As Ayaan placed his hand on the cold iron gate, the world held its breath. For a long, agonizing moment, nothing happened. No spark, no surge, no rejection. Then, the vibration started. It was a low, resonant thrum that seemed to originate from the center of the earth, a sound that had become the background noise of Ayaan's soul.
Miles away, in the heart of the bustling city, Sunidhi was walking toward the boutique. The morning air was crisp, but suddenly, a sharp, white-hot spike of pain lanced through her skull. She gasped, clutching her temples, her knees buckling for a fraction of a second.
"Aah!" she hissed, squeezing her eyes shut. The pain vanished as quickly as it had arrived. She stood there, panting, as the street traffic swirled around her. "Why is my head paining all of a sudden? Is it because I took a cold shower? My hair is still wet..."
She shook it off, unaware that her brother had just touched a frequency that spanned dimensions. She continued toward the store, but the gold in her eyes remained a fraction brighter than usual, a silent warning of the gate that had just been knocked upon.
On the mountain, the sound from the iron bars grew into a roar. Ayaan's consciousness was pulled backward, his grip on reality slipping. As his eyes rolled back, the deep gold of his irises bled away, replaced by a faint, haunting blue—a shade that looked exactly like Ishani's.
When his eyes snapped open again, the iron bars were gone.
Ayaan was standing in a desert. But the sand beneath his boots wasn't yellow or brown; it was a blinding, pure white, stretching out like a sea of salt under a pale sky. And the sand was not empty.
Everywhere he looked, the white was stained with red. Bodies—millions of them—lay scattered across the dunes. Some were missing limbs, others were decapitated, their heads lost in the shifting white drifts. Arrows protruded from chests like a forest of needles; mountains of the fallen rose up toward the horizon. It was a graveyard of an empire, a massacre on a scale that no history book had ever recorded.
Ayaan looked down at his own hands. They were no longer placed on a gate. They were gripping a sword. The blade was a deep, obsidian black, while the handle emitted a pulsing, rhythmic red glow. Both the steel and his skin were drenched in fresh, steaming blood.
"W...what is this place? These bodies..."
His spirit, already battered by the "Ocean of Silence," began to crack. He was just a human—an insignificant student with a sister and a scholarship. Seeing this gruesome mountain of death crushed his soul. He wanted to puke; he wanted to scream. Was he the one who had done this? Was he the lone survivor of a war at the end of time?
"What is even all this? Is... is this a test?"
He raised the black sword. It felt alive. As he looked at the edge, he heard it—a faint, vibrating sound. It was the Spanda, the heartbeat of the universe, humming through the metal.
The Gateway
Outside the vision, back on the physical peak, Ayaan stood frozen. His hands were still locked onto the iron gate, his eyes closed in a trance. Then, the ancient, rusted mechanism began to groan. The gates, which had stayed shut for an age, slowly began to swing inward.
"Heh, interesting," one of the guardian guards muttered, leaning on his spear. "So many have come, and all have fallen. Now the gate opens for a mere kid."
As the gates opened, the city of Dwarika revealed itself.
It was a feat of architecture that would have made modern engineers weep with envy. Every building was a distinct masterpiece, separated by designs that defied gravity and logic. There were no straight lines of boring concrete. Instead, there were curves of marble and towers of light.
In the center, a pathway covered in small, smooth pebbles led toward a grand staircase. The stairs were made of a dark, polished wood that emitted the rich, soothing scent of sandalwood.
"Wow... what even is this place?"
Ayaan began to walk. The city had its own sound—not the noise of traffic or construction, but a melodious, harmonic song that seemed to come from the buildings themselves. It soothed his ears and calmed his racing heart. When he looked up, there was no blue sky. Instead, he saw the vast cosmos. Dozens of planets and stars twinkled in the atmosphere, appearing so close he felt he could reach out and touch a moon.
"Damn."
Something was calling him. Each step he took on the sandalwood stairs produced a distinct, musical note. Do. Re. Mi. As he climbed higher, the notes woven together, completing a melody that echoed through the streets.
At the top of the stairs, Ayaan braced himself for a monster or a king. But what he found was a man.
He looked no older than twenty, his face glowing with a warmth that felt like the morning sun. He didn't wear the cold, emotionless mask of the Sage or the Monkey-Guardian. He was smiling—a genuine, cheerful grin.
"Welcome, welcome!" the man said, his voice bright and light.
Back at the entrance, the guards stood in awe as the song of the city reached a crescendo.
"Huh... this sound," one guard whispered. "It hasn't been heard for so long. The sound of Dwarika."
"True," the other replied, his gaze fixed on Ayaan's distant figure. "It has been long since we even heard this song. The city is alive once again."