Om drifted in darkness.
Stars shimmered faintly in the void, endless and cold. Yet amidst that vast emptiness, a single light glowed—a bubble, radiating a gentle warmth like a lone star in a moonless sky.
Inside the bubble sat a boy, cross-legged in deep meditation. His lips moved in rhythm, chanting the Narayana Mantra. The words flowed like a river, steady and serene.
When the boy noticed Om, the chanting stopped. He opened his eyes, and though his face was young, his gaze carried the weight of ages.
Om recognized this place—it was the same strange realm he had entered once before, when he had nearly fallen into Yogi Nidra.
The boy's voice came, respectful yet urgent:
"Om… please, do not utter even a single letter of that language aloud. If you do, the drain on your chakra will kill you."
The warning struck Om like a splash of cold water.
And then, memory crashed in. He remembered—he was in the middle of the Gurukul Trial, fighting in the forest. Which meant… right now, his body was unconscious.
His eyes widened in alarm, but before he could speak, the boy lifted a hand.
"Do not worry. Look."
Before Om, a blank screen materialized in the dark space. In the next instant, the image changed, showing Ghato running through the dense forest, Om slung across his broad shoulder like a sack of grain. Rudra and Arun flanked him, weapons drawn, scanning the trees for danger.
The sight left Om silent.
Prahalad—he could now see the boy clearly—watched his expression and, with a gesture, dissolved the screen.
Only then did Om truly notice the surroundings. This wasn't his inner space—it was far larger, a void like the expanse of the universe itself.
He looked at the boy directly. "Who are you?"
The boy inclined his head.
"You may call me Prahalad, one of the followers of the Almighty. I guide those who have lost their path. Some also call me the Observer… for I see all that happens upon the earth."
As his voice echoed, the space around them seemed to shift. Om felt a strange pressure, like some unseen force was punishing Prahalad merely for speaking.
Prahalad winced slightly, a pained sound escaping him.
"Even saying the most basic truths costs me."
Om's brows furrowed. "Costs you? What is it costing you?"
The boy's tone grew quieter, steadier.
"Karma. And do not ask me more about it—you will understand in time."
Om's mind raced. The word karma rang in his thoughts, each repetition pulling up more questions than answers. But before he could voice them, Prahalad's tone shifted—urgent now.
"I do not have much time. I should not be interfering with you at all. Every time I bring you here, I pay too high a price."
He leaned forward, his gaze intense.
"Remember—do not recite that language anytime soon. Nature will not be kind. Even a single letter will drain your chakra… your Nature Energy… until there is nothing left. You may only speak it safely once you reach the Mortal Stage."
Om felt the weight of the warning.
But there was something else gnawing at him, a sense of familiarity that wouldn't leave. "Wait," he said quickly. "What is that language? It feels both familiar… and distant."
Prahalad's eyes lingered on him for a long moment. A faint sigh escaped his lips.
"If I answer that… I may not be able to return to you for a long time. Not until certain conditions are satisfied."
Om opened his mouth to speak, but Prahalad cut him off.
"It is Gandarva—the language of the gods."
The words resonated through the dark space like a chime struck in the soul.
Before Om could process them, the world around him shattered. The bubble of light broke apart, the stars blurred into streaks, and he was hurled through the void as though some great force had flung him back where he belonged.
Pain lanced through his body as he rejoined it. His chest burned, his limbs ached—and then air filled his lungs in a ragged gasp.
He exhaled hard against Ghato's shoulder, his vision slowly clearing.
The sudden sound made the group skid to a stop. Ghato's head turned instantly.
"Om?"
Arun and Rudra wheeled around. Both relief and worry crossed their faces when they saw his eyes open.
Om's breathing was labored, each inhale heavy, but he was awake.
"Put me down," he managed to say between breaths.
Ghato obliged, lowering him gently to the forest floor. Om sat for a moment, hands braced against the dirt, feeling the pulse of the earth beneath him. His body still trembled from the aftershock of the void—and the weight of Prahalad's warning sat heavy in his chest.
Rudra crouched beside him. "What happened? You just collapsed in the middle of running. We thought—"
Om shook his head, cutting her off. "Not now. We're still in the trial. I'll explain… later."
His voice was steadier than his body felt. He could sense the faint pull of chakra returning, the sluggish trickle of Nature Energy seeping back into him. But he was far from recovered.
He glanced at Arun. "How far to the next checkpoint?"
"Still a couple of hours," Arun said after checking the GPS. "But we can cut through a ridge to save time. It's riskier, though."
Om's lips thinned. "We take it. We've already lost enough time."
They moved again, Ghato keeping close to Om's side in case he faltered. As they traveled, Om's mind kept drifting back to Prahalad's words.
Gandarva—the language of the gods.
Why had it felt so natural on his tongue? And why did merely speaking a syllable drain his life force so completely?
One thing was certain—he couldn't risk testing it again. Not until he had reached the Mortal Stage.
But somewhere deep inside, he knew… the time would come when he would have to speak it again. And when that moment arrived, the stakes would be far higher than a simple trial in the forest.