God of War - Karmic Cycle [AU]

[juniorsundar]

Wait, can't they use an AOE attack and kill the entire army? Pretty sure Kratos alone can do it?

Click to shrink...

He could. But Kratos is not emotionally invested enough to do it.

The thing with his character at the current point is that unless it has something to do with him directly he won't interfere.

 

[juniorsundar]

Dude doesnt count ,he is a god already .but his hope power doesnt care about such silly thing as immortality wish

*man it still feel weird to read the the actual version of the character instead of a bastardized version of ramanyana i have been raised with *

Click to shrink...

I think the best media depiction of Ramayana till date is the semi-anime type version they made a long time back. It was in collaboration qith some Japanese company.

Ramayana: The Legend of Prince Rama - Wikipedia

en.wikipedia.org

You can probably get the whole video for free on Youtube

 

[juniorsundar]

On a side note. At a more literary level. The concept of face corresponds to pride in most eastern cultures. (Losing face... saving face... etc.)

It is a recurring motif when relating to the eldest Lankan brother in this fanfic.

Him being called the one with many faces. Him forcefully shedding his face in reverence to Shiva. And ultimately what becomes of him. It all relates to his pride.

Just something deeper for you guys to think about.

Tbh idk if the authors of Ramayana had this in mind when creating his character. I like to think that they did

 

[Hyperionthetitan]

I think the best media depiction of Ramayana till date is the semi-anime type version they made a long time back. It was in collaboration qith some Japanese company.

Ramayana: The Legend of Prince Rama - Wikipedia

en.wikipedia.org

You can probably get the whole video for free on Youtube

Click to shrink...

Yeah ,just that the one i was raised with is an adaptation of the mythos to make it into our own version ,its an entire thing of their own with it own fucking storyline .
The main different is probably length since it start at basically rama grandfather generation and ravanna past life allllll the way till rama kids .
also ravanna immortality inthat version is basically lich phylactery

 

[juniorsundar]

The elderly and the children ran like their lives depended on it. Because it did. Their panicked gasps and the frantic pounding of their feet filled the forest in a symphony of desperation. Yet, for all their terror, they moved with a resolute trajectory. This was the path assigned to them by the ashen warrior. They had just one command to execute: "Run without stopping."

Munni was her name. It meant 'little girl'. It was not the name given to her at birth, but one her parents had used affectionately due to her short and petite stature as a child. As she grew, the name stuck. Even now, at eighty years old, with her back bent and her skin a tapestry of wrinkles, she was still called Munni. The irony was evident, but unintentional.

Munni's bones screamed. Her muscles wailed. Her breath came in ragged, shallow bursts, and her lungs strained at their absolute limits. But she did not stop running. She had to reach the designated spot before their pursuers arrived. She was certain they would be pursued. She had made sure of it, leaving just enough evidence along the way - a broken twig here, a scuffed patch of dirt there - for even a dim-witted scout to track them.

And then she felt it. A faint vibration in the soles of her worn feet. Even through the cacophony of her own overloaded senses, she could feel the gentle tremors in the ground begin to grow in amplitude. They were approaching. And they were approaching quickly.

By the time she could hear the pounding hoofbeats, the strained grunts of the bulls, and the excited, guttural cackles of their pursuers, the group had nearly reached their destination. But they were not fast enough. They would not make it before the enemy was upon them.

At that moment, Munni halted abruptly. Seeing their leader stop, the fleeing group also skidded to a halt, their faces a mixture of confusion and terror.

"GO!" Munni yelled in a raw, commanding bark. She began physically pushing the others forward. "I will slow them down!"

"Munni Ma-" a young teen tried to argue, his voice thick with panic. But he was met with a firm, unyielding glare from the old woman.

"I will only slow us down," Munni explained. "Don't worry about me. You need to save yourselves. Run!"

The children wanted to argue, to plead. But the other elders among them understood Munni's intention immediately. With grim faces, they began to urge the children away, their own hands now pushing the younger generation towards safety. They continued fleeing, leaving Munni alone on the path.

A strange calm settled over her. Lord Kratos had promised her this moment. "You are going to die today," he'd said, his voice devoid of warmth or pity. "It is up to you if you want it to be quick. Or slow and painful." He had a way with words; he didn't use many, but they were enough to state a cold, hard fact.

He was right, of course. In a world where few lived past sixty, she was a relic. Age brought the experience that helped the community thrive, but it was also a weight. When survival was at stake, you could not be held down. A trapped tiger would chew off its own arm to live another day. She was that arm.

The sounds of the approaching horde were deafening now. Munni bent and picked up a heavy, rough stone. A violent tremor shook her, but it was not fear. It was the sudden, shocking release from the weight of eighty years of memories, duties, and being a liability. It all fell away. She was light. She was free. She was ready.

Munni blinked. Her eyes closed for a moment longer than was natural. When they reopened, the horde was standing before her.

Many miles above, Murugan hovered alongside his Guru and the three brothers, riding atop his peacock. His palms rolled into a tight fist that trembled as he watched the elderly woman confront the small war party.

The leading barbarian, a man with a jagged scar for an eye, tilted his head with a leering grin. He gestured lazily for two of his companions to drag the old woman away.

Murugan moved to interject, to leap from his mount, but Kratos' palm landed on his shoulder. An immense force held him down.

"G-Guruji -" Murugan pleaded with his voice choked in outrage.

"This is necessary," Kratos stated with a resolute growl.

He watched as the two bull riders dismounted. They approached the woman with dirty, fatalistic looks, their eyes filled with a cruel amusement. Murugan could see the other mounted barbarians gesturing wildly and pointing at the woman. Their guttural laughs were enough to suggest the type of brutal games they intended to play with her.

Murugan couldn't hold it in any longer. But right as he was about to leap off, he saw something that shocked him to his core.

The old woman pulled a knife. In a flash of movement that defied her age, she slashed the throat of the man approaching from her right. As he gargled and choked on his own blood, she spun and stuck the weapon deep into the other's eye socket.

She took the rock in her grasp and tossed it, with impeccable accuracy, into the eye of the bull of the scar-eyed barbarian. The beast keeled over to the side and caused the mounted man to fall off.

Then, with an impossible burst of energy, she ran up to the collapsed barbarian. She leapt, using the beast's surprised face as leverage, and collided with the war party's leader. Like a rabid animal, she clenched her jaw around his thick neck and tore out a chunk of flesh.

Blood gushed like a fountain. The two tumbled near the bull. The enraged animal, now blind with pain and terror, began to buck and stomp, trampling the grappling duo into a mush of blood and gore.

Murugan couldn't process what he had just witnessed. Evidently, neither could the barbarians. There was a long, stunned pause as all eyes followed the bull as it charged blindly into the forest. They then looked down at the pool of mush on the ground.

"She did better than expected," Kratos expressed with a snort that somehow sounded impressed.

Murugan looked to Kratos to expound, but he did not get an explanation. Instead, it was Faceless who spoke calmly, analysing the instance. "She has agitated the enemy. It will make them callous."

Murugan still looked confused. Faceless explained, "There is a saying from the far north that describes this situation rather aptly: the mantis stalks the cicada, unaware of the oriole behind. The elderly and children are the cicadas. The barbarians are the mantises." He then placed a palm on his own chest and said, "Orioles."

The group followed the charging barbarians. Once again, the eldest of the retreating group, a frail-looking man, stayed back to distract the opponents. Their enemies did not make the same mistake twice. They simply charged the man and trampled over him. It was a gruesome display for Murugan, though he was once again shocked to see that the man, in his final moments, had managed to slice away the testicles of the bull trampling him. The creature jerked up with a high-pitched squeal and dislodged its rider, who was also turned to mush by the bucking animal. The bull later collapsed and died from blood loss.

"This is disgusting!" Murugan exclaimed with a yelp.

"They are fighters," Vibhishana affirmed. "I'll give you that."

The pattern persisted. Once an elder fell, another would halt to delay the enemy. Though it was effective at first, the attackers grew more cautious and gave the "distractions" a wider berth, opting to dispatch them with their spears over a longer distance. They did not even desecrate the corpses by running them over. It was as if they were afraid the dead bodies would come to life and take them down as well.

Once the last elder fell, all that remained were the children. The gaze of the eldest boy solidified with resolve as he realised it was his turn. He was not like his elders; he was terrified. His body shivered with a fear so profound it felt like a physical illness. His hands shook, slick with a cold sweat. But he knew there was no other way. Munni Ma had bought them time. The others had bought them more. Now, it was his responsibility to buy a few more precious seconds.

He stopped running. His lungs burned, and his legs felt like lead, but he forced himself to stand straight.

The other children, seeing him stop, also stumbled to a halt behind him. A young girl, no older than seven, grabbed the back of his tunic. "Brother, what are you doing?" she whimpered.

"Go," he urged them, his voice cracking. He did not turn to face them, afraid that if he saw their terrified faces, his own resolve would crumble. "Keep running. Don't look back."

But they did not listen. They huddled behind him, like a small, frightened flock of sheep seeking shelter behind a trembling shepherd against a pack of wolves. He could hear their ragged breaths, their quiet sobs. There was no time left.

Within moments, the children were surrounded. The horde of barbarians raised a dust storm as the enraged bulls formed a circular formation, trapping them inside. Unlike with the elderly, they did not immediately move to dispatch them. Their eyes twinkled with lecherous thoughts as they leered at the little girls of the group. Even the young boys who still had not grown enough and carried a petite appearance were targets.

The de facto leader of the horde, a hulking man whose stench of stale sweat and blood reached the boy even from a distance, leapt off his bull. He approached with the slow and deliberate swagger of a satiated predator, evidently enjoying the terror of his cornered prey. The boy, summoning his last shred of courage, tossed the rock in his hand. The large man dodged it with an almost lazy contempt. He walked up to the boy and, without a word, slapped him hard across the face.

A loud crack echoed in the forest. The world spun, and a flash of white light exploded behind the boy's eyes. He doubled over, and the coppery taste of blood instantly filled his mouth. He spat a thick glob onto the dirt. Before he could even straighten, the barbarian's massive hands enveloped his head. The man's thumbs pressed into his temples, and he began to squeeze.

A strained, high-pitched cry tore from the boy's throat as an unimaginable pressure built around his skull. He could feel his own bones groaning, threatening to splinter. The barbarian revealed an evil grin and pressed on, savouring the sound of the boy's pain. The other children screamed, though their cries of horror were muffled by their own small hands.

