LIGHTNOVELONLINE Chapter 66: The Omens of Surya Dwara
The first light of dawn crept over the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow across the desert sands that surrounded the village of Surya Dwara. The village, a small cluster of mud-brick homes, seemed to blend into the landscape. Life here in the desserts was simple, dictated by the rhythm of the sun, and each day in the village of Surya Dwara began with ritual prayers to Surya, the Sun God.
Aarava, the goat shepherd stirred in his bed, the rough blanket pulled tightly over his head in a futile attempt to block out the sounds that signaled the start of another day. The distant hum of chanting from the shrine echoed through the village, mingling with the soft bleating of goats and the murmurs of villagers greeting the dawn.
"Aarava! Get up, you lazy boy!" His mother’s voice cut through the morning air, sharp and insistent.
Aarava groaned and rolled over, squinting against the light that filtered through the small window of their modest home.
Reluctantly, he pushed aside the blanket and sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He could hear his mother bustling around the small kitchen area, preparing breakfast. The aroma of flatbread and goat’s milk mingled with the scent of the desert—dry and earthy, with a hint of warmth that promised another scorching day.
Aarava dressed quickly, pulling on loose trousers and a faded tunic, before wrapping a turban around his head to protect himself from the sun’s harsh rays. As he stepped outside, the brightness of the day greeted him, making him squint against the glare.
His mother was waiting for him, a cloth sack in her hand filled with bread and milk for the day.
“Finally, you’re up!” she exclaimed, handing him the sack. “You’ll never get anywhere in life if you keep sleeping your days away.”
“I was just resting my eyes, Ma. You know I’m always up with the sun.” Aarava grinned sheepishly, taking the sack and slinging it over his shoulder.
His mother shook her head, but there was no hiding the concern in her eyes. “Just be careful today,” she said, her voice dropping to a more serious tone. “The desert is restless.”
“What do you mean?” Aarava asked, noting the unease in her voice.
“This morning, when I went to the well, I saw a black kite circling low.” She hesitated, “It’s an ill omen.”
“Ma, you are overthinking,” Aarava said.
“Last night, the jackals howled near the village. They never come so close unless there’s a reason,” his mother said with insistence.
“Something is wrong, Aarava. I can feel it,” she said with a shudder.
Aarava patted his mother’s shoulders.
“Should I not go then?” He asked gently.
“And getaway from work!” His mother shouted. “No way! I’m just asking you be to be more careful. Stay vigilant and don’t day dream or rest your eyes. Understood?”
“Yes, Ma!” said Aarava. “The desert is my friend, mother, don’t you worry!”
With his staff in hand and his goats bleating softly, Aarava set out from the village, the sun climbing higher in the sky. As he walked, the village began to fade behind him, replaced by the vast, open desert.
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Far from Surya Dwara, the desert stretched on in an endless expanse of sand and rock, interrupted only by the occasional outcropping or solitary tree. In the midst of this desolation lay the Abyss of Talatala—a massive sinkhole, its depths plunging into darkness so profound that even the sunlight seemed afraid to enter.
From the heart of the abyss, the Raktabija Army began to emerge. The ground trembled as thousands of rakshasas, towering and fierce, marched out of the darkness in perfect unison. Their eyes glowed with a menacing red light. Clad in dark, jagged armor, their scimitars glinted in the sunlight, each one curved and deadly sharp.
The abyss seemed to breathe darkness, exhaling a thick, inky mist that clung to the rakshasas as they moved. The mist flowed like a living entity, twisting and turning, spreading across the desert like an omen of doom. The land, once barren and silent, now echoed with the heavy, synchronized footfalls of the Raktabija Army, a sound that resonated through the earth like a drumbeat of war.
Leading the endless rakshasa army that emerged from the abyss like a relentless tide was the demon lord, Raktabija. His armor, dark and intricately engraved, seemed to absorb the light, making him appear as a shadow within shadows. His eyes, blazing red, scanned the horizon with a hunger for conquest, for destruction.
As the Raktabija Army advanced, the desert itself seemed to recoil. The sands shifted uneasily under their weight, and the wind, usually steady and predictable, began to howl with a mournful, eerie wail. The sky, once clear and blue, darkened as the mist spread, casting a premature twilight over the land.
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Aarava continued his task, leading the goats further into the desert. The sun was now a blazing orb overhead, casting harsh shadows on the ground. The goats moved slowly, searching for patches of grass in the sparse vegetation. Aarava paused to rest under the shade of a solitary acacia tree, wiping the sweat from his brow as he looked out over the desert.
Something was different today. The wind had shifted, carrying with it a faint, unsettling scent—something earthy, metallic, and wrong. The goats, usually docile at this hour, began to grow restless, their ears twitching and their bleating becoming more insistent.
Aarava frowned, scanning the horizon. The sky, which should have been a clear, unbroken blue, now shimmered with a faint, dark haze far in the distance. It was so subtle that he almost missed it, a thin line where the earth met the sky, but it was there—a shadow where none should be.
He remembered his mother’s warnings, and for the first time, he felt a twinge of fear. The desert, usually so familiar and comforting in its vastness, felt different today—like it was holding its breath, as if it had been held hostage.
The dark haze on the horizon grew more pronounced, and the wind, which had carried the scent of something wrong, was now a steady, cool breeze that contrasted sharply with the usual desert heat. Aarava decided it was time to return to the village. He called to his goats, urging them to start moving back toward Surya Dwara.
But as they began to trek across the dunes, the wind picked up, carrying with it the thick, dark mist that seemed to rise from the very ground. The mist was unlike anything Aarava had ever seen. It moved with an unnatural speed, rolling over the desert like a living thing, swallowing the landscape in its inky embrace. The temperature dropped rapidly, and the sun, now hidden behind a veil of darkness, cast the Aarava’s world into a premature twilight.
Aarava’s heart raced as he tried to lead the goats back, but the mist was disorienting. It clung to him, wrapping around his body like a shroud, making it difficult to see more than a few feet ahead. The familiar landmarks he relied on—the jagged rocks, the solitary trees—disappeared in the gloom. The goats bleated in fear, their usual sure-footedness gone as they stumbled and strayed.
He pressed on, trying to keep his bearings, but the mist was relentless. Aarava’s panic grew. He knew he was close to the village, but the mist had thrown off his sense of direction. Every step felt like it was taking him further away from safety, and the dark haze seemed to grow thicker with each passing moment. The desert, which had always been his ally, now seemed to conspire against him, leading him astray as the Raktabija Army continued its relentless march toward Surya Dwara.