A soft pull came from the darkness.
Then the tip of a cigarette burned red.
Beneath the shadow of a tall tree stood Mr. Oceayne, still as stone, his figure half-swallowed by the night. His serious gaze remained fixed somewhere ahead, unhurried and unreadable. The half-burnt cigarette rested loosely between his fingers, and the thin trail of smoke curling upward only made his silence feel heavier.
The night air stirred the leaves above him. He did not move.
After a long moment, he finally spoke.
"Don't try to do what you're trying to do."
The words were quiet. Barely above the wind. But they cut through the darkness like a blade that didn't need to be raised.
Not far away, Hunter Aman froze.
He had been careful. Precise. He had suppressed his presence down to almost nothing, controlled his breathing, and kept his distance perfectly. He had done everything right.
And yet, the moment those words reached him, shock flashed across his face—raw and unguarded before he could hide it.
Then, slowly, he stepped out from the shadows.
"Oh…" His voice carried a reluctant kind of respect. "You sensed me."
Mr. Oceayne did not turn immediately. He brought the cigarette to his lips one last time, held the smoke in for a breath, then exhaled slowly before answering in that same calm tone.
"Didn't I tell you never to meddle with someone stronger than you?"
He finally glanced at Aman, his gaze cold and steady. "I sensed you from half a kilometre away."
Aman's expression tightened. He said nothing, because there was nothing useful to say.
Without another word, Mr. Oceayne lowered the cigarette, let it fall to the ground, and crushed it slowly beneath his shoe.
Then he asked, "Did you bring it with you?"
Aman straightened at once, the awkwardness leaving his posture. "Of course." A brief pause, and then his chin tilted slightly behind him. "See? Right here."
At his words, the darkness behind him began to shift. A massive shadow rose.
Mr. Oceayne looked at it. And smiled—politely, the way a man smiles when something meets a standard he had already set in his mind.
"Good," he said. Then his eyes narrowed, just slightly. "But only one?"
Aman's composure slipped for a fraction of a second. "Sir… you forget. I can only control one monster at a time."
Mr. Oceayne blinked once.
Then the polite smile returned. "Ah…" he said softly. "Right. I forgot."
The smile stayed. But something behind it shifted.
His gaze drifted past Aman, settling on the massive shadow still rising behind him, and his voice dropped to something quieter. Quieter, and somehow far more dangerous.
"But I think…"
A brief pause.
"…for them, one monster is more than enough."
His smile stretched into something that no longer looked polite at all.
—
Morning in Cyan House carried a different kind of light.
Servants moved through the halls with easy smiles, their hands busy with little duties, yet the joy in the house was impossible to miss. Even the air felt softer, warmer, as if the news of Saanvi's pregnancy had slipped into every corner and made the walls themselves lighter.
And in that joyful house morning—
In the centre of his room, Ahaan sat in his usual meditation pose. Back straight. Hands resting on his knees. Eyes closed. Meditation had long since stopped being a practice for him—it had become something else entirely. A habit so rooted it no longer needed thought.
Morning after morning, day after day, he had returned to the same posture, the same silence, the same stubborn search inward. But this time, he could not concentrate. His breathing remained steady, yet his thoughts refused to settle. Again and again, they drifted backward.
Toward his past life.
Toward that day.
Toward the strange warmth he had felt when he heard his mother was pregnant.
Ahaan slowly opened his eyes. A faint crease appeared between his brows.
What is this…?
The feeling inside him was strange. Not sharp enough to be pain. Not light enough to be peace. It was happiness—a deep, quiet happiness. And what unsettled him most was that it felt familiar. Like something he had carried before without knowing its name.
He stared ahead for a moment, then slowly rose to his feet. "Did I feel the same at that time as I do today?"
His hand tightened into a fist. For the first time, it did not feel like he was only remembering the past. It felt like he was touching it.
Ahaan lowered his gaze, his small expression hardening with a quiet kind of resolve.
"Now… I have one more reason to become strong," he said quietly. "Whatever happened in the past… I won't let it happen again."
Just then, his mother's voice called from below.
"Ahaan!"
He turned toward the door at once. "Coming, Mom."
He headed downstairs and found his parents waiting near the entrance, already dressed and ready, the quiet bustle of the house moving softly around them. Reyansh stood with the easy confidence of a man in a good mood, and Saanvi looked radiant in a way that had nothing to do with what she was wearing.
"What happened, Mom? Dad?" Ahaan asked, looking between them.
Reyansh smiled warmly. "Ahaan, we're going to visit Panditji's ashram today. Do you want to come with us?"
Ahaan did not hesitate. "Of course. I'm coming." Then he glanced around the hall. "And Brother? Isn't he coming too?"
Saanvi shook her head gently. "Rowan received a letter from the library this morning, so he had to go directly. He'll be back by tonight."
"Okay," Ahaan said simply.
Reyansh turned to speak with the head servant, gave a few instructions, and before long the preparations were complete. Soon after, the three of them stepped out of the house and climbed into the carriage.
The carriage rolled forward, and little by little, the city began to fall behind them.
Inside, Saanvi rested one hand lightly against her stomach and looked at Ahaan with a soft smile. "This is your first time visiting the ashram, Ahaan. I'm sure you'll love it."
Ahaan looked at her. "Mom… what kind of place is an ashram?"
Her expression softened into something thoughtful and warm. "It is a hallowed ground," she said. "A place where even the air feels different—quieter. Many people believe the Devatas once blessed it, and that their presence still lingers there, woven into the earth and stone."
Reyansh leaned forward slightly, adding in his measured tone, "And it is not only a place of worship. Young children live and study there—learning the sacred arts under Panditji's guidance. He chooses his students himself. Not everyone who comes is accepted. And from all those chosen, only one will eventually rise to take his place and lead the ashram after him."
Ahaan listened, and something in the back of his mind stirred quietly.
…So, the boy who came to our house—the one who gave me the first letter of my name—he must have been practising those sacred arts, which Mother mentioned. But I always suspected… he saw something else that day too. Something he didn't say aloud.
He pushed the thought aside and turned toward the window.
As the carriage carried them farther from the city roads, the world outside began to change little by little. The stone paths gave way to earthen roads. The air grew fresher. Trees rose taller here, their trunks wide and ancient, their roots curling across the ground like the knuckles of sleeping giants.
The sounds of the town slowly faded behind them, replaced by distant birdsong and the quiet rhythm of wheels rolling over earth.
The closer they came to the Ashram, the more beautiful the path became. Wildflowers bloomed at the roadside in quiet clusters—white, blue, pale yellow—as if the land itself had dressed gently for those walking toward something sacred.
Inside the carriage, Reyansh and Saanvi continued telling Ahaan about the Ashram—its history, the festivals held there, the old stories passed down through generations, and the children who had once arrived with nothing and left carrying something no hand could physically hold.
Their voices were soft.
Warm.
Ahaan listened. Watched. Let the road and the trees and the golden light settle into him.
Then Saanvi glanced at him with a small smile. "Also, Ahaan—Panditji wanted to meet you especially. He said he has made something for you."
Ahaan looked at her. "For me?"
She simply nodded.
He turned back to the window, something unreadable passing through his eyes.
Then, at last, the carriage passed through the final turn. And they saw it.
The ashram stood ahead in quiet grandeur, nestled among ancient trees and rising stone, touched by morning light. Its halls and rooftops seemed neither proud nor humble—they simply belonged there, as though the land itself had shaped them and then chosen never to let them go.
Ahaan's eyes widened.
…So, this is what a hallowed ground feels like.
To be continued…