As the journey to south continued the road turned dry.
The trees thinned.
And the air grew heavy with a smell that didn't belong to nature.
Dhira and his five followers reached a village that looked less like a home and more like a graveyard of forgotten things.
The Unwelcome
The huts were crooked.
The streets were mud and ash.
The people—thin, hollow-eyed, wrapped in torn cloth—moved like ghosts.
No one greeted them.
No one smiled.
A man spat near their feet.
A woman turned her back.
A boy threw a stone—not with hate, but with habit.
Dhira caught it mid-air.
"Nice throw," he said gently.
The boy ran.
The Question
Dhira didn't flinch.
He didn't scold.
He walked deeper into the village and found a child sitting near a broken cart, drawing circles in the dust.
"Why is everyone like this?" Dhira asked.
The child looked up, eyes too old for his face.
"Because we were left."
"By whom?"
"By everyone."
And then the story came.
The Forgotten Ones
Years ago, the village had been thriving.
Farmers. Weavers. Storytellers.
Then came the drought.
Then came the sickness.
Then came the taxes.
The rich left.
The strong left.
The rest were discarded.
No help came.
No gods listened.
No kings cared.
The village became a dump.
And the people became shadows.
The Rage
Dhira's five followers listened.
Their fists clenched.
Their eyes burned.
"We should find who did this," said one.
"We should burn their palace," said another.
"We should teach them what it feels like," said a third.
Dhira raised a hand.
They stopped.
"Anger doesn't clean streets," he said. "It just spreads the dirt."
They looked at him.
He looked at the village.
"We're not here to punish. We're here to rebuild."
The Elder's Truth
Dhira searched for someone older.
Someone who remembered.
He found a man named Keshav, sitting beneath a collapsed shrine.
Keshav's beard was white.
His voice was cracked.
But his memory was sharp.
He told Dhira everything.
The betrayal.
The abandonment.
The slow decay.
"We used to sing here," Keshav said. "Now we just survive."
Dhira listened.
Then stood.
"You'll sing again," he said. "But first, we clean."
The Plan Begins
That evening, Dhira gathered his team.
"We start tomorrow," he said. "No speeches. No drama. Just work."
"What kind of work?" asked one.
"All of it."
"Cleaning?"
"Yes."
"Fixing roofs?"
"Yes."
"Teaching kids how to throw mango pits?"
"Definitely."
They grinned.
The villagers watched from their doorways.
Suspicious.
Wary.
But curious.
And as the sun dipped behind the broken shrine, Dhira looked at the ruins and whispered:
"You were forgotten. But not anymore."