They expected riots.
They expected chaos.
They expected mortals to cry out in panic as the Final Doctrine wrapped itself around the world like a divine noose.
But instead…
They got silence.
In Shraddhalok, Meha didn't panic.
She sat beneath the banyan tree, closed her eyes, and simply breathed.
In the southern fields of Kaamyapur, once devoured by fear, farmers moved through old yogic postures—not in rebellion, but in rhythm.
In the ruins of Suryanagar, the bells didn't ring.
But a hundred villagers stood in quiet stance, their feet rooted, their presence louder than any hymn.
The doctrine spread like fog.
But it couldn't grip them.
Because they had already let go.
In the Celestial Court, Vaikuntharaja's voice shook as he spoke to his pantheon:
"Why won't they bend?"
One of the silent gods finally whispered:
"Because they've remembered the truth."
"You cannot enslave those who do not outsource their breath."
Aarav walked through the city, eyes steady, spine aligned.
He didn't speak.
But everywhere he passed, people stood taller. Not to mimic him. But because his stillness gave them permission.
Chains forged by millennia of fear shattered—
Not in war…
But in stillness.