The man in the bark-threaded robes called himself Vyanak, a keeper of the Hollow Seed—an ancient order sworn to protect the world's rarest, most spiritually potent flora. According to him, the mangoes Aman had begun to unearth weren't merely delicious oddities—they were remnants of a forgotten balance between nature and human consciousness.
He spoke of a prophecy. Seven seeds. Seven guardians. One bloom to awaken the Earth.
Aman, now the bearer of the first two seeds—the Suryansh and the Blackheart—wasn't chosen at random. His grandfather had been one of the last planters. His lineage made him the heir to a task left unfinished.
But there was opposition. A rival faction, The Witherers, believed these trees siphoned power meant for humans—not to heal, but to rule. And now that Aman was visible, they were coming.
Before dawn, Meera appeared again, this time cloaked and urgent.
"You need to leave," she whispered.
"The next key is in Morocco—hidden beneath the sands of an old Sufi garden where the mango trees hum prayers when the desert sings."
She handed him a scroll sealed in wax and a vial of resin from the Suryansh.
"Whatever happens," she added, "don't plant the third seed without moonlight. And never alone."
As the sun rose behind the Himalayan peaks, Aman stood at the edge of the monastery, his bag packed, pendant glowing, destiny shifting beneath his feet.
The map on the scroll pulsed warm against his chest.
And far off in the Moroccan dunes, something ancient had just begun to bloom