In an instant, the boy's cry stopped. A gruesome, wet crack echoed amidst the woods. A body fell to the ground with a dull thud. The lingering silence was shattered by another deep wail, this one of pure shock and horror.

The boy looked at his hands as his mind struggled to process what had just happened. He was shocked to see a severed hand clutched in each of his palms. He looked up and saw the barbarian who had been squeezing his skull shouting, horrified, with two exposed, bleeding stumps where his arms had been. To his left, the boy saw an axe embedded deep into the earth.

A loud boom shook the ground behind him. He turned around and saw a dust cloud emanating from a crater. Before the dust could settle, a bull's head, detached forcefully from its body, soared out and impaled the leader, killing him instantly. A body followed, arcing above him and wrecking the formation in front. From the cloud, a large man ascended - the giant who followed Lord Murugan.

For the children, it was as if a mountain had come to life. The giant, Kumbhakarna, was a force of pure, unrestrained nature. He let out a primal roar that did not sound human at all. His guttural bellow shook the trees and sent the barbarians' bulls into a frenzy. He charged into their ranks like a devastating natural disaster. He grabbed a bull by its horns, and with a sickening twist that sent bone fragments flying, he cracked its neck. He then plucked the bull's head from its socket as easily as a child picks a wildflower, and hurled it with enough force to kill another barbarian instantly. He did not stop. He grabbed the bull's massive, headless corpse and used it as a club, pummelling its rider into a mess of gore and shattered bone.

The barbarians, who seconds ago were confident predators, broke from their trance. Their lecherous grins had been replaced with masks of panicked rage. They charged the giant like a wave of fury battering against a mountain. But a mountain is just that - immovable.

Just as they were about to crash against him, another sound cut through the chaos - a high-pitched, whistling shriek. Something fell from the sky, crushing a bull and its rider into a flat, bloody ruin. From the dust of the impact, two spinning, ethereal mandalas of intricate, glowing geometry shot out like chakrams. They moved with impeccable grace, slicing through the air and through the necks of a dozen bulls and their riders. The barbarians fell, their heads tumbled from their shoulders before their bodies even knew they were dead. The chakrams then rebounded, returning to the dust cloud, which dissipated to reveal a faceless man.

The ethereal weapons whirred around Faceless's palms as he charged the remaining enemy. If the giant was a landslide, Faceless was a whirlwind. He moved with a deadly grace; his chakrams were a blur of light and death that sliced through the barbarians and their mounts like a hot knife through butter.

The sudden silence that followed was deafening. All that remained after the brothers' onslaught were corpses steaming in the cool forest air, and a pond of blood that soaked into the earth.

Kumbhakarna picked up a still-living man and clasped his head between his palms. As he started to apply pressure, the man's skull began to groan, though he lacked the energy to vocalise his pain.

Just as the giant was about to finish the job, Faceless approached and placed a calming hand on his shoulder. He then gestured upwards. A third figure descended from the sky, floating down as gently as a falling leaf. It was the scholar, Vibhishana. He approached the unconscious barbarian, ignited his palms with a warm, yellow glow, and placed them on the man's chest. The barbarian was healed instantly and woke up screaming in pure terror.

Faceless grabbed the man by his jaw and looked deep into his eyes. He saw fear, but beneath it, a hint of defiance. This was good.

He lifted the barbarian and placed him on the last surviving bull. With a sharp slap to the creature's hindquarters, he sent it fleeing into the forest.

The giant approached, his rage subsiding into confusion. "W-W-Why did you l-l-l-let him go, b-b-b-brother?"

Faceless bent down and picked up a rock. He tossed it lightly in his hand, gauging its weight. He watched the fleeing barbarian regain control of his mount and adjust his trajectory. Then, with a smooth, powerful motion, he threw the rock in a high arc.

The children, still huddled together, watched the rock disappear into the distance. A moment later, they saw the head of the disappearing barbarian suddenly explode like an overinflated leather sack.

"The barbarians will ride to investigate the loss of one of their war parties," Faceless explained, though the giant simply nodded without fully understanding its meaning. "This will provide a greater motivation for them."

---

Another party was dispatched from the main horde. This group was larger, more heavily armed, and led by another grim-faced lieutenant who rode at the front. They did not rely on scouts alone. They unleashed a pack of gaunt, vicious hunting dogs, whose slobbering jaws and bloodshot eyes promised a savage end to any prey they cornered. The dogs immediately caught the scent and led the bull-riders on the trail. They arrived first at the place where the scar-eyed lieutenant, the chieftain's right-hand man, had fallen. The lieutenant dismounted and let his eyes scan the scene. There was not much left. The cloying smell of old blood hung in the air, but wild animals had already dragged away the remains, leaving only dark stains on the earth and a few splintered bones.

The trail of death led them ever deeper into the forest. As the dogs pulled eagerly at their leashes, the lieutenant's initial confidence began to curdle into confusion. They found the body of the second elder, then the third, each acting as some sort of gruesome signpost. Clearly, this was not the work of mere fleeing villagers; this was a calculated retreat. Something was wrong. His unease solidified into cold rage when they found a lone bull wandering haphazardly through the trees. Atop it was the body of one of the scouts from the earlier batch. Just the body, as his head, or what remained of it, was a hideous, exploded ruin.

The lieutenant let out a furious roar and commanded his men to retrace the bull's path, his mind now set on vengeance.

They arrived at the massacre site. The pools of blood, the scattered flesh, and the sheer number of their dead brethren told a story of a swift and brutal slaughter. There was no one there. His men let the dogs inspect the area. Their noses twitched as they sniffed at the carnage.

Suddenly, a sharp whistling sound cut through the air. It was followed immediately by a symphony of wet, choking gasps and the heavy thud of bodies hitting the ground. The lieutenant spun around. A dozen of his men were on the ground, clutching at the arrows that had pierced their necks, as their lives gurgled away in a froth of red. Before he could even shout a command, a second volley sprang from the woods, killing another dozen in one fell swoop.

From the corner of his eye, he saw movement - a flicker of motion deep within the trees. "There!" he roared, pointing with his axe. "After them!"

He spurred his bull, and his remaining men galloped into the woods. The forest grew narrower here; the trees closed in and forced them to orient themselves into a thinner line as they rounded the tight turns. The lieutenant saw her then - a young girl scrambling to climb a tree with a bow tied around her back. She looked down at him with her eyes wide and an expression of pure, panicked terror. Without a second thought, he commanded his men to charge. This was the prey. This was the one they would make an example of.

Right as they were about to reach her, he felt the ride beneath him buckle. The world tilted violently. The last thing he saw from his peripheral vision was a taut rope, hidden beneath vines and leaves, stretched between two trees. The riders behind him crashed into each other in a chaotic pile-up of splintering bone and panicked animal screams. His own bull collapsed as its legs broke, and he was thrown to the ground with the immense weight of the beast rolling onto him.

He awoke some time later; he did not know how long. A universe of pain assaulted him. He could not feel his lower body anymore, and his vision was a blurry, swimming mess. When it finally cleared, he saw the girl looking down at him. The panicked look was gone.

She revealed a cold, hard smirk before sending her dagger plunging into his right eye.

---

The Chieftain - the Butcher - sat on his throne of bone with a storm of frustration brewing behind his eyes. For the first time since he had set out to lay waste to the world, his progress was halted. The unease was a new and unwelcome feeling. It was like a sour taste in his mouth that even the roasted meat could not wash away. His horde, a force of nature that had shattered disciplined armies and burned fortified cities, was being bled dry. Day by day, his numbers dwindled.

What galled him most was the nature of his enemy. He was not losing to a great king or a well-managed army. He was being dismantled by a handful of forest dwellers. The irony was a bitter pill. He and his people had once been just like them: savages living in the dirt. But he had conquered. He had defeated real soldiers and proud commanders. He had grown proud. Now, to be brought to a standstill by those he considered beneath him, by a reflection of his own past, was an unbearable insult.

He knew their numbers were small. They were barely enough to fill a village. Yet for every one of their fighters they managed to kill, he lost a hundred of his own. His army, which was an impressive fifty thousand strong, had been reduced by half. He was not a strategist, but he was not a fool either. He could do the simple math. The rate at which he was being routed was not sustainable.

This would not do.

He bellowed a command, and his lieutenants scrambled to obey. A new kind of energy filled the camp, not of battle, but of focused ceremony. Slaves were forced to clear a large, circular area at the heart of the encampment. In the centre, they erected a massive, crudely carved stone - a Linga. This was not a stolen prize of war, but a sacred relic from the heart of the forest of his homeland. And it was a conduit to the god he truly revered. As his men struggled to raise the heavy stone, the Butcher approached. For a moment, the brutish warlord vanished and was replaced by a devotee. He ran a hand over the stone's rough surface with a strange reverence and with an expression of intense focus, before he stepped back and resumed his commanding presence. The ritual was not a desperate gambit; it was an appeal to the source of his strength.

His men dragged forth the prisoners they had managed to capture during the skirmishes - a few of the village fighters. They were bound and forced to their knees before the stone. The Butcher dismounted from his throne. He grabbed the first prisoner, a man who spat defiance at him, and carried him effortlessly to the top of the Linga. With a ritual knife, he eviscerated the man. His purpose was not just to kill, but to let the sacred stone be showered in blood. It would be a worthy offering to the Great God.

It was at the height of this gruesome ritual that the attack came.

From atop the Linga, the Butcher saw the entire instigation unfold below. A giant of a man burst from the trees like a living avalanche of muscle and rage, and ploughed directly into the main body of the barbarian horde. He was followed by another being, of a lesser stature but equal strength, whose most intriguing feature was his lack of a face. The faceless man wielded ethereal chakrams in each hand, which were already a blur of lethal light. And then came the third. Preceded by an axe that flew with such momentum that it separated the heads clean off the necks of five men and made it over three-quarters of the way through the sixth, an ashen warrior stepped out of the shrubbery and came into focus. The man raised his right palm, and the axe embedded in the corpse separated itself cleanly from its kill and returned to him.

The warrior's entrance went unnoticed, at first. Apart from his unusual appearance, his performance wasn't as attractive as his compatriots'. But as the fight progressed, it became harder and harder to ignore the man. He fought with the ferocity of an animal unafraid of death. He was swift, brutal, and unforgiving. Not even those who surrendered, gripped by raw fear, were precluded from being prey to his violence. He was subjected to innumerable attacks that would have killed any normal person. A spear through the eye, a stab in the liver, a punctured lung. He was littered with injuries, but he just refused to die. Was it his raw will, or was it something more? As the three warriors neared the ritual site, the Butcher was leaning towards the latter hypothesis.

