The winter mist curled around the foothills of Himachal Pradesh, thick and restless, like whispers from an ancient past that had been stirred from its slumber. Devika had grown up in these hills, where the air tasted of pine and promises, where every rustle of the forest seemed to carry a tale from another time. She'd heard them all—from the wise words of her grandmother to the local legends exchanged in hurried whispers. But since that fateful night on December 31, 2023, stories had leapt from the pages of myths and the fireside into life, breathing, and alive, right before her eyes.

As the sun slipped down the slopes and shadows thickened, Devika knelt by a brook near her village. The water was colder than usual, shimmering with a faint, silver sheen—something she'd started noticing more often lately. And she could feel it in her bones too, a tingling that wasn't just the chill of winter. They called it mana now, a word once heard only in the realms of fantasy, now as common as breath.

Devika was twenty, and she was curious. While others marveled at the ancient beings, strange creatures, and the spiritual energy that had seeped into every part of life, Devika had a mind that longed to know why. Why had the realms merged? Why Himachal? And why, of all the places in this colossal, transformed world, did the gods seem to favor this land? As these questions simmered in her mind, she noticed movement in the forest beyond.

"Who's there?" she called out, her voice clear, steady. She was no stranger to these woods; they had been her sanctuary since childhood, each trail and clearing as familiar as her own heartbeat.

A figure emerged, cloaked and graceful, its silhouette radiating an aura that made her heart quicken. As the figure approached, a face was revealed—neither young nor old, with eyes like embers, gleaming under a hood that looked as though it were woven from starlight itself. Devika recognized him immediately: Banasura, the demi-god who had once ruled these lands in ancient times and whom she'd read about in temple stories.

"Devika," his voice was both an invitation and a warning, layered with centuries of wisdom and weariness.

"Why have you come back?" Devika asked, meeting his gaze unflinchingly.

"We didn't choose to," he replied. "The gates opened, and with them, the dormant spirits. Just as your world was drawn into ours, so were we summoned back to yours."

Devika's lips pursed as she considered his words. "So, what now? You've returned, the gods are back, India is transformed… but for how long?"

Banasura smiled—a slow, knowing smile that carried no answers but suggested the promise of many. "The future is unwritten," he said. "But I have come to speak with you, for there is a force within you, Devika. You carry the aura of the mountains, a blessing from the land itself, and with it, a connection to the gods."

She stared at him, caught between disbelief and the strange feeling that she'd known this all along. "Why me?"

"Why any of us?" he countered. "We are bound to the land, and the land chooses. But you must come with me. The council is gathering at the temple. Your presence is required."

She took a step back. "A council of gods and celestial beings? I… I don't belong among them. I'm just a girl from a mountain village."

"Perhaps once," Banasura replied, his gaze shifting toward the mist-laden hills. "But that changed when our worlds merged. You are a daughter of this land, Devika. That is no small thing."

With that, he turned, beckoning her to follow.

As they wound their way up the mountain path, Devika could feel a hum beneath her feet, a vibration in the stones that seemed to pulse with life. The village below lay quiet, shrouded in mist, but she knew that beneath this new world's calm surface, powers were stirring. The pine trees seemed taller, their trunks thicker and marked with patterns she hadn't noticed before. The forest held a thousand secrets in its depths, waiting, it seemed, for her alone.

They reached the temple—an ancient stone structure built to honor the deities who had watched over Himachal for centuries. It had withstood storms, wars, and the passing of ages, and now it stood at the heart of a world reborn. Around it, figures had gathered, their forms a strange fusion of ancient and unfamiliar—guardians with armor that shimmered like moonlight, beings with feathers, scales, or glistening skin, eyes burning with old knowledge.

At the center, presiding over them, stood the deity who was most revered in these lands—Shiva, the Great Destroyer, his trident gleaming in the twilight. His presence radiated an energy that stilled even the wind, and Devika felt her knees weaken, though she forced herself to remain standing.

"Welcome, Devika," he intoned, his voice a thunderous echo that resonated through the valley. "The time has come for you to understand your role."

She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. "I am only a human."

"And yet, you are more," Shiva replied. "You carry the spirit of Himachal, a land forged by ancient forces and sacred blood. This land will be at the heart of our world's future, but only if those chosen rise to meet the challenge."

A murmur rippled through the gathered beings. Devika looked around, feeling small, yet something deep within her—something ancient, like the rocks beneath her feet—stirred in recognition. She was not just a girl from the mountains. She was Himachal's daughter, and her lineage was older than memory.

Shiva's gaze softened. "You wonder why we have returned. Why now? The worlds did not merge by chance. The earth called, and the realms answered. We are here not to dominate but to guide, to protect what is sacred. And you, Devika, are the bridge between our worlds. You will learn the ways of mana, aura, and force."

"But why does India lead?" she dared to ask.

A smile flickered on his lips. "Because India has always been the cradle of the spirit, the birthplace of knowledge and tradition. When the realms merged, it was India's energies that resonated most strongly with ours. Greece and Japan follow closely, but it is here, on this soil, that the ancient powers are strongest."

Another voice spoke, soft and lilting, carrying the fragrance of sandalwood. It was Saraswati, the goddess of wisdom, her face serene. "Your people have a heritage that has weathered countless trials. There is a strength here, a resilience. You have seen demons and divinities, mountains and rivers, coexist in harmony. Your world has expanded, Devika, but it is only beginning to understand the depth of its potential. And you will play a part in guiding this journey."

Devika's heart pounded in her chest as realization dawned on her. This was not just about gods returning or humanity gaining strange, new powers. This was about a land she loved and the duty it demanded of her. The winds of change were blowing, but with them came a responsibility that weighed heavily on her shoulders.

And yet, as she looked up at the celestial beings who had returned to this earth, she found her resolve strengthening. She didn't know what lay ahead, nor what it would demand of her. But one thing was certain—she would not turn away.

"Tell me what I must do," she said quietly, her voice steady.

Shiva inclined his head. "Your training begins with the dawn."

As the assembly dispersed, Devika lingered on the temple steps, gazing at the night sky, where constellations she had known since childhood seemed to burn brighter, as though bearing witness to the moment. The land, the gods, the world itself had changed, and so had she.

With a final glance at the forest below, where the mists gathered in ancient, watchful silence, she whispered to herself, "I will be ready."