The atmosphere at the base of the basalt ridge was suffocating.
The air didn’t just carry the scent of ozone; it felt thick, like walking through chest-high water made of static electricity.
Above them, the violet void of the Grotto’s sky seemed to press down, the clouds swirling in patterns that made the eyes ache if looked at for too long.
The “Stitched Wall” stood before them, a jagged scar of reality held together by threads that hummed with a low, bone-deep frequency.
Vyan shivered, the dampness of the ridge clinging to his bronze skin.
“What now, humble old sir?”
Ansh didn’t answer immediately.
He was staring at the wall with a hunger so sharp it was almost physical.
He opened his mouth to speak, but Vyan’s voice cut through the silence again.
“Sir… don’t we need to call the Grotto Spirit? To witness the trial?”
Ansh’s jaw tightened.
This brat…
question after question.
He forced a thin, hollow smile onto his face, though his eyes remained cold.
“A Grotto Spirit is always listening and watching, Vyan,” Ansh said, his voice straining to remain patient.
“They do not need to be summoned. They manage every atom of this space. No Yogi—regardless of their ambition—can act truly unseen here. A spirit can teleport anywhere, manifesting from the very air to strike down a trespasser. In here, the Spirit is God. Beyond that… perhaps the scales tip, but for us? We are guests on sufferance. Now, enough talk.”
Ansh’s patience finally snapped.
“Child. Go. Put your Prana into the threads.”
Vyan blinked, momentarily confused by the sudden frost in the old man’s tone.
He hesitated, then stepped toward the wall.
The surface was strange—slick with moisture yet gritty with what looked like crushed golden sand caught in the crevices of the stone.
He reached out and touched the primary threads.
A weird, electric jolt shot through his arm, vibrating against his Celestial Spindle.
It didn’t feel like stone; it felt like touching a sleeping muscle.
Vyan exhaled, pouring a steady stream of his refined Prana into the stitch.
He felt the wall “sip” his energy, then he quickly stepped back two paces.
Five minutes passed.
The silence was absolute, broken only by the distant roar of the waterfall.
Nothing happened.
The wall remained a silent, stitched scar.
Ansh grunted, stepping forward.
“Perhaps it requires a catalyst.” He extended his hand, pouring in the, refined Prana he had painstakingly recovered over the last month.
The violet threads flickered, but the wall held firm.
“Still nothing,” Ansh hissed, his milky eyes darting across the stone.
Suddenly, he leaned in.
Ansh surged his power into that hidden strand.
Silence.
“Vyan! Again! Pour everything you have into that glowing thread!” Ansh commanded.
Vyan rushed forward, placing his palm over the glowing thread.
For a heartbeat, there was a stagnant, heavy pause where the world seemed to hold its breath.
Then, the wind arrived.
It didn’t blow from the mountains; it blew from the wall itself, a howling gale that smelled of ancient metal and high-altitude snow.
“Sir, what’s happening?” Vyan shouted over the roar.
They didn’t fall.
They didn’t explode.
Instead, the very space around them began to warp.
Vyan looked down at his hands and saw them curving.
His entire body felt as though it were being folded, tucked, and squished into a single, infinitesimal point.
There was no pain—only the terrifying, surreal sensation of being condensed, like a piece of paper being crumpled into a ball by a giant hand.
Ansh tried to scream, but his mouth was already part of the fold.
In a flash of blinding white light, the base of the ridge was empty.
The Beasquab carcass remained, the basalt wall remained, but the boy and the old man were gone—vanished into the logic of a puzzle they had only just begun to touch.
“Welcome to The Sovereign Of Kaliyuga! New chapters dropping daily.”