But the Butcher refused to be drawn in. He did not move from his sacred task. He turned back to the prisoners with absolute focus. He had to take the ritual to completion.

---

Murugan grew increasingly disillusioned the longer the skirmish progressed. He had seen the reality of conflict through the visions from his Guru's past, but he had not truly understood how brutal and inhumane the concept of war itself was until he witnessed it firsthand. The treatises written by scholars and sages spoke of righteous wars and codes of conduct, but down here, amidst the screams and the stench of blood, those words were meaningless. All the truths written on war were falsehoods, because the act itself was one without true justification. It was an act of brutality wrought by a sentient creature's inherent need to rule and feel superior. To place bounds on it would mean placing a bound on the ego. And the ego was something that could never be satisfied. In turn, war was absolute, inevitable, and unchanging.

Did this realisation make Murugan want to distance himself from the concept of war? On the contrary, he was weirdly drawn closer to it. He realised that war, in and of itself, was a primal truth and an act of expression. Just like the arts, it was an expression of a primal emotion. However, unlike the arts, there was little justification to prove that the act of war was a display of a positive emotion. One doesn't go to war because they are happy. War is an expression of the darkest emotions of the sentient mind: envy, pride, rage, gluttony, and greed.

But Murugan didn't want his expression of war to be exemplified by these emotions. Because emotions, in general, are instigators; they force retaliation in kind, causing the emotion to grow. Love, when reciprocated, can grow and become something beautiful. Equally, envy can cause decay and ruin the same beauty. He wanted to learn to supersede these negative emotions. To be better. He didn't want violence to be an outlet for these degrading emotions, but a pathway to uplifting ones. A pathway to protect.

And sometimes, to protect something you care about, you had to do unconscionable things. The Chieftain and his barbarians were irredeemable. They had committed acts that warranted no forgiveness, not in this life at least. For that, they had to be erased.

Murugan was tasked with confronting the Chieftain. That was his Guru's edict. All this preparation was to ensure that Murugan could reach the man on the throne of bone. Murugan did not anticipate a challenge here, for he knew that ultimately, his opponent was just a man. He felt nothing for him; no anger, no pity. He was unapathetic.

But as he saw the man climb atop the large stone - a sacred symbol of his father - as he saw him place a still-breathing villager upon it; as he saw him tear open the man's abdomen in a blasphemous mockery of a holy rite; as he saw him desecrate his father... an unquenchable rage began to boil over from within.

He was supposed to wait. The plan was for his Guru and the brothers to engage the Chieftain's lieutenants, to draw the horde's attention before he made his move. But he could no longer contain the fury that now consumed him.

A shower of divine spears rained down from the sky, skewering every barbarian who stood within the ritual circle. A beat later, the spears exploded, coating the ground in blood, gore, and bone fragments. Before the last piece of shrapnel had hit the dirt, Murugan landed in front of the ritual site with eyes burning with a cold fire.

The Chieftain returned a smirk as he slid down the blood-slicked surface of the Linga. He landed in the pool of the villager's blood that surrounded its base. He then cupped his hands and took a long, deep sip from the pool.

To Murugan's shock, the blood in the pool began to move. It climbed up the Chieftain's skin like a living shroud, turning his tanned-dark flesh into a dark and pulsating maroon.

Once all the blood was gone, the Chief picked up his mace and, with a roar, hit himself hard across the chest. There was no damage. Not a single mark.

Murugan was stunned.

His father had answered the man's grotesque prayers!

 

[namar13766]

Is the Chief blessed with invulnerability to all threats, physical or magical?

 

[juniorsundar]

Is the Chief blessed with invulnerability to all threats, physical or magical?

Click to shrink...

Murugan will test the breadth of the blessing in the next chapter. Its more fun and inclusive to read the character figuring it out methodically than me explaining it as a narrative.

 

[juniorsundar]

Spoiler: Author's Note

Sorry about the delay. Bunch of work and personal responsibilities started piling up.

---

It took a moment for Murugan to digest the reality of what had just transpired. In that brief window of shock, the Chieftain was already upon him. The mace swung in a crude arc, but with great momentum. It appeared fearsome to the uninitiated. In fact, based on the way the man was handling his weapon and bulk, it immediately became clear that he had only ever reigned through brute strength and this divine gift; underneath it all, he was a tactless monkey. Murugan did not need to think. His instincts took over, and he dodged the clumsy attack with ease.

Once he had shaken off his surprise, Murugan parried the next swing and returned with a measured punch to the Butcher's gut. The punch landed squarely, but Murugan felt the entire momentum dissipate into the man's flesh as if he had struck a pile of wet sand. The Butcher revealed a sly grin before swinging his mace again. Murugan tested the attack again, this time with a sideways strike of his spear. The weapon hit skin but did not bounce; it was simply absorbed. A direct stab yielded the same result. The skin seemed to exhibit some sort of cushioning effect.

Murugan continued to test the waters, trying a myriad of attack types. He tried heavy to light hits, stabs, strikes, and slashes. Each time, the attack would dissipate as soon as it touched the Butcher's skin. Ultimately, he realised that the man's power could dissipate any attack that made skin contact. This was irksome, but it did not dismay him. The frustration was a familiar feeling, one that often brought his Guru's blunt lessons to the forefront of his mind. He could almost hear the man's gravelly voice now, cutting through the chaos of the battle. The fundamental of any confrontation is realising that nothing that is living is truly unkillable.

"Everything that breathes can be killed," his Guru had declared. "If it appears impossible, it is only because you have not found the right opportunity."

And so, Murugan believed that given time, the opportunity would present itself. And it did not take long to do so. Unlike Murugan, the Butcher's endurance was finite. As time progressed, the man started to breathe heavily. His swings started to grow wider and more desperate as he tried to keep up with Murugan's evasive movements. Murugan saw his opening. He went for a high jab, but the Butcher dodged it just in time. The tip of the spear, however, swiped past the Butcher's jutting tongue as he gasped for air through his open mouth. The man growled and spat out a dollop of blood. Murugan observed this, and things started to click into place.

A slow chuckle escaped Murugan's lips. He pulled his spear close and, from its centre, slid his cupped palms over the shaft. In doing so, the solid metal rod started to sway as if it were made of a particularly elastic kind of wood. He jiggled the spear, gauging its new behaviour, and snorted in satisfaction.

He attacked again. The elastic spear shaft made his strikes unpredictable. The attacks did not follow the expected trajectory, whipping around the Butcher's clumsy guard. These disarming attacks were impossible for the man to properly compute, and he started to grow agitated. After three consecutive strikes passed dangerously close to his eyes, the leader jumped back to create distance, raised his mace, and bellowed angrily.

In that instant, Murugan used his foot to kick up a fist-sized rock. With the blunt end of his shaft, he whacked the rock, sending it straight towards the leader's agape mouth. The rock lodged itself deep in his throat, the momentum causing his jaw to lock up.

The leader's eyes widened in panic. As he released his mace to pull out the rock, Murugan had already sent his spear hurtling his way. The velocity was low, and the Butcher caught it easily. But that was the cue. Murugan triggered the spear's explosion. The detonation, right next to his mouth, caused the rock to shatter, sending sharp fragments tearing through the soft tissue of his throat.

The leader bellowed in pain. It was another mistake. Murugan twisted his elastic spear and sent it whipping into the man's open, bleeding mouth. Before the Butcher realised what had happened, the spear detonated again.

A hard snap followed by a squelching explosion resounded as brain matter and skull fragments erupted from the back of the Butcher's head. The body stood for a moment like a grotesque statue, before collapsing as the rest of its systems realised the brain had been turned to mush.

The explosion, though localised, echoed across the battlefield, causing a sudden, profound silence to descend. The barbarians, in the middle of their fight, turned to see their leader's gruesomely decapitated body. This was enough to shatter their morale. A fearful frenzy took hold, and their chaotic charge devolved into a panicked, disorganised retreat. This uncoordination was all the opening Kratos, the brothers, and the villagers needed. They fell upon the routing army and annihilated it.

And with that, the tide of barbarians had been completely squashed. The villagers, or at least those who remained, were saved.

---

Murugan had walked this path before. Many times. He had grown used to the eerie, spectral calls that echoed from the deep woods. But today, the walk felt heavier. Each step was a conscious effort, as his feet dragged through the soil that felt like thick mud. His mind was not in Kailasha. It was stuck back on the blood-soaked battlefield, replaying the moment the Butcher had drunk the sacrificial blood and been granted invulnerability. His father had answered that man's prayer. Murugan had to know why.

But as he approached the forest at the centre of Kailasha, Murugan found himself hesitating. His feet, which had carried him with such purpose, started to slow at the edge of the treeline. Why was he hesitating? Was it fear? Did Murugan fear his father?

It was a tough pill to swallow. But as it turned out, he was.

To Murugan, his father was a lot different from what most people across the realms knew him to be. He was different from the god his own brother, Ganesh, knew him to be. His father never raised his voice, nor did he ever raise his hand, yet he was firm. His father seldom frowned and would joke often, but he wasn't nonchalant or callous. His father cared for him and often expressed his affection towards him. In many ways, Murugan felt loved and fulfilled.

Yet, this was not the image the rest of existence envisioned when his father's name was brought up.

The world knew his father as a god of extremes. Mortals saw him as quick to please and equally quick to enrage - as a being of intense, unpredictable passions. His favour could be won with a simple act of devotion, leading to legendary boons. But his displeasure, once provoked, was absolute. They whispered tales of his third eye that carried a searing gaze that could turn gods to ash. And they spoke of the Tandava - a cosmic dance that would unravel creation itself. To them, his rage was a force of nature of divine proportions.

Perhaps it was the dissociation between the myth and the man that induced a kind of fear in Murugan. He knew that hidden within that amicable persona was a volcano - a destructive power that could very easily unmake existence itself. It was a horrifying thought. And Murugan did not want to be the cause of that eruption.

Or maybe it was just respect. In his heart, Murugan knew that what his father did was wrong. His father shouldn't have entertained the heinous Butcher and granted him the boon. But he didn't want to question his father's decision as he was his elder, and had aeons of experience on top of his own.

However, right now, be it fear or respect, Murugan's resolve superseded them both. This confrontation was not about questioning his father's judgment or dressing him down. It was about understanding. It was about getting the answer to just one simple, agonising question: why?

He arrived just as his father had finished his performance meant to alleviate the souls out of the mortal realm. At this moment, his father was cleansing himself in the pool that was the very source of the Ganga.

"Was your quest successful?" His father asked without turning as he remained submerged up to his waist in the sacred water.

