—In an age long forgotten by the gods, before Dharma was written and chaos yet ruled the heavens,
A boy was born at the deepest depths of the world, in the realm known as Patala-Loka.
His name was Ashva.
He knew not the names of his parents, nor the story of his birth. All he carried was a shard embedded in his chest—a black crystal known as the First Chain, a forbidden relic that sealed a fragment of the soul of the antideity Mahasura Rudra-Vritra, a being born between divinity and monstrosity.
People called him the Child Without Karma.
Heappeared in no records of reincarnation; not a single karmic thread connected him to the cycle.
He was an anomaly—a being rejected by fate itself.
And yet, Ashva knew.
Every night, within the strange dreams that visited him, a chained god would whisper.
"Your chains are not of iron. They are forged from forgotten truths—de aru."
Ashva could not yet understand what those words meant.
But on the day of his sixteenth rite of passage, everything changed.
That day, a silver chariot descended from the skies.
From the celestial realm of Svar-Loka, emissaries of the warrior-path, the Vajra Vidya Mandir, arrived.
They sought someone.
"We are searching for the Chainbreaker. If you are he, then the heavens welcome you."
The villagers trembled.
Ashva remained silent.
And in that moment, the shard in his chest began to throb, pulsing with a heartbeat of its own.
And then—a second voice spoke, deep within his soul.
"Release the Phantom Guru… I am Mandavya, the founder of the Illusion Path… I grant you the Second Voice—de aru."
Two founders. One of rage, the other of vision.
Ashva did not choose one.
He chose both.
And that choice—though he did not yet know it—would be the first tremor that would one day shatter the balance of the cosmos.
Ashva stood at the edge of the ruined shrine, where the roots of an ancient banyan tree twisted through cracked stone and broken mantras etched into its fallen bricks.
The air here was thick with silence—not emptiness, but a silence so ancient, it had weight.
The emissaries from Svar-Loka had not followed. They lingered in the village, speaking with elders, inspecting karma tablets that held no trace of him. But still, Ashva could feel them—gazes without eyes, searching him across the threads of fate. They were not mortals. They were extensions of Dharma, dressed in flesh.
He clenched the edge of his tunic. The black crystal embedded in his chest had awoken.
It no longer simply was.
It pulsed—a rhythm not aligned to heartbeat or breath. A deeper rhythm. Like war drums from the bottom of the world.
From Patala.
From Chains.
"Mandavya…" Ashva whispered. "What… are you?"
The world shifted.
Not visibly, not like the illusions found in street magic or mantric conjuration, but behind the world. As if the veil of reality was a skin, and something pressed against it.
A shape formed before him—faint at first, then sharp as if drawn in ink made from starlight and sorrow.
A figure cloaked in blue mist and scripture. Eyes veiled thrice, his face unseen.
He floated just above the roots, not touching the mortal ground.
"I am the one who was pierced but did not die," the phantom said. "The one who saw through illusion by becoming one. The first seer of the Maya Marga—de aru."
Ashva could not move.
This was not a vision. It was not a hallucination. It was Mandavya—or something that claimed his legacy.
A Remnant. A Founder Fragment.
The entity raised a hand, and from his palm flowed script—Sanskrit, lost characters, mantra sigils older than language. They floated in the air like glowing insects.
"Your karma is unbound. Your fate, unwritten. That is why he chose you."
"He?" Ashva asked, throat dry.
"The one beneath the chains. Rudra-Vritra. Mahasura of the First Flame."
The name echoed through the roots and stones, and something in the earth shuddered.
"You are his vessel," Mandavya continued. "But you are also mine. A paradox, born of error. A crack in the Wheel."
Ashva opened his mouth to speak, but Mandavya raised a finger.
"Listen."
The world screamed.
Not aloud—but within the bones of the land, the whispers of trees, the tremble of air.
Ashva saw things not meant for his eyes—memories not his own.
He saw a chained god, screaming against the sky.
He saw a city of mirrors, crumbling under illusions so perfect, even gods forgot who they were.
He saw a battlefield where a woman with five shadows wept, her blood carving paths through time.
"What… what do you want from me?" Ashva asked, voice hoarse.
"Nothing," said Mandavya. "Only that you choose."
Ashva staggered.
"Choose what?"
"To bind yourself, or to break."
And with that, the Remnant vanished.
When Ashva awoke, he was on the forest floor. The banyan tree above him glowed faintly.
He touched his chest. The shard still pulsed—but now, he felt two rhythms.
One, like fire in the depths of the earth.
The other, like wind circling a mountain of mirrors.
He understood now.
Two Path Founders had marked him.
One of chaos and rebellion.
One of illusion and hidden truth.
And neither should have been able to do so.
"I should not exist," he whispered.
Behind him, the sky cracked with the arrival of the Vajra emissaries.
And within his mind, a voice whispered again—familiar now, though echoing across eternity.
"The Chains await."