At dawn, the Seeker Host awoke to silence.
Their leader—Bhaktarakshaka—stood without his armor, without his mask, without his blade.
He had placed it all at the feet of the Host's battle standard, folded neatly, as if shedding skin. Around him, a ring of dust where he had meditated all night, unmoving.
He didn't make a speech.
He didn't ask permission.
He simply turned his back and walked.
Whispers spread like wildfire.
Some called him a traitor. Others said he had gone mad. But a few… a few stared at the armor and felt a crack inside their own devotion.
One young Seeker picked up the mask.
Held it.
Then set it down again.
Aarav met Bhaktarakshaka at the city gate.
Neither bowed.
Neither smiled.
Aarav simply asked, "Why?"
The warrior's voice was quiet. "Because for the first time, I felt my breath… and it didn't belong to him anymore."
Aarav nodded once. "Then walk with us. Not behind. Not ahead. With."
And so the warrior who had once carried a god's sword stepped down from divinity—and into discipline.
Later that evening, as Aarav trained with the villagers, Bhaktarakshaka joined them. No title. No weapon. Just breath and sweat like everyone else.
Some flinched when they saw him.
But Aarav looked at them and said:
"He walked away from a god. Don't you dare walk away from him."
And they didn't.