He felt it first during stillness.
Not during training. Not while meditating. Just… sitting. Breathing. Being.
A current, faint and warm, coiled at the base of his spine. It moved with his breath—not like air, but like light inside his body. It slithered upward, flickered in his chest, pooled behind his forehead.
He opened his eyes, and the world was different.
He could hear insects beneath the soil. Feel the weight of a storm two days away. The pulse of another person's heartbeat—three huts down.
Pagal Baba nodded when he told him. "Prana is awake."
"Is it power?"
"No. It's presence. Power is the side effect."
Aarav's senses sharpened.
He could walk without sound. See in dim light. Predict a falling leaf's path.
He began to sense intention—the pause before a lie, the shift in air before violence.
And with this awakening, he saw the truth of the world:
Faith had become currency.
People prayed to gods not for wisdom—but for wishes. These gods, fed by temples, chants, and sacrifices, had become bloated tyrants. They rewarded obedience. Punished doubt.
And the more people believed, the more real they became.
Aarav stopped entering temples.
He bowed only to the wind.
And the gods began to take notice.