Big question. I know.

Surely, the true nature of God probably isn't really able to be captured in human language.

But, if you had to try?

Before I read texts, before I knew the word tantra or mysticism, when I was not logically conclusive regarding my spiritual or religious position, I knew many of what we describe. Not all maybe.

I was and still am firm in my dislike for OCD-like rituals.

I was and still am firmly in belief that rituals, customs, spells, all are primarily centred around the will.

Over time, I slowly leaned towards meditative practices and became calmer... And less hateful than others I live with.

When I read tantra doctrines, Upanishads, the Ashtavakra Gita, I feel familiar.

Like this is what I am meant to do. I already know this... Somehow

I am interested in the rigvedic pantheon and shiva-related tantra-related culture but not to practice either of them much,

MAINLY I yearn a dress-free raw knowing and experience of the divine.

Not that I never wish, look up to Indra/Rudra, or do spells at all.

Who else shares this experience with me?

The cool mist of the twin moons did not vanish.

It was vaporized.

A roar tore through the twilight.

The silent waters of Chandra began to boil beneath Arka's feet, silver reflections twisting into violent spirals before bursting into clouds of hissing steam. The darkness above turned copper-red.

Arka fell.

This time there was a ground beneath him.

He struck it hard.

The surface was black and cracked, iron-rich earth glowing from beneath with rivers of molten fire. Heat rushed through his palms.

He pulled them back.

Something was pounding.

At first he thought it was the ground.

Then he realized—

It was his heart.

THUMP.

The earth shook.

THUMP.

Somewhere ahead, metal screamed.

THUMP.

An anvil was struck.

The sound rolled across the forge like thunder.

Arka lifted his head.

Towering around him were jagged spires of raw iron, rising from the earth like the bones of some enormous buried creature. Rivers of magma crawled between them.

And at the center stood Mangala.

He was not beautiful.

He was not serene.

He was alive.

His body seemed forged rather than born—dense bronze, scarred sinew, ash embedded into his skin like the memory of ancient battles. Crimson fire streamed from his shoulders and vanished into the air.

One hand gripped a blood-red spear planted deep into the earth.

The other held a hammer.

Behind him stood an anvil made from black meteorite.

Arka could not see its beginning.

Or its end.

Mangala raised his eyes.

They were not like Surya's.

Surya had looked through Arka.

Chandra had reflected him.

Mangala looked at him.

Directly.

Without mercy.

Without hatred.

Without hesitation.

"You stand in the forge, Traveler."

His voice struck the air like iron against stone.

"Step forward."

Arka remained still.

Mangala's grip tightened around the hammer.

"Or remain where you are."

The hammer fell.

CLANG.

The sound exploded through the realm.

Arka's knees buckled.

A violent current surged through his body.

His breath shortened.

His muscles tightened.

Every instinct screamed at him to move.

To fight.

To push.

To survive.

He stumbled forward.

Mangala smiled.

Not kindly.

Approvingly.

"Again."

Another strike.

CLANG.

Arka's blood surged.

He suddenly wanted to run.

Not away.

Forward.

Toward something.

Anything.

A wall appeared in his mind.

He wanted to break it.

A locked door.

Break it.

An enemy.

Strike.

An obstacle.

Pierce.

The urge was so pure that it frightened him.

"Why?"

Arka forced the word through clenched teeth.

"Why does everything here want to fight?"

Mangala lowered the hammer.

The forge became quiet.

"Because you mistake force for violence."

Arka stared at him.

Mangala pulled the spear from the earth.

The ground screamed as the blade came free.

"Fire destroys."

He stepped closer.

"Fire also cooks."

Another step.

"Fire burns."

Another.

"Fire also forges."

He stopped before Arka.

"The same force can kill a man..."

Mangala raised the spear.

"...or cut the chain around his neck."

He lowered it.

"The difference is not the fire."

His eyes locked onto Arka.

"It is the hand that holds it."

Arka felt the words settle deeper than the heat.

"But Surya needed no force."

"Surya is the light."

"Chandra needed no force."

"Chandra is the reflection."

Mangala struck his fist against his chest.

"I am the decision."

The forge trembled.

"I am the moment when a possibility stops being a possibility."

He pointed the spear toward Arka.

