Recap:
Ansh continues to fracture after opening the screaming door. Strange behavior, missing time, and a second shadow reveal he is becoming something more—or less—than human. A vision reveals a Watcher living inside him, calling him the Key. Now, the trio seeks a forgotten village erased from maps, hoping to find answers.
It took three days of research to find the village. Or what was left of it.
It wasn't in history books, online archives, or local records. But Vaishnavi remembered her grandmother whispering about a place called Nirghosh—"The Silent Place." A village swallowed by fog after the earth itself turned against it.
They found a reference in a weathered almanac from 1921. Just a name and a crude symbol—three concentric circles. The same shape that had appeared in Ansh's burning mark.
They packed light.
By dawn, they were on the road, following faded cartography and local myths. Sompur faded behind them. Cell service dropped. Time seemed to bend around them as if the road they traveled stretched farther than the miles allowed.
By evening, they found the path.
An unmarked dirt road led into dense mist. Trees leaned unnaturally inward, and the air buzzed with static, like the moment before a lightning strike.
"This is it," Vaishnavi said.
They crossed the threshold—and the world changed.
No birds. No wind. No sky, even. Just grey fog.
Shapes emerged from the gloom. Crumbled homes half-swallowed by moss. A broken well. A rusted bell tower with no bell.
Nirghosh.
The village had not decayed.
It had been erased.
Ansh stepped carefully between stones carved with runes. They pulsed faintly as he passed. The mark on his hand throbbed in response.
"Something is watching us," Ishu muttered.
"No," Ansh said softly. "Something is waiting."
Vaishnavi consulted her notes. "There's supposed to be an altar in the center. Made of obsidian. That's where the first Watcher was said to emerge."
They followed the faint path until it opened into a circle of scorched earth. At its heart stood the altar—a jagged slab of black stone, covered in ancient glyphs.
The air felt wrong.
Ansh touched the surface.
The world cracked.
In an instant, night fell. The fog turned to ash. The village reassembled around them—not as ruins, but whole and alive. Yet no people walked the streets. Doors stood open. Meals rotted on tables.
Frozen in time.
Then they heard the chant.
Low. Repetitive. Thousands of voices from underground.
"What is this?" Ishu gasped.
"A memory," Vaishnavi said. "We're seeing the last moment."
Ansh staggered.
A figure emerged behind the altar. Tall, cloaked, with no face—just shifting static where features should be. It raised its hand.
"The Key returns to the Source," it said.
The altar split open.
From within rose a black root, veined with fire.
Ansh collapsed, screaming.
His shadow peeled away again—but this time, it didn't stop at one. A dozen versions of his silhouette emerged, all with glowing red eyes.
They surrounded the trio.
Ishu drew a silver ring from his pocket—a talisman Vaishnavi had crafted.
"Back!" he shouted, thrusting it forward.
But the shadows ignored it.
One spoke: "We are not invaders. We are the echoes of the Key."
Vaishnavi stood in front of Ansh. "Then what do you want?"
"To remember. To return."
The altar burned brighter.
And Ansh stood.
But he was not Ansh.
His eyes glowed. His voice carried thunder.
"The convergence begins. The cycle turns. The silence breaks."
Then the world collapsed again.
They awoke on the edge of Nirghosh. The fog was gone. The path behind them, clear.
Ansh was unconscious.
The mark on his hand was gone.
But his shadow lingered—twisting unnaturally, as if uncertain it should follow.
"We didn't find answers," Ishu said.
Vaishnavi shook her head. "We are the answer. Whatever is coming... it began with us."