"It was," Murugan replied in a voice that was nearing a murmur. Yet in the silence that was weakly accentuated by the faint babbling of Ganga's stream, it was loud enough to hear.

His father laughed, causing a gentle ripple to dance across the still water. He ascended from the pool, with water cascading from his dark skin. He picked up his trident and walked over to his son. He rubbed Murugan's head affectionately and commended, "Good lad."

"Come, it is time for lunch," he added as he began to walk away.

But Murugan remained rooted to the spot. As his father was about to leave, Murugan spoke. His voice was lower, and at this point it was almost inaudible. But, once again, amidst the serenity of the plateau, it seemed to echo from all around him.

"F-Father," Murugan started. He wanted to continue, but the words caught in his throat. At this moment, his fear - or respect - had overtaken his resolve.

"Empty your gut, son," his father said with a chuckle, turning back to face him. "You need to make space for food, or else your mother will be very, very disappointed."

That was the straw. The casual, fatherly affection, so at odds with the divine injustice he had just witnessed, broke the dam of his restraint.

"Why did you grant that horrible, horrible man the boon, father?" Murugan's words tumbled out in a torrent as his confusion and rage finally broke free. His eyes were now bloodshot. His expression alternated rapidly between anger and a deep fear. Because at this instant, as his father's smile faltered, Murugan thought he saw the glimpse of the god the world knew his father to be.

There was a tense silence as his father crossed his arms and looked deep into Murugan's eyes. As it progressed, a sense of awkwardness started to creep in.

"H-He was a bad man, father," Murugan said hesitantly. "He hurt a lot of people. He was cruel! And yet, when he prayed to you and asked you for power, you granted it to him. Why would you do that?"

"I did that," his father said while approaching him, "because he was sincere. In his heart, I could feel his devotion. He was worshipping me in the truest sense of the word."

"But he was using the powers you granted him for evil!" Murugan argued. "You can't tell me that you didn't know what kind of man he was!"

His father shook his head slowly. But this wasn't a gesture of dismissal. It was a disagreement of principle. "It doesn't matter to me what kind of person he is. The who or what matters little. What matters, Murugan, is that when someone asks for my help, they do so with an open heart and complete honesty. If there is even a shred of falsehood or ulterior motive, then it is not a plea. It is a transaction. And I will not be reduced to a means to an end."

The cold logic of the statement stunned Murugan. "Even if the person is evil at heart? That can't be right! The cruellest of monsters could ask for your help with utmost sincerity, then simply turn around and exploit your gift to hurt others."

"And then," his father continued, his gaze unwavering, "among the people affected by that man, another will rise. Someone who will ask for my help with a sincerity that rivals his, and they, in turn, will receive the strength they seek. Son, you must understand. People look for help when they feel they can't overcome a challenge on their own. How you respond to that plea is a choice. You can be selective and help only those you think are worthy. Or you can be consistent and help anyone who asks with a true heart."

His father took a step closer and wore a serious expression. "Ultimately, judgment is a matter of perspective. It is never truly fair, because the way you judge another is bound by your own experiences. From where you stand, it is easy to label people as 'good' or 'evil' and think no more of it. But you forget that this judgment only holds true from your vantage point."

He placed a hand on Murugan's shoulder, "When you have power, Murugan, it is not your place to foist your judgment upon others. You cannot know the life they have lived or the experiences that have shaped them. To help one person and ignore another based on your own limited view of who is 'right'... that is the greater injustice."

"I..." Murugan stumbled as he found all of his arguments exhausted. Even his conviction faltered under the weight of his father's logic. "I don't know... It just doesn't sit right with me."

A gentle smile touched his father's lips. He then wrapped his arm over Murugan's shoulder and urged him to walk onwards. "Let me tell you a little secret," he said with a conspiratorial tone. "Well, calling it a secret isn't quite right, since it's sort of an unspoken rule. Any power gained through external means is always temporary. It is destined to leave you at some point. Of all the people who have worshipped me with true devotion and gained a boon, none who wished for greater power have lived long enough to reap the fruits of their labour."

"Be that as it may, the process leading up to their downfall is strewn with the lives of many innocents," Murugan muttered, unable to completely let go of his grievance.

"That is the nature of Karma, son," his father expressed with a note of finality. "For there to be a consequence, one needs to act. It is an unfortunate, unavoidable truth."

Murugan looked at his father, and a new question formed in his mind. "Doesn't it affect you? Granting these powers has to accumulate a lot of negativity."

His father revealed a sly smile. "Because I do not judge, and because I am fair, the consequences of my devotees' actions do not carry over to me. And besides," he said, gesturing to the vast, ash-covered plateau behind them, "my duties are punishment enough for whatever negativity I might accumulate."

In that moment, Murugan understood. His father wasn't truly unbound by Karma. To liberate souls from the mortal realms, he had to live through their entire lives - every joy, every triumph, and every sorrow. Every single day, his father drowned in the regrets of those who had passed away.

It all made sense now. The myths, the stories of a rage-filled god, a destructive force of nature - it was all understandable. Considering the sheer weight of the negativity his father had to shoulder, such a psychological response was not just possible, but expected. The fact that his father was so tranquil and light-hearted now was nothing short of admirable. In that instant, Murugan's perception of his father grew tenfold in his heart.

"Come now, let's put all this unpleasant talk to bed," his father said with his voice shifting to a lighter, more cheerful tone. "We don't want to face the cold wrath of your mother by being late."

"Mother never gets angry," Murugan muttered with a faint smile.

"Yes... well," his father muttered back, leaning in slightly, "you aren't the one sleeping in the same bed as her at night."

---

The time had come for Faceless and his brothers to depart. With their few belongings packed and their goodbyes said, they stood ready to leave the eternal peaks of Kailasha and return to the mortal world. Ganesh himself saw to their departure. At his call, his faithful mount swelled in size, its form growing until it was as large as a buffalo, easily able to bear the weight of the three brothers for the journey down.

As they descended from the clouds, the air grew warmer, and the scent of pine and earth replaced the crisp mountain air. At the base of the mountain, the great rat shrank back to its normal size, and the brothers dismounted.

Ganesh turned to Faceless. With a warm smile, he said, "Thank you. You stood by my brother when he needed aid. It was not required of you, and yet you took the initiative to do so. Had I not reminded you of the possibility of losing your boon, you would have sacrificed the opportunity. This shows sincerity."

He then looked at the rugged expanse of exposed muscle where a face should have been. He reached out and placed his palm gently against the man's cheek, resting his thumb in the very centre of his forehead. A soft, pearlescent light bloomed at the point of contact. Faceless's eyes widened as a torrent of pure information was deposited into his mind - it was the knowledge of form, the art of illusion, and the mechanics of appearance.

When Ganesh removed his hand, the light faded. Overwhelmed, Faceless collapsed to his knees and bowed his head. "My lord," he gasped in a voice thick with emotion. "I... I do not know how to thank you for this gift."

As he spoke, a shimmering, translucent sheen flickered over his face. As it solidified, the strong jawline and sharp features of his original face returned and covered the exposed skin..

"It was your choice to slice off your face," Ganesh stated in a kind but firm tone. "For that, you must face the consequences. I cannot give you back what you chose to discard. However, for your assistance, I grant you the ability to alter how you appear to others. You may not have one true face, but you can now outwardly wear many."

Seeing this, Vibhishana chuckled. "Now that you can wear many faces, brother, I believe that your previous name, Dashanana, feels more apt now than ever."

Faceless shook his head with a serene expression. "I have already, voluntarily, cast that name away. I cannot take it back." He looked towards the horizon, his voice filled with a new, steely resolve. "But it matters not what name I give myself. Those with ambition and accomplishments are granted a name by the populace - the name you are known by. That is what I yearn to achieve once again."

Having said that, the three brothers prostrated themselves before Ganesh one last time. Then, without another word, they turned and began their long journey back home.

---

Ganesh held back a chuckle as he observed the anxiousness visibly emanating from Murugan. His younger brother was seated cross-legged in front of him in complete silence. Or at least, it was a version of silence, given how his leg was bobbing up and down with a nervous, rhythmic energy. Ganesh, for his part, was pretending to read a roll of parchment, his eyes scanning the same line of text for the tenth time. Truthfully, he had finished it a while ago. He was just enjoying the spectacle of his brother's unease.

Finally, as Murugan looked about ready to vibrate out of his own skin, Ganesh decided to stop teasing.

"It's hard to focus with you shaking your leg like a woodpecker assaulting a tree trunk," Ganesh said, rolling up the parchment with a snap. "What brings you to my study, brother?"

Murugan let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. "Have you considered marriage?" he blurted out.

Ganesh sputtered, choking on his own saliva. Amidst a coughing fit, he managed to ask, "Where in the world is this question coming from?!"

"Well, it's been quite some time. And you are old enough for it," Murugan reasoned, looking earnest. "Don't you feel lonely?"

Ganesh composed himself and shrugged, a thoughtful look on his face. "Not really. I have my books, my duties...," then, with a chuckle, he added, "my purpose is to remove obstacles, not create them with domestic squabbles. Besides, companionship of the mind is often more fulfilling than any other."

"Why are you really asking me this?" Ganesh asked, his brow furrowed in suspicion.

"See, it's like this..." Murugan muttered as his gaze dropped to the floor. "It is considered inauspicious for the younger member of the family to get married if the elders are unmarried."

"Ah, Parivedana," Ganesh summarised as a knowing light entering his eyes. "I am aware of this tradition, yes."

A beat of silence passed, and then the realisation struck Ganesh like a falling anvil. His eyes widened. "You intend to marry that girl, don't you?!"

Seeing Murugan's shy, almost guilty expression was all the confirmation he needed. Ganesh burst into a hearty, rumbling laugh that filled the entire study.

"Oh, little brother!" he boomed, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. "If that's all that is troubling you, then do not worry for a second longer." He stood up, his demeanour all business now. "I will sort things out."

---

The aroma of spiced lentils and ghee filled the dining hall. It was a comforting backdrop to the usual afternoon meal. Murugan and Shiva were quietly eating, and Parvathy was serving. It was a scene of typical domestic peace. At least it was typical enough for their household. Which is what made Ganesh's sudden declaration all the more jarring.

"I have decided to get married," he announced into the relative quiet.

The silence that followed was absolute. Shiva's mouth remained agape with his palm loaded with a ball of rice hovering right in front of it, and his eyes widened in shock. The most dramatic reaction, however, came from Parvathy. The heavy metal bucket of sambar she was holding slipped from her grasp and crashed to the stone floor with a deafening clang. The hot, fragrant stew exploded outwards and pooled around her feet.