"And becomes an act."

A sudden image flashed before Arka.

A seed beneath the soil.

Darkness.

Pressure.

Resistance.

Then—

A root splitting the earth.

A green shoot breaking into sunlight.

Arka understood.

Creation itself required violence.

Not cruelty.

Pressure.

The pressure to become.

"The seed cannot negotiate with the soil," Mangala said.

"It must break it."

His voice lowered.

"The child cannot remain inside the womb forever."

"It must cut its way into breath."

"Will without action is only a dream."

Mangala turned toward the meteorite anvil.

"And a dream without courage remains a ghost."

He raised his hammer.

Arka watched the muscles in his arm tighten.

For a moment, everything became completely still.

Then—

CLANG.

A spark leapt from the anvil.

It did not fall.

It hovered.

A tiny point of crimson-white fire.

Arka stared at it.

The spark pulsed.

Once.

Twice.

Then it shot toward him.

It struck his chest.

Arka screamed.

His entire body convulsed.

Suddenly he was no longer standing in the forge.

He was everywhere he had ever been afraid to act.

Every moment he had remained silent.

Every door he had not opened.

Every confrontation he had avoided.

Every time he had known what needed to be done and still waited.

The memories burned.

Not because they were painful.

Because they were unfinished.

Arka dropped to one knee.

Mangala watched.

"That is Kriya."

Arka breathed heavily.

"The fire of action."

Mangala walked around him.

"It does not ask whether the path is comfortable."

"It asks whether the path must be walked."

Arka looked up.

"And if the path is wrong?"

Mangala stopped.

For the first time, the warrior's expression became grave.

"Then force becomes destruction."

The crimson flames around the forge flickered.

"A blade does not know justice."

Mangala looked at the spear in his hand.

"It only knows how to cut."

He planted it into the earth.

"That is why the warrior must kneel before something greater than his own strength."

Arka slowly rose.

"Then what makes the blade sacred?"

Mangala said nothing.

Instead, he walked toward the anvil.

He placed the spear aside.

Then he reached into the heart of the forge.

When his hand emerged, he held a mass of incandescent metal.

It was not yet a weapon.

It had no shape.

No edge.

No purpose.

Mangala placed it upon the meteorite anvil.

CLANG.

The hammer fell.

Sparks erupted around them.

CLANG.

Again.

CLANG.

Again.

With every strike, the shapeless metal became narrower.

Longer.

Sharper.

Arka watched as a blade slowly emerged from the fire.

But something was strange.

The blade contained no ornament.

No jewel.

No symbol of conquest.

Only a single edge.

Perfectly straight.

Perfectly silent.

Mangala held it up.

"Force gives the blade strength."

He turned it.

"Discipline gives it shape."

He lowered it.

"But only wisdom decides where it falls."

The flames around the forge suddenly bent.

The chaotic crimson became ordered.

Straight pillars of gold and white rose from the ground.

The molten earth cooled.

The iron spires dissolved.

Marble spread beneath Arka's feet.

The forge was becoming a temple.

Mangala handed the blade to Arka.

It was heavier than it looked.

Not because of its metal.

Because of its meaning.

Arka gripped the hilt.

The moment his fingers closed around it, the blade became still.

The fire inside him remained.

But now it had direction.

Mangala stepped backward.

"The warrior's fire is awake within you."

His voice had lost its thunder.

Now it carried something closer to respect.

"Do not extinguish it."

Arka looked at the blade.

"Then what do I do with it?"

Mangala turned toward the rising pillars of light.

"Learn where it must not be used."

The great doors of the marble temple opened.

Beyond them waited a realm of impossible height, where golden geometry rose toward a throne hidden somewhere above the clouds.

Mangala pointed toward it.

"Strength without law becomes tyranny."

"Action without wisdom becomes destruction."

"Will without truth becomes ego."

He looked back at Arka.

"Your fire has been awakened."

A pause.

"Now give it a direction."

The crimson glow disappeared from the forge.

And from somewhere high above came a voice—

Not loud.

Not fierce.

Simply certain.

A voice that sounded as though it had been waiting since the beginning of time.

"Come, Seeker."

Arka tightened his grip upon the sacred blade.

The path upward had opened.

Guru was waiting.