across the world like poison? Will your knowledge stop their weapons when they drink the life of the innocent?"
Images manifested in the air like cruel karma bearing fruit—villages burning, temples desecrated, faithful devotees crying out to unhearing gods. Each vision struck like thunder, but Svetavastra stood firm as truth itself.
"I may lack my former glory," he said, "but true power isn't in the weapon but in—"
"Enough!" Atisha's form blazed with the light of a thousand suns. "If you truly believe this detachment, then prove it. Take up your divine weapon. Show me this new strength you claim to possess."