The cold gnawed at his bones as the river pulled him deeper into its depths. His breath fled, his vision narrowing to the faint shimmer of moonlight refracted through the swirling waters. Panic clawed at his chest. Darkness closed in.
Time ceased to exist in that abyss. When his senses returned, it was not to the biting cold of the river, but to an overwhelming warmth. He lay on a bed of smooth stone. The air smelled of ancient earth, incense, and something sharp, metallic. The world around him glimmered in hues of emerald and gold, the light coming from the jeweled eyes of coiled serpents carved into towering pillars.
A voice, deep and measured, spoke. "Few mortals cross into Naglok by chance. Even fewer leave without a mark."
Ujjwal opened his eyes to meet the piercing gaze of Vasukinandan. His robes flowed like liquid silver, and his eyes held the weight of centuries. Behind him, serpents moved silently, their bodies rippling with cosmic power.
"Naglok..." Ujjwal's throat was dry, the word foreign but familiar. "Why am I here?"
The serpentine figure regarded him for a long moment. "Because you are not what you think you are. Blood remembers, even if the mind forgets. You are tied to something ancient. Something powerful. Forces beyond your knowledge have marked you, and the river carried you to us before death could claim its due."
The mention of death sent a shiver down Ujjwal's spine. "Those... things. They attacked me. I've never seen anything like them before. Why?"
Vasukinandan's eyes flickered with unreadable emotion. "Why, indeed? Questions are the foundation of wisdom. Answers, however, must be earned. For now, your wounds will heal, but your journey is far from over."
Ujjwal sat up, feeling the strange strength coursing through his limbs. His body was mended, but he sensed something had changed. His heart beat with a rhythm that was not his own, and his thoughts burned with knowledge just out of reach. "What have you done to me?"
"A gift," Vasukinandan whispered. "One of two."
A surge of energy rippled through Ujjwal's veins, ancient and primal. He saw fleeting visions—Mahabali Bheem standing triumphant in Naglok, his muscles hardened with divine power, eyes filled with unbreakable resolve. That same strength now coursed through Ujjwal, a legacy granted by a realm that owed its allegiance to no god.
But there was more. A second power, more elusive, danced at the edges of his consciousness—shadows and illusions, whispers of secrets. The knowledge of Maya Yuddha, the art of mystical warfare, would be his, but its nature remained cloaked in mystery.
"You are a seed," Vasukinandan intoned. "Watered by fate. Whether you grow into a tree that shelters or one that destroys... depends on the soil of your soul."
Before Ujjwal could ask what that meant, the ground trembled beneath him. Light flooded his vision, and the warmth of Naglok faded.
He awoke gasping, his hands clawing at wet earth. The river murmured beside him, its flow unchanged, as if it had never carried him into realms unseen. His wounds were gone, but the truths etched into his mind would not vanish so easily.
The world looked the same, yet everything had changed.