"Ganesh," Shiva began with a voice laced with a rare hesitation. "Who... who is the lucky woman?"

Before Ganesh could answer, Parvathy interjected. Her voice gushed out like a torrent of maternal concern. "Who is she? What is she like? Have we met her before? Who are her parents? Are they a good family?"

"Mother," Ganesh said as he raised a hand to gently halt the interrogation. "It is not one, but two." He paused, letting the statement hang in the air before adding, "I will introduce them to you all tomorrow."

Parvathy's mouth opened as a fresh volley of questions accumulated and prepared for launch, but she stopped as she caught a subtle, meaningful glance from Shiva. She closed her mouth and pressed her lips into a thin line of strained patience.

Her mind wouldn't settle. She had always worried about her eldest son. He was immortal, yes - but that didn't protect him from loneliness. In fact, it made it worse. Ganesh was kind, wise, and full of laughter, but she could see it: the part of him he kept hidden. He stayed busy - reading, helping, working - filling his time so he wouldn't have to be still. It broke her heart a little each day.

She had hoped, for so long, that he would find someone. Not just anyone - a person who could understand him, who could sit with him in silence, who could share the weight of forever. Someone who loved not just the god, but the man.

Now, this news, though sudden and surprising, felt like a gift. Maybe, after all this time, he had found that person. And not just one. Two!

For the first time in a long while, Parvathy let herself hope.

The next day, Ganesh led his family across the plains of Kailasha. The mood was thick with unspoken anticipation. He brought them to a quiet, sun-dappled area near the edge of the central forest. There, standing side-by-side, were two lush, vibrant plants with leaves a brilliant shade of green, reaching to about his height.

He gestured to the one on the left. "This is Buddhi," he said simply. Then he pointed to the other. "And this is Siddhi."

The reaction was instantaneous. Shiva brought a hand to his face and covered his eyes with his palm in a gesture of weary resignation. Parvathy's lips began to twitch uncontrollably. Murugan, who had been trying to appear nonchalant, choked on his own saliva.

"Do you think this is a joke?!" Parvathy finally snapped as she admonished Ganesh in anger.

Ganesh shook his head as a sad smile touched his lips. "I could not find anyone who appeals to me, mother-"

"You could have asked!" she cut in, her tone softening with hurt. "We would have found a nice girl from a nice family-"

"While I have complete faith in your abilities, mother," Ganesh said gently, but also firmly, "who would want to live with a man who looks like this?" He chuckled softly with a self-deprecating smile as he gestured to his elephantine head.

The casual remark landed like a stone. Shiva looked down and curled his hands into tight fists. A wave of guilt washed over his face. Parvathy's expression crumpled with distress. "There are many who find you attractive, dear-" she started, but her voice petered out as Ganesh met her gaze with a look that gently questioned the truth of her claim.

"Nonetheless," Ganesh continued with a brighter tone as he gestured to the two plants, "I didn't wish to be alone. So I decided that these two fine specimens would do just fine as my lifelong companions. I have consulted the astrological charts and determined that tomorrow is a most auspicious time for such a wondrous occasion as matrimony. It will be a quaint ceremony - only the immediate family is invited. I hope you all can make it."

A collective, noncommittal hum was the only response.

Ganesh clapped his hands together as if settling the matter. He turned to leave but stopped suddenly. "Oh," he said, turning back. "And Murugan here has a girl he likes and wishes to marry. We can visit her family after my wedding."

Parvathy's head jerked towards her younger son, and her eyes widened with a fresh wave of shock. Beside her, a slow, knowing smile spread across Shiva's face.

 

[Hyperionthetitan]

The blessing comfetti need a bit of brake lol

 

[Crouchinghiddenwriter]

sending sharp fragments tearing through the soft tissue of his throat.

Click to shrink...

Dang. Will kratos have awkward moments during the wedding arc? What gifts would he give?

 

[juniorsundar]

Dang. Will kratos have awkward moments during the wedding arc? What gifts would he give?

Click to shrink...

Can't even imagine Kratos in a wedding

 

[namar13766]

Ganesh clapped his hands together as if settling the matter. He turned to leave but stopped suddenly. "Oh," he said, turning back. "And Murugan here has a girl he likes and wishes to marry. We can visit her family after my wedding."

Click to shrink...

The big brother energy is strong in this one.

 

[juniorsundar]

Murugan stood before the temple.

It was a simple structure, fashioned entirely from dark, weathered wood, and sat at the very heart of the village. It was completely unlike the rest of the buildings in the village, which were aged and made primarily of mud.

It lacked the grandeur of other temples he knew in Bhuloka, most of which expressed impossible architectures and sometimes boasted an excessive glut of gleaming gold. Yet, as his eyes traced the carefully carved posts and the neatly joined beams, he could feel the sincerity that had gone into the construction of this comparatively quaint one. It was a place built of affection, not wealth.

And unlike most temples he had seen in the land of mortals, this one was open. Its entrance was unassumingly inviting, allowing any passersby to see right into the altar without any interruption.

His gaze passed through the wide-open entrance easily and fell upon the two idols housed within - made entirely out of common clay. The figures weren't particularly evocative or precise. They looked like bulges with a faint outline of figures oozing out. But their design was sufficient to spark clarity to any common observer.

The first was of a powerfully built man. His head was bald, and his entire form was coated in a chalky layer of ash. A crimson line bisected his face and abdomen like an unusual birthmark. In his arms, he cradled a fearsome-looking axe. Though basic in design, it carried all the required symbols that allowed a common observer to identify that it was, in fact, Murugan's Guru - Kratos.

Beside Kratos stood the second idol, and it was this one that made him cringe.

It was an equally rudimentary statue moulded from river clay and baked in the sun. It depicted a young boy, barely a man, with a face that was more an impression of youth than a true likeness. The lines were soft and curvaceous, and the features were imperfect, but the artist had spent considerable time on the eyes, giving them a sharp, determined look. In the idol's hand was a long spear, which was, once again, all that he needed to know that it was an idol of someone he was familiar with.

It was him.

As if on cue, the last of the morning worshippers began to file out of the temple. Their eyes fell upon him, and a wave of recognition, followed by awe, passed through the small crowd. Men and women, many with tints of grey blotching their hair and the deep lines borne of age etched into their faces, bowed their heads. A few spontaneously prostrated themselves on the dusty ground before him. This inversion of respect felt wrong. Deeply wrong.

He was taught that age commanded reverence. Yet here he was, with barely a few decades to his name - even with the irregularity of the flow of time in Kailasha - forced to accept overflowing reverence from those more than twice his age.

Without wasting another moment, Murugan extricated himself from the unnerving tableau and turned his back on the display of devotion. He beelined towards his true destination: the second-largest dwelling in the village. It was a humble hut with walls made of neat mud bricks and capped with a thick thatch roof that smelled of dry grass and sunlight.

He knocked on the heavy wooden door. The sound, a dull thud, reverberated amidst the quiet air. He waited, and a moment later, the door peeked open.

A pair of familiar, kohl-lined eyes met his for a fleeting second before widening in panic. The door slammed shut. He heard the patter of bare feet rapidly receding into the house.

A quiet smile touched Murugan's lips.

Within moments, the door swung open again. The Village Chief stood in the threshold. His face twitched with a smile of flustered apology. His eyes were wide as he took in his visitor, and his body began to instinctively fold. His hands came together as he prepared to prostrate himself, but Murugan moved faster. He closed the distance in a single step and placed a firm, yet gentle, hand on the older man's shoulder to halt his descent.

"Please," Murugan pleaded with a low voice. "Don't put me in this awkward position, Father-in-law."

The Chief choked at the designation, and he descended into a violent fit of coughing. It started as a seemingly simple clearing of the throat, but progressively descended into a racking spasm that shook his entire frame.

It went on and on, stretching past the point of polite recovery and into the territory of genuine distress. The sound was alarming enough that a woman, the Chief's wife, peeked out from the kitchen area with an expression that was creased with concern.

Seeing the scene, she rushed out while wiping her hands on a cloth tucked into her waist. She gave Murugan an apologetic smile before pulling her still-spluttering husband away from the doorway, guiding him to a small wooden stool.

Once the man's coughing had finally subsided into ragged breaths, he looked up at Murugan with reddened, watering eyes. "M-My Lord," he rasped with a tremble in his voice. "I fear I misheard you."

As he spoke, the Chief's head darted involuntarily to his left. Murugan's gaze followed. From behind the kitchen doorway, a young woman peeked out. Her face was tinted a fetching shade of crimson. As her eyes met her father's and jumped over to meet Murugan's, she quickly bolted in like a fleeing rabbit scurrying into its burrow.

Murugan chuckled softly at the display. He brought the simple cloth bag hanging from his shoulder forward. He placed it on the packed earth floor and slowly untied its knot. From within, he revealed two bronze statues. He placed them carefully in front of the Chief and his wife before sitting back on his heels to wait.

All eyes in the small hut focused on the inanimate objects. An extended silence prevailed, thick with confusion. The Chief leaned toward his wife and whispered, "What's going on? I feel I am missing something."

His wife did not answer. She narrowed her gaze and inspected the statues closely. They depicted a man and a woman. Their design appeared similar to the ones she'd heard of in the massive temples from the cities, in their attention to detail. It was uncanny, because in a way, they looked almost real - like two miniaturised humans coated in bronze. She looked even closer and started to match their appearance with fragments in her memory. It took a moment, but a flicker of understanding began to dawn on her face. Her eyes widened. Before she knew what she was doing, her body collapsed into a fully prostrated state before the two bronze figures. The Chief stared in shock at her reaction. His own inspection followed, and a moment later, he too fell to the floor beside her.

"You are putting us in an awkward position, dear in-laws."

A gentle voice spoke in a calm, resonant baritone that seemed to fill the small hut.

"In this juncture, we are your equals. Would you prefer that we prostrate ourselves before you?"

Those words were enough to make the Chief and his wife jump to their feet in terror. They immediately collapsed again onto their knees with their arms crossed tightly against their chests. Their shoulders were hunched over, and their gazes were locked on the floor. They tried their best to avoid looking at the bronze statues altogether.

"Though it is customary for parents to meet for such an event, regretfully, my parents cannot so easily leave our abode," Murugan explained calmly into the tense silence. "But these statues will act as a conduit. Please, you may talk to them as if you are talking to my parents directly."

The Chief and his wife rapidly bobbed their heads in understanding. But they remained resolutely and fearfully mute.

