Then—
A crack in the fabric of space.
It was not seen so much as felt.
A fissure split the air beside the court's central dais, lined with light too pure for mortal eyes, and through it stepped a presence whose very being churned the elemental laws of the world.
The Heaven Sage Parashurama.
The Earth's Avenger.
The God-Slayer.
The Scourge of Kshatriyas—the one who had cleansed the earth of kings twenty-one times.
He stood barefoot, hair unbound, his axe slung over one shoulder like a lion's fang. His eyes were old, ancient—older than civilization, and blazing with judgment. The wind around him stilled, bowed, and fell silent.
Shantanu gasped—staggering back.
"By the heavens…"
Old pain bloomed in the king's eyes.
The memories returned in a storm: of royal lines broken by Parashurama's wrath, of palaces burning, of entire dynasties drowned in their own pride and blood. He remembered kneeling, not as a king, but as a beggar—pleading for mercy for Hastinapura when the axe came near.
He dropped to one knee, instinctively. "Great Master… Lord Parashurama…"
But Parashurama ignored him.
His eyes locked on Devavrata.
Inside the hall, a palpable shift rippled through the air as Devavrata's aura met the colossal presence of Parashurama. The very atmosphere thickened, a silent tempest swirling between them. Devavrata's qi was like a deep, unyielding river—calm, steady, but carrying an unstoppable force beneath its surface. Parashurama's presence, by contrast, roared like a mountain storm—ancient, fierce, and raw with the fury of countless battles. The two energies clashed not with noise or flame, but with a profound stillness that spoke of power beyond mortal reckoning. Core cultivators knelt, their spirits trembling under the weight of such divine resonance, as the tension between the rising river and the raging storm filled the hall with a silent, electric dread.
"You," he said, voice like stone grinding through time. "Your anger touched the veil between realms. I felt it in meditation. Your qi—calm as still water, but now a torrent even gods hear."
He stepped forward.
"Who are you, boy, to dare such rage?"
Devavrata met his gaze. Unbowed. Calm, yet vast.
"I am Devavrata, son of Shantanu and Ganga. "
Parashurama studied him.
"I felt no violence in your outburst—only the truth. But that truth weighed heavier than war."
"You speak as a kshatriya," he said. "And yet your qi flows with restraint, purpose… not thirst. You were not trained in the courts."
"I was trained by silence, shaped by flow. My master was the current. My sparring partner—the cliff. My scripture—the sky."
"And yet," Devavrata continued, "I do not deny my duty. I will defend this kingdom, and the dharma it upholds. But not through tyranny. Not through fear."
Parashurama's gaze narrowed.
"So you would wield the sword and not crave its echo. Stand among kings and not be their prisoner. Rule—but never own…"
Parashurama lifted his axe. Not threateningly—as a symbol.
Devavrata stood calm, the silence between them crackling like lightning yet to strike.
Then the rishi spoke again, this time softer—like mountain wind before a storm.
"You speak of duty, of restraint. You speak like a sage," he said. "But I smell the blood in your soul. You're Kshatriya, make no mistake. Born for war."
Devavrata tilted his head.
"A river too is born for war," he replied. "It cuts through mountains, tears forests from root to leaf. Yet no one calls her cruel."
Parashurama's brows lifted slightly. "Are you comparing yourself to your mother now?"
"I am her son," Devavrata said, grinning. "I can't help but run deep."
That caught the old rishi off-guard. A twitch of his lip. But he stayed grim.
"Still water hides snakes."
"So do royal thrones," Devavrata shot back. "But I plan to clean both."
Parashurama exhaled—an amused breath, almost a chuckle.
He took a step forward.
"You speak too boldly for your age."
"I've debated with the wind and argued with thunder. What's age, if not a count of sunrises?"
Parashurama's laugh exploded like a breaking dam—deep, surprised, loud enough to shake the leaves from the royal garden trees.
Shantanu flinched at the sound.
"I haven't laughed like that in a century," Parashurama said. "Not since I killed a king who thought a war elephant could outwit me with riddles."
"Did it succeed?" Devavrata asked, eyes gleaming.
"It tried to distract me with a poem about mangoes."
