LIGHTNOVELONLINE Chapter 67: The Destruction of Surya Dwara
The sky, which had been a clear expanse of blue in the morning, was now tinged with an ominous twilight in a matter of hours. The dark mist that had been slowly creeping across the desert had finally reached the village’s outskirts, wrapping around it and blocking the natural light.
In the center of the village, the small shrine to the Sun God stood, its simple mud-brick walls adorned with offerings from the villagers—flowers, grains, and small earthen lamps. Pandit Keshava, the village priest, looked up at the darkened sky with a frown.
“Bad omen,” he muttered to himself, feeling the weight of something sinister in the air.
He lit the lamps inside the shrine. Villagers began to gather around as they too noticed the strange occurrence as darkness shrouded their dwellings. Among them was Aarava’s mother, her face lined with worry, her eyes darting toward the horizon where the mist seemed to pulse and shift with a life of its own.
“What is happening, Acharya?” the village headman, Gramani, asked the priest, his voice barely concealing the fear that gripped him.
“I do not know, Gramani,” said the priest, trying to maintain his composure. “This is unusual. Let me offer some prayers to the Sun God. Villagers, chant along with me.”
Pandit Keshava’s heart pounded as he led the prayers, his voice strong but underlined with an unspoken fear. The villagers, including Aarava’s mother, chanted the prayers with him, their voices trembling as the oppressive mist thickened around them.
And then, out of the darkness, they came.
The first sign was the tremor beneath their feet—a low, ominous rumble that grew louder with each passing moment. The sound echoed through the village, followed by the heavy, synchronized footfalls of an approaching force. The air thickened with the scent of sulfur, and the sky, already darkened by the mist, seemed to close in, pressing down on the village with a suffocating weight.
The villagers’ chants faltered, turning to gasps of fear as the mist parted to reveal the advancing figures of the Raktabija Army. Towering rakshasas with glowing red eyes and wicked scimitars emerged from the darkness, their presence exuding a palpable menace. Their armor, dark and jagged, reflected the dim light of the dying lamps, making them appear as shadows given form.
Pandit Keshava froze, his breath catching in his throat as he saw the rakshasas descending upon the village. His mind raced, struggling to comprehend the horror unfolding before him.
With a roar, the rakshasas charged, their scimitars cutting through the air with deadly precision. The villagers, who had been gathered in prayer just moments before, scattered in all directions, their screams of terror echoing through the night. The peaceful square was transformed into a scene of chaos and bloodshed, as the rakshasas unleashed their fury upon anyone in their path.
Aarava’s mother, caught in the chaos, tried to run, her shawl billowing behind her as she pushed through the panicked crowd. She glanced back toward the shrine, where Pandit Keshava stood frozen, and saw the rakshasas cutting down anyone in their way. Her heart pounded with a mix of fear and desperation, knowing she had to escape but not knowing where to go.
Pandit Keshava remained by the shrine, his eyes locked on the idol of Surya as the rakshasas closed in. The first blow came with a sickening crack as a scimitar shattered the shrine’s outer walls. The idol, a symbol of the village’s faith, toppled from its pedestal, its serene face now cracked and broken as it hit the ground.
The shrine crumbled under the onslaught. The rakshasas showed no mercy, their scimitars cutting through the walls, the offerings, and finally, Pandit Keshava himself.
As the priest fell, his blood staining the earth, the lamps were snuffed out one by one, their light swallowed by the darkness. The mist thickened, enveloping the entire village.
Aarava’s mother, amidst the chaos, found herself cornered by two rakshasas. She clutched at the pendant around her neck, a symbol of her faith, and whispered a final prayer. But there was no mercy to be found. The rakshasas descended upon her, and her scream was lost in the cacophony of destruction that engulfed Surya Dwara.
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Far out in the desert, Aarava struggled against the thick mist that had risen around him, obscuring his view and twisting the familiar landscape into a maze of shadows. His goats, usually sure-footed and calm, were skittish and frightened, their bleating growing more frantic as they sensed the encroaching danger.
Aarava’s heart pounded with fear and frustration. He knew he had to get back to the village, but every step he took seemed to lead him further away from home. The mist clung to him, disorienting and cold, wrapping around his body like a cloak.
He heard it before he saw it—the distant sound of screams carried on the wind, faint but unmistakable. Panic seized him as he realized what those screams meant. The village was under attack.
Desperation drove him forward, but the mist was relentless. Aarava’s breaths came in ragged gasps as he tried to find his way back. The familiar landmarks that should have guided him home were gone, swallowed by the unnatural night. He was lost, alone in the vast desert, while his village burned, just a few hundred yards away from him.
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By the time Aarava finally stumbled back toward the edge of the village, it was too late. The dark mist had consumed everything, the air thick with the scent of blood and sulfur. The village of Surya Dwara was now nothing more than a smoldering ruin, its inhabitants slaughtered, its sacred shrine reduced to rubble.
Aarava fell to his knees, his eyes wide with horror as he took in the devastation. The familiar homes, the narrow lanes, the sacred gateway—all of it was gone, consumed by the wrath of the Raktabija Army.
Aarava’s voice cracked as he opened his mouth, the words strangled by the lump in his throat. He stumbled forward, his eyes scanning the devastation, searching desperately for any sign of life. His lips moved, but no sound came out at first, only a hoarse whisper that barely escaped his trembling lips.
He took a deep breath, forcing the air into his lungs, and then he shouted into the silence—calling for his mother, over and over, his voice growing louder and more frantic with each repetition. But the only response was the eerie stillness of the night, the dark mist swallowing his cries.
He called out for his mother, for anyone, but there was no answer. The silence that followed was deafening, the darkness pressing in from all sides, leaving Aarava with nothing but the echo of his own voice and the crushing weight of loss.
Surya Dwara, the village that had been his whole world, was no more. And as Aarava knelt in the ashes of his home, the realization that he was the only one left alive settled over him like the final, suffocating layer of the mist.
Gramani - the village headman