Patjhad Kiran Ko Chhaya

A cacophony of sounds assaults Bhairav's senses. The shrill cries of crows, the rhythmic clang of metal on metal – a blacksmith's hammer perhaps? – and the distant, mournful wail of a Sarangi (Nepali stringed instrument). He is drowning in smells: woodsmoke, spices, damp earth, and something else… a faint, metallic tang, like old blood.His body is weak, unfamiliar. Limbs too short, skin too soft. He tries to sit up, his muscles protesting with a childish tremble. Confusion claws at him, a dizzying vortex of fragmented memories… screams, betrayal, the agonizing burn of that Gu consuming him from the inside out… then, darkness.Now, this.He opens his eyes. The world swims into focus, filtered through the coarse weave of a thatched roof above. Sunlight streams through gaps in the bamboo, casting dancing motes of dust in the air. He is lying on a rough Sukul (straw mat), the air thick with the smell of hay and cow dung.Where…?Panic begins to tighten its grip. This isn't the opulent chamber he had known in his last moments, the richly decorated room where treachery had bloomed. This is… rustic. Humble. Peasant-like.Then, a whisper, a faint vibration deep within his core. Not a sound, but a presence. Familiar. Painfully, exquisitely familiar.He focuses inward, pushing past the disorientation, the physical weakness. There, nestled at the center of his being, like a dormant seed, lies it. His Gu.Not the monstrous, corrupted form it had become in his final, desperate moments. But… smaller. Younger. Purified.Basanta Patjhad Kira – Spring Autumn Cicada Gu.He could feel its nascent power, its cyclical nature, the essence of rebirth woven into its very being. It had worked. Against all odds, against the laws of heaven and earth, it had dragged his soul back through the currents of time.He is reborn.But not in the gilded cage of his past life. He is a child again, in a place he does not recognize, yet somehow… familiar in its very Nepali-ness.(Establishing the Setting)A creak of the door. A woman enters, her face etched with worry and weariness, but her eyes softening with relief as she sees him awake. She wears simple, practical clothing, a far cry from the silken robes of the women he knew. She speaks in a dialect he vaguely understands, thick with rural Nepali cadence."Bhairu? You are awake! Thank the Pashupatinath!"Bhairu. So, that is his name now. Bhairav "Bhairu" Rana. Even the name feels different, less… burdened by ambition, yet carrying a subtle undercurrent of strength.He looks around the small hut. Earthen walls, a simple hearth, a few basic utensils. Poverty. But also… normalcy. A life far removed from the treacherous court he had navigated, the cutthroat world of Gu clans he had clawed his way through.(Bhairav's Internal Monologue – Seeds of Villainy)Punarjanma. Rebirth. He, Bhairav, the Demon of Moonlight Valley, given a second chance. Not as a reward, he knows. The heavens are not kind. This is… an opportunity.He remembers the betrayal, the agonizing defeat, the crushing weight of his ambitions turned to ash. He had strived for power, for freedom, for immortality… and lost it all.But the wisdom of five hundred years… the hard-won knowledge of Gu Sadhana, the countless battles fought, the alliances forged and broken… it is all still within him, etched into his very soul, carried across the river of time by the Basanta Patjhad Kira.He clenches his small fist. This time, it will be different. He will not make the same mistakes. He will be more ruthless, more cunning, more… complete.He will rise again. And this time, he will not just strive for power. He will dominate.(Ending Hook)The woman, his… mother? … places a bowl of Dhedo (Nepali staple food made of buckwheat or millet) in front of him. The smell is simple, earthy. He looks at the steaming bowl, then up at the concerned face of the woman.A flicker of a smile touches his lips. Not a smile of innocence, but something… colder. Knowing. Predatory."Ama," he says, his voice still weak but with a nascent strength already forming, "Tell me… what is the year?"The woman frowns, confused, but answers, "It is… Vikram Samvat 1965.Why do you ask, Bhairu?"Vikram Samvat 1965. He is back. Exactly where he needs to be.Bhairav looks out of the hut's opening, at the green hills of Nepal bathed in the afternoon sun. The world is ripe for the taking. And Bhairav, the demon reborn, is ready to claim his destiny.