"Mangoes?" Devavrata blinked. "Well, in its defense… even death deserves dessert."
Parashurama roared. Not just a chuckle now—a full, storm-breaking laugh. The kind that sent flocks scattering from nearby trees and made the palace guards nearly drop their spears.
"You are bold. Wise. And too clever for your own safety," Parashurama said, grinning now like a wolf pleased with a pup who bit back.
He lowered his axe to the ground, the metal glowing faintly with celestial heat.
"I have walked this earth since the age of fire. Seen kings fall and gods rise. I thought my heart was stone, unmoved by laughter, joy, or promise."
His eyes grew somber.
"But in you—I see something I thought dead."
Devavrata bowed, but his voice was gentle. "Hope?"
"No," Parashurama said. "A future."
Devavrata bowed, but not fully. Only a warrior's bow. Equal to equal.
"What do you seek, O slayer of kings?"
Parashurama smiled for the first time in a hundred years.
"A disciple. One who understands strength must kneel to wisdom. I see now why the river raised you. She prepared a weapon even I cannot forge. Come. If you have courage, walk with me. Train under me. Let me sharpen your soul."
A silence fell heavier than any storm.
Shantanu's heart stopped. To lose his son to Parashurama, even in training, was like surrendering him to the edge of legend.
But Devavrata turned—bowed to his father.
"Grant me leave, Father. If I am to protect this land, I must walk where strength is born." his eyes steady and resolute he continued, "Father, I will return. The teachings of the great sage Parashurama are not for my own glory, but to serve this empire with a strength that no court intrigue or enemy can undermine. Trust that when I come back, it will be with a power tempered by wisdom—one that will safeguard our land and secure the legacy you have built."
Shantanu tried to speak. But what words can hold back destiny?
He simply nodded.
And in a blaze of celestial wind, Devavrata stepped into the portal beside Parashurama, leaving behind a court in shock, a father in awe—and a world that had just felt the echo of a legend rising.
The scribe's footsteps quickened as he made his way beyond the empire's borders, toward the distant, enigmatic kingdom of Gandharava—the very land whispered about in recent court intrigues. Small but fiercely proud, Gandharava was a place where shadows moved with purpose, and secrets were currency.
In the twilight-shadowed halls of Gandharava, whispers spoke of a family both revered and feared—the House of Kauravya. Known for their sharp minds and unyielding ambition, they had long been the silent architects behind Gandharava's cautious rise.
Within their ancestral estate, the matriarch—a woman of iron will and secrets carved into her gaze—tended to the ancient scrolls of prophecy. As she traced the faded parchments, a messenger arrived, slipping a sealed letter into her hands. The wax bore the emblem of the Hastinapura court.
Unfolding the letter, her eyes skimmed the carefully penned words: news of Devavrata's departure, his formidable presence, and the storm he had already stirred in the empire's heart. The scribe's account was clear—Devavrata was no ordinary prince. His power, wisdom, and rising legend were undeniable.
The matriarch's gaze darkened as she folded the letter, her fingers brushing over a symbol etched on the scroll beside her—the entwined serpents of prophecy. "The river and the serpent," she whispered. "Two forces destined to collide."
She compared the traits described of Devavrata—the calm strength, the unyielding will—to the ancient prophecy of the child yet unborn. He was foretold to be a shadow born of cunning and ambition, a master of subtle wars and shifting allegiances.
"Where Devavrata moves like a flowing river, steady and unbreakable," the matriarch mused, "The child in the prophecy will be the serpent in the grass—silent, lethal, and unpredictable. Both born to shape destiny, yet neither meant to share the throne."
Her eyes flickered with a mixture of anticipation and calculation. The empire's new guardian had arrived, but so too had the winds of a darker fate. The game had begun, and the balance of power would soon tip in ways even the gods might envy.
Unbeknownst to the empire, this quiet kingdom was nurturing the roots of a future storm—one that would rise years from now in the form of a cunning strategist whose name was yet unspoken: Saguni. His eventual arrival would weave webs of ambition and deceit that could unravel kingdoms, shift the delicate balance of power, heralding storms that would test Devavrata's rising legend and challenge even the mightiest of rulers.