The chanting grew louder with every step Amar took. The concentration of rakshasic air thickened unbearably, making each breath feel like inhaling poison. Eventually, he stopped breathing altogether, relying solely on sheer will to press forward.
With the ominous chant guiding him, he noticed the traps in the maze increasing in frequency and complexity. It became clear that the maze itself didn't want him to move forward. It wanted to trap him—kill him. Amar knew that death here wouldn't be natural. If he died now, he wouldn't just perish; his soul would be rejected from the afterlife. The corruption in the air would taint his very essence, transforming him into a rakshasa.
After a long and treacherous walk, Amar stumbled upon a massive door, sealed with an incredibly powerful energy. Etched into the door was a sacred chant of Mahadev. Every fiber of his consciousness screamed for him to turn back. Yet, despite the warnings within, he broke the seal and pushed the door open.
Inside, he found a man in deep yogi nidra—a meditative sleep so profound that the outside world ceased to exist. In this sacred state, a person could survive for hundreds of years without sustenance. Such feats were often mentioned in the Puranas, but in the present age, achieving yogi nidra was considered nearly impossible. And yet, here was someone immersed in that very state, locked in deep meditation focused on Lord Hara.
Amar began to understand that this chamber wasn't meant to protect a weapon to destroy rakshasas. It was a prison—built not to guard a weapon but to contain a person. Whoever this was had likely reached the fourth stage of spiritual advancement, the minimum threshold required to access such a state.
The man had long, tangled hair that suggested he'd been here for centuries. Amar suddenly remembered a mural he had seen months ago, etched in a corridor—it depicted this very man. The resemblance was unmistakable. Slowly, Amar walked toward him. The chanting affected him in a strange way—it was both soothing and deeply unsettling. He couldn't quite tell whether his body welcomed it or rejected it.
As he closed the distance, Amar could finally see the man's face. Hidden beneath a thick beard, the yogi appeared to be no older than thirty-five. Amar was stunned. Yogi nidra allowed for preservation of life, but it couldn't halt time. Even if someone survived in this state for centuries, aging was inevitable. Anyone emerging from such a slumber after a hundred years should have been on the brink of death. Yet the man before him radiated vitality. His energy was pure and powerful—like that of a newborn.
The rakshasic air was thickest near him. So potent was its corruption that simply being in proximity felt like death itself. Amar's soul trembled. Staying conscious required immense effort. He didn't have much time—if he lingered, he would succumb to the darkness.
Determined to act quickly, Amar began searching the room for clues—anything that might help awaken the yogi. He knew that anyone entering yogi nidra usually left behind a method for awakening. Sometimes it was a spoken word, an object, or a ritual. The most common, albeit dangerous, method was physical disturbance. However, abruptly disturbing a yogi from this state could cause death, especially if the practitioner was already in their final stages of life.
Because of this risk, many who entered yogi nidra left behind specific instructions or riddles to be solved—only then could they be safely awakened. Amar attempted to scan the room with his divine senses, but the thick air clouded everything. Frustration gnawed at him. He felt time slipping away.
Then, he noticed something odd on the wall behind the yogi—a faint inscription buried under centuries of dirt. Rushing over, Amar began wiping it clean. Slowly, words began to emerge. A riddle was carved into the stone:
I'm tied to a stream, shared from one to another to fulfill a dream.
I can mend a broken body, make the weak strong,
But only when offered, where I truly belong.
The answer wasn't immediately obvious. It took Amar nearly an hour of intense concentration to decipher it. The riddle was in ancient Sanskrit, and his mind raced to keep up with the metaphors. Eventually, a realization dawned on him. The answer was blood.
He walked as close as he could to the yogi, his body trembling from the pressure of the corrupted air. Without hesitation, Amar bit into his hand and flung a drop of blood onto the yogi's face.
At first, nothing happened.
Then, the air thickened to an unbearable degree. Amar felt his life force draining rapidly. It took every ounce of his spiritual will to remain conscious. The cave began to tremble. Stones dislodged from the ceiling and crashed to the ground. It felt like the entire mountain was reacting violently to what he had just done.
Just when Amar thought he would collapse, the yogi stirred.
Time seemed to slow.
A sudden gust of wind blew across the chamber, dispelling the thick rakshasic air like smoke. Light burst forth from the yogi's body, casting the shadows away. The pressure that had been suffocating Amar eased, allowing him to breathe freely for the first time in what felt like an eternity.
Finally, the yogi opened his eyes.