Ashes of Deva : Rise of the White Flame

The aftermath hung heavy.

Smoke drifted from the cratered forest. The Hollow Knights had vanished, leaving behind no bodies, no traces—only gaps in memory. Birds did not return. Wind did not blow. Even time stuttered around the ruins of the battle.

Astha sat by the fire, sharpening Ashvaanta in slow, deliberate strokes. Not to maintain its edge—but to remember. The weapon was more than steel. It was a diary.

Behind him, Luv stood silently under the broken canopy of trees. His silver armor flickered faintly with stored storm-light. His face was tired—haunted—but alert.

Vaidehi lay nearby on a makeshift bedding of woven mantra leaves. Her skin was still pale. The cracks on her arms shimmered with black veins of forgotten script.

"She's stable," Luv said quietly. "But… the corruption's dormant, not gone."

Astha didn't look away from the blade.

"The Herald said she saw what's coming. The Shatter God."

"That name," Luv muttered, "feels like a mistake just to say."

---

A Memory That Shouldn't Exist

Vaidehi stirred.

"He doesn't belong in the pantheon," she whispered.

They rushed to her side. Her voice was weak, but lucid.

"The gods… they hide his name. He wasn't created by belief. He was born when belief died."

Astha narrowed his eyes.

"A god… created from broken faith?"

Vaidehi nodded.

"When entire civilizations lose hope… when their prayers go unanswered long enough… they fracture reality. That fracture becomes him."

"The Shatter God."

---

That night, Astha meditated beside the Pillar of Thoughtless Flame—a forgotten shrine once buried by the gods. Smritidhaara, coiled around his left arm, pulsed with the scent of memories not his own.

"Smritidhaara," he whispered. "Show me the Hollow's design."

The weapon obeyed.

It burned open a memory gate, exposing a sliver of divine archives—etched into flame.

Astha saw glimpses:

A titan in cracked armor, face veiled in molten gold, standing over dead gods.

Mountains collapsing under the weight of his roar.

Devotees burning their scriptures, screaming that belief was a curse.

The Shatter God had existed in every age. Each time, he was erased. Each time, he returned stronger.

"Because doubt never dies," Astha muttered.

---

The next morning, Astha stood on a cliffside, shirtless, arms bleeding from ritual etchings. He had carved memory mantras into his skin—each one a lock to hold Smritidhaara's more unstable powers.

He swung Ashvaanta in arcs so wide the air rippled like cloth. Each strike pulled on memories—his, Luv's, Vaidehi's, even the nameless dead. The flame twisted into new forms.

Luv watched nearby, training his control over Vajra Pralaya, a storm-form that could now arc between dimensions briefly. His new silver cloak, earned through his dream duel in Swarnalok, fluttered with divine winds.

"Astha," he said. "When the Shatter God arrives… what if we aren't enough?"

"Then we become more."

---

The First Ripple

A week passed. Silence reigned.

Then the sky cracked—not physically, but philosophically.

Everyone felt it:

Birds fell mid-flight.

Saints lost faith in their own voices.

Statues of deities shattered from the inside.

And in the distance, from a mountain village devoted to a now-dead god, came the first survivor.

Eyes burned. Skin carved with scripture.

He could only whisper:

"He's here."