Ashes of Dharma

He had waited.

Not in shadow.

In structure.

Every law. Every rule. Every ritual done because it must be. Every time someone said, "Just in case." Every moment silence was filled with anxious noise.

That was his domain.

They called him Bhayanak — the God of Fear.

Not the loud kind.

The quiet obedience kind.

And now, as faith slipped and breath took root in the world again—he rose.

He didn't send fire.

He didn't send plague.

He sent compliance.

Bureaucrats enforcing old scriptures no one remembered writing.

Militias formed to "protect the old ways."

Thought-priests reactivating chant-networks in broken cities.

Whispered lies wrapped in concern: "Isn't it dangerous to stop believing?"

He sent doubt dressed as safety.

Guilt dressed as guidance.

In the heart of the storm, Bhayanak stood on a black ziggurat made of crumbled mantras, voice booming:

"Let the heretic walk."

"I will show him fear without sound."

Aarav sat in stillness.

He felt the pressure rise in the air.

The doubt.

The push to react.

But he didn't.

He exhaled.

Rooted deeper.

And whispered:

"I've already met fear."

"He asked for mercy."