The villagers basked in the momentary respite, hailing Baje as their protector, the Khukuri ritual a beacon of hope in the encroaching darkness. But Bhairav knew better. The cleansing was superficial, a temporary balm on a festering wound. The sickly-sweet aura, though diminished, lingered, a subtle undercurrent beneath the fragile veneer of relief. The hunger, he sensed, remained, merely pushed back, not banished.He used the lull to his advantage, his investigation shifting into a higher gear. While the villagers celebrated their reprieve, Bhairav, under the guise of childish curiosity, began to systematically explore the village and its surroundings. He started with the well, the epicenter of the unsettling phenomena.He lingered near it, ostensibly helping Ama fetch water, but his senses were focused, probing the depths of the earth around the wellspring. He felt it – a subtle disturbance in the prana flow, a chaotic eddy of energy swirling beneath the surface, emanating a faint, draining coldness. It was like a tear in the fabric of the land's vitality, a subtle but persistent leak.Next, he examined the area where the chickens had perished. The ground there felt… barren, strangely devoid of life force. Even the grass seemed slightly withered. He noticed faint, almost invisible trails in the dust, shimmering faintly in the sunlight – residual traces of Gu energy, lingering like spectral footprints.He ventured further afield, exploring the surrounding forest, pretending to gather firewood. He sought out places where the darkening felt strongest, areas where the trees seemed slightly stunted, the undergrowth less vibrant. He noticed subtle anomalies: insects behaving erratically, birdsong strangely muted in certain patches of the woods, a pervasive unease hanging in the air.He returned to Baje, armed with observations and carefully crafted questions. "Baje," he asked one evening, as they sharpened their Khukuris by the fire, "about the ritual… what did you do exactly?"Baje, basking in the afterglow of village admiration, was more forthcoming than before. "Old ways, Bhairu," he began, puffing on his Chilamchi. "Passed down through generations. Words, gestures… channeling the shakti of the Khukuri… and the land itself.""What kind of shakti, Baje?" Bhairav pressed, his voice carefully neutral. "Is it… like the forest deity's power?"Baje chuckled. "Deities are… distant. This is more… primal. Earth shakti. Life shakti. The power that makes things grow, that keeps things alive. But also… the power that can consume, that can decay." He tapped his Khukuri with a gnarled finger. "The Khukuri… it can channel both. To protect, and to… sever.""Sever what, Baje?" Bhairav asked, his eyes wide with feigned innocence.Baje hesitated, then spoke in a lower voice, leaning closer. "Sometimes… something takes root that shouldn't. Something… hungry. It leeches the shakti, drains the land. The Khukuri… it can cut those roots. Push back the darkness."Roots. Something hungry. This resonated with Bhairav's own senses. The "darkening" felt like something drawing power, consuming vitality. It wasn't just a malevolent spirit; it was something more fundamental, more… parasitic."What kind of 'hungry thing' is it, Baje?" Bhairav persisted, his voice barely a whisper.Baje shook his head slowly. "Old tales, Bhairu. Whispers of… Rakshasa Beej (Demon Seeds). Said to be… remnants of ancient curses, buried things, forgotten evils. They lie dormant for ages, then… sometimes… they awaken. When the balance is weak."Rakshasa Beej. Demon Seeds. The term was unfamiliar, but the implication was chilling. Seeds of something dark and malevolent, drawing power from the land, spreading a corrupting influence. This was far more significant than simple Pishach attacks. This was a Gu-related phenomenon, deeply rooted in the land itself.That night, as the village slept, Bhairav began his own, more focused cultivation of the Spring Autumn Cicada Gu. He retreated to a quiet corner of the hut, sitting in a meditative posture, his great-grandfather's Khukuri resting across his lap. He focused inwards, on the nascent Gu within him, visualizing the disturbed prana of the "darkening," not as a threat, but as… sustenance.He cautiously extended tendrils of his Cicada Gu's energy, drawing in the chaotic, draining prana, filtering it through the Cicada's core, converting the corrupt energy into a raw, nascent form of power. It was a risky gambit. The "darkening" was volatile, potentially corrupting. But Bhairav was willing to gamble. He needed to grow stronger, and this disturbed energy, however dangerous, offered a potent, if volatile, source of nourishment for his reborn Gu.As he meditated, he felt a faint, almost imperceptible pull from the Khukuri. It resonated with the prana he was drawing in, subtly amplifying the cultivation process, acting as a conduit, a grounding rod for the raw energy. The ancestral knowledge woven into the Khukuri, the rudimentary Gu Sadhana practices of his lineage, were subtly aiding him, even unknowingly.But the temporary respite was short-lived. The next morning, the well water was even worse – darker, cloudier, the metallic tang stronger. More livestock were found dead, not just chickens now, but even a goat, drained and withered. A palpable fear hung over the village, thicker than ever. The villagers looked to Baje, their hope turning to desperation.Baje, his face etched with worry, knew the Khukuri ritual had been a temporary measure. "The… hunger… is stronger than before," he admitted to Thulo Kaji, his voice grim. "The cleansing… it was not enough."As panic threatened to erupt again, Bhairav stepped forward, his voice clear and calm, cutting through the rising hysteria. "Baje," he said, his gaze fixed and unnervingly intense, "the ritual pushed it back, but it did not destroy the root. We must find the source of the darkening. The Andhakar Ko Mool."All eyes turned to Bhairav, surprised by the child's unusual pronouncements. Baje stared at him, a flicker of understanding, and perhaps a touch of fear, in his eyes. "The root?" he echoed, his voice low. "You speak of… legends, Bhairu.""Legends hold truth, Baje," Bhairav countered, his voice holding an unnerving certainty. "The Rakshasa Beej. If we are to stop the hunger, we must find its source… and destroy it at the Andhakar Ko Mool."A stunned silence fell over the village gathering. The child, Bhairu, was speaking of ancient evils, of the deepest roots of darkness. And in his calm, unnervingly focused gaze, they sensed not childish bravado, but a chilling certainty, a disturbing knowledge that belied his years. The Khukuri at his waist seemed to hum with a silent anticipation, mirroring the nascent power stirring within the Balak Sarpa, ready to face the Andhakar Ko Mool. The root of darkness.