Seeing their lack of response, another voice spoke up. This one belonged to a woman. It was mellow and pleasant, and flowed in a methodical and measured tempo that seemed to emanate calmness.

"Are you dissatisfied with our son?" The question felt genuine and carried a distinct undertone of disappointment.

The two mortals immediately raised their gazes and shook their hands in frantic disagreement. They saw the two bronze figures now sitting cross-legged on the floor beside Murugan. The statues were noticeably smaller than him, which created a humorous dissonance. Though the couple quickly contained their amusement.

"Please do not misunderstand us, Goddess," the Chief's wife finally managed to say. "It's just that… we feel inadequate."

"What is there to feel inadequate about?" the statue of the Goddess Parvathy spoke with a warm tone. "You have raised a filial and confident daughter. Her accomplishment and character are a testament to your commendable upbringing."

"But we are mere mortals, O Goddess," the Chief expressed with a difficult smile. "We cannot deign to place ourselves even in the same sentence as your greatness. We would be tarnishing the opulence of the great Mount Kailasha by sending our daughter there. And it would be an affront to Lord Murugan's reputation to be affiliated with our kind through matrimony. We are jungle dwellers. We are the lowest of the low."

"You need not speak on our behalf," the statue of the Great God Shiva spoke. His voice cut through the Chief's self-deprecation. The bronze head shook slightly. "We would not be here if any of the reasons you listed mattered to us. Rather than beating around the bush, I would like to get to the crux of the matter. What is the true reason for your apprehension? If it is a shortcoming on our son's part-"

The couple once again interjected by vehemently shaking their hands. After taking a moment to centre himself, the Chief spoke cautiously. "We worry about her future, O Great God. It is true that we are mortals and you are gods. Our lives are short. She will watch herself grow old while Lord Murugan remains as youthful as the day they married. What then? And what of her children? Will she even be able to raise a family? Marriage is supposed to be between families that are equals. But we are not equal. We aren't even in the same realm."

At this point, Murugan stepped in. "You need not worry about her future, father-in-law. Marriage is a sacred bond. For us, it is not just limited to one life. We are bound for eternity. Even if Valli passes before I do, we shall find each other in her next life. It is fate. In fact, my mother was not born a god either."

The statue of Lord Shiva cut in, "What my son is trying to say in all his excitement is that you need not preoccupy yourself with your daughter's future. We are confident in the way we raised him, and we can give you our word that he will keep your daughter happy. And if that doesn't offer you peace of mind, know this."

The statue's voice grew deeper and took on a dangerous edge that seemed to vibrate through the very foundations of the hut. "Once she joins our family, she becomes one of my people. And for me, nothing matters more than my people."

The Chief and his wife quivered. The Lord's words, though meant to be comforting, were not received that way. To them, the unshakeable declaration sent a primal shiver down their spines. Their bodies involuntarily froze in place.

The Lord was infamous for his rage. Legends claimed that once, upon losing his beloved, he had nearly caused the world itself to end as he danced his fury and sorrow away. A power of such magnitude was unfathomable for the Chief and his wife. And it brought them comfort, knowing that their daughter would be backed by a being of such calibre.

"So," Goddess Parvathy interjected. "If you aren't opposed to the prospect of this matrimony, why don't we proceed with the formalities. Actually, we are here today to meet your daughter. All we know of her is from Murugan's recounting."

The Chief nodded slowly. His movements were still stiff with lingering fear. He swallowed hard and called out with a voice that was barely more than a croak, "Valli!"

The name had hardly left his lips when a blur of motion resolved itself beside them. Valli was suddenly there, and with such swiftness that it felt as if she had teleported from the kitchen. She was practically vibrating with excitement. Her hands were clasped together, and her eyes were wide with a joy that bordered on incandescent. A broad, unrestrained smile lit up her face, which was in stark and almost comical contrast to the rigid terror that held her parents captive.

The Chief and his wife stared, dumbfounded. The palpable tension, which was thick enough to cut with a knife, that hung in the air just moments before seemed to simply evaporate in the face of their daughter's sheer and unadulterated delight.

It also became glaringly apparent that a very different conversation had transpired between the two youngsters prior to this formal meeting. In that moment, the Chief and his wife understood with perfect clarity. They were the only two people in the hut who were not already part of the "conspiracy". They were essentially an audience in the final act of this apparent farce of a negotiation.

But they did not feel affronted or angry upon realising this. The two shared a warm smile as they observed their daughter and Lord Murugan exchanging furtive glances.

Youthful love was a universal panacea for the heart. It was innocent, uplifting and pure.

---

Murugan's marriage ceremony began as the sun dipped below the treeline, as a relatively simple affair steeped in the ancient traditions of Valli's tribe. The occasion had come together so quickly that there had been little time for formal invitations. The entire village gathered around the ceremonial fire with their faces lit in its warm glow - they were the only mortals in attendance.

The groom's party was smaller still. Murugan did not want a large gathering. He was content with the presence of his immediate family, though his parents could not appear in person; their bronze miniature facsimiles were present. His brother was not restricted as such, and he gladly catered for the entire occasion. Murugan had also invited his Guru. Kratos was not entirely absent, having appeared before the main ceremony to offer a curt but sincere blessing. His low rumble of a congratulation overlaid on a gruff growl was fleeting. And as the rites began, the ashen-skinned man made himself scarce. Murugan could see him now and then. He caught the visual of a hulking shadow at the periphery of the firelight - his Guru was always observing but never truly joining the celebration.

The sight of his stoic guru and his teary-eyed in-laws only reinforced Murugan's own perspective on the proceedings. In that, he cared little for the procedure.

To him, it was a mere motion for the community to witness. In his mind, he and Valli were already married the moment their families had agreed. Nonetheless, he knew these rites mattered deeply to Valli's parents, and since it caused him no real inconvenience, he sat through it all with dutiful patience. He felt the coarse, woven cord of sacred grass being tied around his wrist, mirroring the one on Valli's, and listened as his father-in-law chanted blessings to the spirits of the forest. The man's voice grew raspier as the event progressed, as exhaustion, both physical and emotional, started to affect him.

When at last the Chief officiated the final rite, declaring them husband and wife in the presence of all the realms, Murugan's patience was rewarded. He did not wait for the feasting to begin. A wide smile broke across his face as he called down his great peacock. With its iridescent feathers shimmering in the firelight, he swiftly carried his wife away into the twilight sky, towards the distant, snow-capped peaks of Kailasha.

---

Kratos had anticipated that the boy would take a few more days after his marriage to resume his training. So he was shocked to see Murugan standing at the ready outside his dwelling the very next morning, before the sun had even fully crested the mountains.

"You should be with your wife," Kratos said offhandedly. His voice was a low grumble as he faced his student on the doorstep of his temporary home.

"I promised you that I wouldn't let this detour waylay our progress, Guruji," Murugan expressed solemnly. "And I hate stopping once I've set out to do something."

Kratos scanned the boy for a long moment. He saw no hint of falsehood or reluctance, just the same, steady resolve. With a curt nod, he stepped aside and let him in.

"So what do we cover today, Guruji?" Murugan asked excitedly. He sat down on a simple wooden stool opposite his Master's bedding.

"Today, we reflect," Kratos stated with finality in his tone that left no room for argument.

"Reflect?" Murugan mumbled in confusion.

"We look back at the conflict. We identify points of failure and areas for improvement," Kratos explained. "If we do not reflect, we do not learn. If we do not learn, we do not improve."

Murugan nodded with furrowed brows. He began to recount the events from the moment he was called to the village. In his mind, he replayed each decision.

"Knowing just how weak the Chieftain was, we could have performed a decapitation strike," Murugan surmised. "We could have ended it quickly."

"That is only in hindsight," Kratos denied flatly. "You can make that call now because you know the outcome. If you did not know and made that call, it would have been recklessness."

"I understand that, I do," Murugan reasoned, leaning forward. "But the gap in our strength was so wide. I felt we were overestimating them every step of the way. I saw how you handled their army, Guruji. They were of no challenge to you at all. If we had confronted the barbarians from the very beginning, we could have whittled them down completely without losing a single person from the village."

"And then the next time an army like this comes knocking, those villagers will call on you. They will expect you to expel the attackers again," Kratos completed the boy's line of thought. He fixed Murugan with an intense stare. "What kind of god do you want to be?"

"I… I don't understand the question," Murugan stuttered.

"There is never an end to people's requests," Kratos stated plainly. "People will keep wanting because that is their nature. If you give in to their every want, there will never be an end to it. You will be taken for granted."

He paused, letting the words sink in. "Instead, if you give them what they need, but at a cost they understand, then people will think carefully before turning to you. Only those who are truly desperate will seek your assistance."

"That feels wrong," Murugan argued, his voice firm. "We would be forcing people to make a sacrifice when it is not even necessary. Isn't showing their devotion enough?"

"Devotion is the cost of gaining your attention," Kratos corrected. "What comes after is a whole other matter."

"Victory gained without a cost is fleeting," Kratos declared. "It is meaningless. A victory that is not valued is not remembered, and the lessons it teaches are forgotten. Even if the cost is ceremonial, it is necessary."

Kratos's words gave Murugan pause. His Guruji's and his father's strategy towards aiding devotees formed an interesting overlap in his mind. In a way, they were both similar and different. His father was indiscriminate in the way he offered his aid to people as long as their devotion was true, often with explosive and unforeseen consequences - the Barbarian Chieftain being a recent and relevant example of this. His Guruji, equally, did not discriminate. But he emphasised the need for an equivalent exchange, a price for a prize. Devotion was not enough.

"What if I were to help everyone equally?" Murugan probed, a new thought taking shape. "Not personally, but maybe by granting them the power to achieve victory themselves?"

Kratos remained silent for a moment, his gaze unblinking. "You wish to arm them?"

"Not with weapons," Murugan clarified. "With knowledge. With strength. So they do not have to rely on me or any other god."

"And what happens when one man you have strengthened decides he wants his neighbour's land?" Kratos asked. "What happens when he uses the power you gave him not to defend his home, but to take another person's home? You would not be solving their problems. You would be giving them stronger tools to create new ones."

"I will ask you again, what kind of god do you want to be? It is clear that you are not an apathetic god, so offering help to those who worship you is something that you will do. So this dilemma is something that you will face sooner rather than later," Kratos reiterated. "There is no right answer here, just the answer that will allow you to sleep through the night."

"This... is giving me a lot to think about," Murugan muttered in thought.

