Trikala had walked farther than he intended.
At first, he had told himself he would keep moving only until he reached safety. Then perhaps he would turn back. Perhaps he would return to help Siya.
But he never did.
And now, as he continued through the dead wasteland, guilt gnawed at him more viciously than the poisonous winds ever could.
He wanted to go back.
He truly did.
Yet he could not bring himself to take a single step toward the storm.
The truth was unbearable.
He had left Siya behind.
Alone.
In the jaws of death.
The irony was not lost on him.
He had called Clara a coward countless times.
Yet when the moment of reckoning arrived, it was he who had fled.
Not Clara.
Not Siya.
Him.
Trikala clenched his fists.
Siya is capable.
She is stronger than anyone I have ever known.
He repeated those thoughts endlessly.
But no amount of reasoning could silence the voice inside him.
The voice accusing him.
The voice reminding him that he had abandoned her.
The wasteland stretched endlessly in every direction.
Poisonous dust storms roared across the horizon.
The air itself was lethal.
Only the divine shield Siya had given him allowed him to breathe. The fading remnants of her celestial energy filtered the toxins from his lungs, granting him each breath one by one.
Without it, he would have died hours ago.
Suddenly, something caught his eye.
A patch of green.
Trikala froze.
Green?
Out here?
That was impossible.
He sprinted toward it.
As he drew closer, disbelief overtook him.
Lying upon the barren earth was a fresh Bilva leaf.
Not dry.
Not dead.
Fresh.
As though it had been plucked from a living tree moments ago.
Trikala carefully picked it up.
The leaf radiated a faint energy.
He stared at it in confusion.
"Lord Shiva..." he muttered.
"What am I supposed to understand from this?"
He looked around.
"Have I already reached Kashi?"
Before he could think further—
A laugh echoed through the dust.
Low.
Ancient.
Amused.
Then came a voice.
"Kashi is still some distance away, Yajna."
Trikala's body instantly tensed.
He turned.
Through the swirling wall of dust and sand, a figure was approaching.
Slowly.
Calmly.
As though the deadly wasteland around him were nothing more than a gentle afternoon breeze.
Trikala narrowed his eyes.
The silhouette grew clearer.
The dust began to thin.
And finally—
He saw him.
The man looked ancient.
His skin was weathered by countless centuries.
Deep wrinkles lined his face.
His body appeared frail.
Yet there was something profoundly unsettling about him.
Something impossible to explain.
An overwhelming presence hid beneath his ordinary appearance.
Then Trikala noticed the wound.
A terrible scar embedded in the center of the stranger's forehead.
It looked less like an injury and more like a curse carved into flesh itself.
And his eyes...
His eyes contained a light that did not belong to this age.
Or perhaps to any age.
They carried the weight of civilizations.
Of forgotten wars.
Of thousands of years spent watching the world rise and collapse over and over again.
Trikala instinctively straightened himself.
"You cannot be an ordinary man," he said cautiously.
"No normal human could survive in an environment like this."
The stranger chuckled.
"Oh, I'm quite ordinary."
He bent down casually and pointed toward the Bilva leaf.
"That belongs to me, by the way."
Trikala blinked.
The old man continued smiling.
"You see, when you've lived here for several thousand years, you eventually get used to almost every environment."
His tone was so casual that it made the statement even more terrifying.
Several thousand years.
Most people would have dismissed it as madness.
Trikala did not.
Something deep inside him knew this man was speaking the truth.
A sudden realization struck him.
His eyes widened.
Slowly, carefully, he asked—
"May I know your name, sir?"
The old man looked toward the crimson sky.
For a brief moment, sadness crossed his face.
The sadness of someone who had been forgotten by time itself.
Then he smiled.
"There was a time," he said softly, "when people called me Ashwatthama."
Silence engulfed the wasteland.
The name hit Trikala like lightning.
Ashwatthama.
Son of Dronacharya.
Bearer of an eternal curse.
One of the immortal Chiranjeevis.
A warrior who had walked the earth since the age of the Mahabharata.
Trikala's knees nearly gave way.
For several seconds, he could not speak.
Then he immediately folded his hands in reverence.
"My apologies, Lord!"
"I failed to recognize you."
Ashwatthama burst into laughter.
The sound echoed strangely through the dead landscape.
"Lord?"
He shook his head.
"No, no."
"You misunderstand."
"I'm no god."
His gaze drifted toward the horizon.
Toward the distant storm consuming the world.
"I'm just a very ordinary man."
For a brief instant, Trikala saw something hidden behind those words.
Loneliness.
Thousands of years of it.
Ashwatthama began walking.
Then he glanced back over his shoulder.
"Come."
Trikala blinked.
"Come where?"
Ashwatthama smiled.
"To Kashi."
The immortal warrior adjusted the cloth draped across his shoulder.
"It seems your journey has become my journey as well."
The winds howled around them.
The poisoned world trembled beneath darkening skies.
Far away, beyond the wasteland, destiny was already beginning to move its pieces.
And unknowingly, Trikala had just encountered the next immortal guardian of the age.
Ashwatthama had entered the game.