---

That night, ironically, Murugan struggled to find sleep. The conversation with his Guru echoed relentlessly in his mind. Which was dissonant to the quiet breathing of his new wife beside him. He shifted his weight for the tenth time, and the loud rustle of the bedding crackled in the stillness of their room.

"Having trouble sleeping?" Valli's voice spoke up in a soft murmur from beside him.

Murugan froze. "Sorry, did I wake you up?"

"Yes," she responded instantly. There was no accusation in her tone, only fact. It was a quality Murugan was quickly coming to appreciate. Her bluntness was refreshing. Although some friction is necessary for a successful relationship, it shouldn't be present in the communication channels.

Although Murugan loved his mother dearly, her tendency to speak around an issue rather than through it often led to drawn-out misunderstandings that could have been solved with a single, honest sentence. Valli did not deal in subtext.

"You are turning too frequently," she complained through a yawn. "If there is something on your mind, why don't you share it? Maybe I can help."

Murugan was quiet for a moment as he considered her offer. He then turned to face her silhouette in the dim light. "What if," he began, "and I truly mean this as a hypothetical… what if the elders from your tribe did not have to die?"

"What do you mean?" Valli asked with a hint of grogginess in her voice.

"What if we could have defeated the barbarians without the loss of a single life from your village?" Murugan clarified.

There was a pause before she answered. "That would have been amazing," she said. At this point, her voice sounded more awake. "But it would have felt hollow."

That was not the answer he expected. Murugan rolled onto his side to face her fully. "Hollow?"

"I know that you and your Guru could have annihilated the barbarian army singlehandedly," Valli stated. "I saw it. We all did. But you didn't do that."

"Do you resent us for that?" he asked cautiously. This was the question that had been lurking beneath the surface of his thoughts all day.

"Not at all," she said without hesitation. "Well, I did think about it for a while. I thought about how unfair it seemed that such a steep sacrifice was necessary when you held so much power. But the more I thought, the more I realised it was not unfair at all. The alternative was the complete destruction of our village. Compared to that, our loss was a victory."

"But as you said, it was a sacrifice that was not truly necessary," Murugan pressed.

"Of course it was necessary," Valli countered firmly. "Without it, we would not have understood the price of our safety. We would have seen your power as a simple solution - a tool to be called upon without thought. We would have taken your assistance for granted."

"But doesn't that defeat the purpose of worshipping gods?" Murugan probed, genuinely curious. "To ask for aid in times of need?"

"Devotion from a believer is not something that must be rewarded. It is the believer's choice and duty," Valli corrected gently. "My father always says that it is our choice to pray and worship. And if it is something we choose to do, then we must do it at all times, in happiness and in sorrow. It is how we build a relationship with higher beings. But we understand this relationship is one-sided. To expect the gods to solve our problems without a cost would be to take advantage of that bond. What you did, exacting a cost for your aid, fits with our beliefs. It honours the sacrifice, and it honours the gods."

Valli's words struck a chord deep within him.

Like puzzle pieces falling into place, the answer to the question his Guru had asked him became vivid and clear.

Murugan couldn't be like his father. He couldn't dissociate himself from the consequences of his actions by letting the universe self-correct itself. Nor could he dissociate himself from the problem itself by treating it as a transactional interaction.

The former was like a careless parent, and the latter was like a distant merchant. As always, the right answer was somewhere in between.

The kind of god Murugan wanted to be was a protector, a guide.

It was not about solving problems from up high or exacting a toll, but just about being present. It was about sharing in the cost and understanding their struggle, not as a transaction, but as a shared experience.

He would not just give them the strength to fight their battles; he would show them how to be strong.

It would be difficult. It would be involved. Not everyone would appreciate it. But that was okay! Because as his wife had rightly surmised, gods were, in a way... human.

"You have helped me," he whispered back with gratitude overflowing in his voice.

She hummed sleepily as she shifted closer. "Good. Now you can finally be quiet so I can sleep."

A chuckle escaped Murugan as he embraced her tightly and closed his eyes.

 

[Hyperionthetitan]

He paused, letting the words sink in. "Instead, if you give them what they need, but at a cost they understand, then people will think carefully before turning to you. Only those who are truly desperate will seek your assistance."

"That feels wrong," Murugan argued, his voice firm. "We would be forcing people to make a sacrifice when it is not even necessary. Isn't showing their devotion enough?"

"Devotion is the cost of gaining your attention," Kratos corrected. "What comes after is a whole other matter."

"Victory gained without a cost is fleeting," Kratos declared. "It is meaningless. A victory that is not valued is not remembered, and the lessons it teaches are forgotten. Even if the cost is ceremonial, it is necessary

Click to shrink...

Speaking like a true god now kratos

 

[juniorsundar]

Murugan's Training Arc will be coming to a close very soon. There will be a small tranisitionary arc in-between before the First Volume closes.

 

[juniorsundar]

King Dasharatha was a man of his word. It was a lesson his father had drilled into him from a young age: "A sovereign's word is the currency of his realm. When he spends it on lies and broken promises, he devalues himself until his pronouncements are worthless."

This personal mandate had yielded the King many victories and had cemented his kingdom as an unshakeable powerhouse in the region. His subjects revered him. His enemies feared him. And his kingdom had entered a golden age of development with no end in sight.

However, this mandate wasn't without personal costs. Because often, truths can be poisonous.

King Dasharatha had many wives, yet no children. The King wasn't impotent, nor was he celibate. The fact was that his bouts of intimacy often resulted in failure upon remembering a curse laid upon him in his youth.

"You apologise, but you cannot fathom our pain. If there is a god in this forsaken world, then there will be justice. We curse you, oh Young Prince, to feel the same pain of parting we feel right now. The pain only a parent can feel when they are forced to separate from their beloved child."

Those were the final words of the blind old couple as they died, broken-hearted, beside the body of their son.

Dasharatha didn't have to tell them that he had mistaken their son for a deer and had accidentally shot him through the heart. But that wasn't how he was raised.

And now, every time he indulged in intimacy with his many wives, at the peak of ecstasy, his mind would revert to those words.

Just like every mortal, King Dasharatha was fearful of his mortality. No one wanted to die. And the shroud of death wasn't exactly an aphrodisiac.

Nonetheless, a Kingdom without a successor was doomed to fall. And King Dasharatha did not want his ancestral lineage to end with him.

Ultimately, he decided, with the approval from the court's Chief Priest, to conduct a Putrakameshti Yagna. It was a powerful fire ritual designed to please the gods and seek their blessings for progeny.

As a Kshatriya, propagating his lineage was his Dharma, and to turn to the gods to accomplish it for him meant that the ritual would have to be increasingly complex. To that end, King Dasharatha spared no expense. His wealth flowed like the river Ganga as he prepared everything necessary for his Yagna. He even invited the revered Sage Rishyashringa to preside over the ceremony.

On the chosen auspicious date, the King initiated his Yagna.

Due to its complexity, it wasn't something that could be completed within a day. Its conclusion could only be ordained by the very gods to whom the prayer was offered.

On the fifth day, the Sage stopped. The fire rapidly changed colours. It switched from an austere red flame to a piercing blue flame. The heat it emanated escalated as it transitioned through the shades before it settled into a translucent hue.

Then, the fire grew and burgeoned rapidly. The King and the various priests partaking in the ceremony retreated rapidly as the entire altar was enveloped in flames.

The flames burned for an entire day. The altar acted as a fuel that was consumed in its entirety and turned into ash. And once it all settled, amidst the ash, the King found a simple pot filled to the brim with a familiar substance - Payasam.

It was a milk-based sweet. Something the Royal Chefs had crafted many times, though frequently on sacred occasions. As he was about to dip his finger into the pot to taste the sweet, the Sage grabbed his hand.

"These are for the consorts, Your Majesty," he explained. "I wouldn't suggest that Your Highness consume it. It would lead to... unwanted consequences."

The King shuddered at the thought and carefully lifted the pot.

At that exact moment. A shrill cry echoed in the air. He looked up, only to see the tail end of a common kite swooping down at him. He instinctively raised the pot to protect his face. But it seemed that the pot and its content were the bird's target all along.

The creature dipped its talons into the pot, grabbed as much as it could hold, and ascended into the air.

The King quickly took stock and was relieved to find that only a small morsel had been lost. He ordered his servants to fetch a cover and carefully carried it towards the Inner Courtyard of the Palace.

---

Far away, in the heart of the jungle neighbouring the Kingdom of Ayodhya - King Dasharatha's domain - a couple were conducting a similar Yagna for a child of their own.

This was the Kingdom of Kishkindha, a sovereignty hidden deep within the treacherous Dandaka Forest. It spanned over 300 kilometres from north to south, and 500 kilometres east to west. The periphery was fairly tame, but the deeper you went, the greater the danger you would face. In these parts, one wouldn't just face deadly creatures and apex predators, but Rakshasas as well.

Yet it was within this dangerous and treacherous wilderness that the couple's love had blossomed. The two were young, devoted, and virile. They had celebrated the fifth anniversary of their union just a few days back, yet the miracle of childbirth constantly eluded them. Not because they weren't trying hard enough. But because they were separated by a biological wall.

The Kingdom of Kishkindha was known to many but visited by few. Because to reach it was near impossible for any mortal man. The Kingdom was ruled by Vanaras, a race of monkey-folk. And of the couple, the man - Kesari - was not really a "man" at all. He was a Vanara.

He was the Chief Commander of the Vanara Army, and his beloved wife was named Anjana, but she was only human. And as he gazed at her solemn face that twitched involuntarily under the assault of the soot emanating from the pyre in front, he couldn't help but let his mind drift back to the day he first saw her.

While scouting the kingdom's borders, his gaze had fallen upon a woman bathing in a forest pool. Her appearance was unlike any he had known; she had no tail, no fur upon her body, and her skin was as pale as milk. A pleasant scent emanated from her, and something about her serene presence enamoured him completely.

For Kesari, approaching and pursuing his affection with Anjana was a difficult task. Though it definitely helped that she wasn't beholden to the standards of beauty appropriate to her species, and she saw him for who he was inside. And it also helped that she did not have parents to object to their union.

When he proposed marriage, Kesari had promised that Anjana would want for nothing. It was only after a year into their marriage that he realised that he had inadvertently lied to her. Because Anjana did want for something, and it was something that Kesari could never give her, no matter how hard he tried. A Vanara and a Manushya were of two distinct species. And although the two were intellectually similar, they were biologically apart.

It was after many, many tries and prayers to every single god under the heavens that Kesari realised there was no way forward - he had given up. However, Anjana hadn't. She firmly believed that the purity of their love would supersede the physical limitations that held them captive.

Kesari could not bring himself to put down his wife's hope. He supported her through every prayer, every offering, every technique known on earth. And though he no longer carried the optimism he used to, his wife remained just as hopeful as they were in their first year after marriage.

Today's Yagna was another of his wife's forays, after she heard that the King of Ayodhya was also turning to the heavens to bless him with offspring.

Kesari stood by and watched as the fire started to diminish, regardless of his wife's incessant attempts to feed it with ghee. Evidently, the gods just weren't listening.

Once the fire died, a morose silence hung in the air. It was broken by the quiet sniffles of his wife. As Kesari approached to embrace her and let her vent her sorrows, his eyes caught movement in the trees.

The branches rustled, and a brown shade zoomed through. He followed the object as it receded into the trees and recognised its form as that of a common kite.

Kesari chuckled and commented, "It was just a-" but his words hitched as he noticed a mound of... something in his wife's palms.

"What is that?" he asked as he brought his nose closer and sniffed. "It smells... good."

Anjana furrowed her brows and pinched a bit off the morsel and tasted it. "It's sweet," she commented. A pleased moan escaped her lips involuntarily, "How heavenly!"

Without a second thought, she tossed the morsel into her mouth and let it dissolve on her tongue. She chimed a laugh in surprise as the flavours danced across her taste buds.

"Where do you think the bird got this from?" Kesari muttered as he scratched his head.

"Do you think this is a sign from the gods? Maybe they were pleased?!" Anajana posited.

"Right..." Kesari drawled. 'As if the gods would care about little old us...'

---

Apparently, the gods DID care about them. Because a month later, Anjana found herself with a child. The revelation caused Kesari to forget how to breathe and faint in shock.

Eight more months later, the couple welcomed a beautiful baby boy into the world. And to honour the god that brought them this gift, they named him Maruti - the son of Vayu, the God of the Air.

Kesari was still doubtful about that fact. Although his son's conception was nothing short of a miracle, and was probably induced by the sweet his wife swallowed, he couldn't shake away the thought that the sequence of events wasn't some divine providence. A coincidence felt like a more apt descriptor.

But his doubts and disbelief were instantly shattered the moment his boy learned how to walk. Because instead of falling off tree branches like a careless monkey should, he floated gently to the ground.

From that point onwards, Kesari no longer questioned anything.

---

Maruti was a mischievous lad. Kesari and Anjana quickly learned that having a super-powered child brought with it a unique form of parental hell. All the usual problems were there - the tantrums, the boundless energy, the urge to put everything in his mouth - except Maruti's tantrums could level a small forest, and his energy was fuelled by the literal God of Wind.

He wasn't a bad kid. He was compassionate and respectful towards Anjana and Kesari. Just that when it came to interacting with strangers or outsiders, Maruti's first instinct wasn't to bow in greeting, but to figure out what would set them off.

He didn't hurt or maim anyone... physically. But his pranks tended to cause immense mental and emotional torment.

He was obedient to a fault. In that he never tormented anyone in the same manner.

He was intelligent. He could find loopholes through even the most stringent of rules.

He was a menace, through and through.

For instance, after a revered sage complained about being distracted from his meditation, Anjana sat Maruti down. "You are not to bother the holy men," she said, looking him dead in the eye. Maruti nodded dutifully. The next day, the sage found his meditation interrupted not by a child but by a singing puppet that orated all of his deepest insecurities. Maruti, sitting invisibly in a nearby tree, hadn't bothered him at all. The puppet, however, was a different story.

When that loophole was closed with the rule, "You are not to use your powers on the sages," Maruti simply waited for two of them to get into a heated theological debate. Then, using a carefully aimed puff of air, he caused a jumble of jungle vines to descend on them and tied their beards together into a knot so tight it took them three days to undo. He hadn't used his powers on them, merely near them.

Anjana and Kesari were at their wits' end. They knew that their son would get his comeuppance at some point; they only hoped that it would be sooner rather than later.

---

And the tipping point did come one sunny morning. Like any kid, Maruti woke up hungry. He looked around for a snack, and his eyes landed on the big, round, orange thing rising in the sky. To his toddler brain, the sun looked suspiciously like a giant, perfectly ripe mango. And when you're a kid who can fly, "seeing" and "getting" are basically the same thing.

Before Anjana could even ask where he was, Maruti was a rapidly shrinking speck in the sky, making a beeline for the solar system's primary heat source.

Maruti had his eyes set on the yellow ball in the sky, and after flying relentlessly for hours, he realised that he wasn't getting any closer. Frustrated, he gathered the familiar energy that coursed through him when he flew and condensed it. Then, with a mighty push, he released it.

A thundering crack echoed through the world as the little Vanara, unwittingly, broke through the barrier that separated Bhuloka from Svarga.

Imagine a person hitting a glass pane with a mace. Although the damage caused to the pane is equal from either side, it is the side opposite the perpetrator that suffers the consequences of shrapnel raining down on them.

Equivalently, it was Svarga that suffered the brunt of the damage caused by the little monkey's actions.

Svarga was a higher realm, and because of that, there was some leeway on what concerned the nature of reality. In general, the realm could be described as conceptual in nature. What resulted in a thunderclap in Bhuloka, caused the skies of Svarga to crack like porcelain.

The clouds roiled like a poisoned sea. The very air vibrated with the force of his passage, as Maruti darted through like an arrow hurtling at a velocity ten times that of the speed of sound itself.

The effect was catastrophic, to say the least. The Palace in the Kingdom of Heavens shuddered physically as the boy zoomed past. One could imagine this is how reality would behave if there were an earthquake in midair.

Nonetheless, this disturbance wasn't unnoticed. Indra definitely noticed as he was rudely awoken from his sleep.

In a fit of rage, he called upon his divine weapon - his Vajra - and called upon a storm of divine proportions. The skies darkened rapidly as thunderclouds started to form in earnest.

Maruti had barely enough time to take stock of his surroundings before a massive lightning bolt surged from the clouds and struck him on his chin, shattering his jaws instantaneously.

Then, like a kite with clipped wings, he hurtled towards the ground.

---

All of these events didn't miss Vayu's attention. In fact, he had a vested interest in the growth of his spiritual sire.

Ironically, the God of Air wasn't as "free" as most thought him to be.

Unlike the other Devas in Svarga, Vayu's task was of supreme importance. The world could survive for a few days without water. But deprive it of air for even a minute, and you'd have a catastrophic disaster.

Needless to say, there were very few opportunities for Vayu to take a break, and he rarely intervened in the affairs of mortals.

His intervention at King Dasharatha's Yagna, for instance, was completely unintended. The kite's appearance and subsequent theft of the payasam were a complete coincidence.

The Devas were mandated by the Preserver to ensure the success of the King's Yagna, and thus all eyes in Svarga were on the ceremony. When Vayu noticed the bird flying away with the morsel, he felt it would be a waste for it to merely feed a clutch of kite chicks.

And so, with a gentle push, he directed the bird in the direction of the star-crossed couple in the forest.

When he noticed the child born of the divine intervention exhibiting some of his powers, he was elated. As the child grew, he was enamoured by the boy's mischievousness and gregariousness. In a way, Vayu could live vicariously through the child, experiencing a life of freedom he never could.

He particularly enjoyed the complaints. Vayu would be in the middle of managing the jet streams when a prayer, dripping with indignation, would ping on his radar.

"Lord of the Winds, your son has enchanted my prayer beads to spell out insults!"

"Great Vayu, the boy turned my entire week's supply of sacred ghee into butter sculptures of himself flexing!"

Vayu found it all deeply amusing. The sages were so uptight. In his opinion, the boy wasn't a menace; he was a much-needed agent of chaos in a world that took itself far too seriously. So, he'd let the complaints pile up, unanswered. What were they going to do, hold their breath until he responded?

This hands-off parenting approach worked beautifully, right up until the moment it didn't.

One morning, Vayu felt his son's energy signature, which usually zipped around the forest like a pinball, suddenly shoot straight up. And keep going.

Vayu focused his attention and felt a cold dread mixed with a bizarre sense of pride. The kid was trying to eat the sun.

There were very few entities in the world that could pass through the barrier between realms unhindered. Vayu was amongst this handful. It was too late before he found out that his spiritual sire had happened to have inherited this power as well.

Right as the boy burst through the barrier, Vayu rose to intercept him. But before he could take action, the King had already summoned his divine weapon and smote the boy.

Vayu, for the first time in his life, stood frozen in shock. After a beat, he dispersed and reappeared at the boy's crash site. What he saw was a large crater, amidst which lay the still body of the Vanara child. His breath was faint and fleeting. And his lower jaw was a mess of charred flesh and splintered bone.

A beat passed, and both the boy and Vayu disappeared.

---

The doors of Indra's throne room burst open as Vayu stepped in, carrying Maruti's still body. The hall was empty - the court wasn't in session.

Vayu didn't shout. He didn't need to. He simply lifted a hand, palm open, and slowly clenched it into a fist.

And with that one, simple gesture, the air all around Svarga disappeared.

It is hard for one to imagine what the sudden disappearance of air and atmosphere would result in. Needless to say, it isn't a gentle process.

Sound dies first without air to propagate its waves. The pleasant ambience that prevailed in Svarga went mute in an instant.

Then, simultaneously, all things living and "breathing" started to suffocate. Without air, the plants started to wither. The flames that burned eternally in the Palace's braziers snuffed out. The waving flags and rusting leaves halted without the blowing wind to nudge them into action. And worst of all, the suffocating beings couldn't even call for help, because in the vast emptiness, there was no sound at all.

Vayu closed his eyes and waited. A beat later, the empty hall was populated. A heavy thud resounded, and Vayu opened his eyes to see Indra seated on his throne, a grim snarl twitching on his lips.

"Explain yourself, Vayu!" Indra bellowed.

Vayu cast his gaze all around, taking in the audience. He then placed the boy on the ground in front of him and folded his arms.

"Explain yourself, 'your majesty'..." Vayu said with a mocking tone. Indra harrumphed and leaned back into the throne.

Vayu started to pace the halls as he expounded, "Does 'your majesty' believe that the punishment doled out fits the crime?"

"Are you questioning me?!" Indra snapped.

Vayu looked around innocently and said, "Yes. I thought I was clear about that."

"He's just a boy," Vayu contested. "Was it necessary to deploy the Vajra to strike him down?"

"He broke the peace with his actions. His comeuppance was warranted," Indra dismissed.

Vayu scoffed and looked around. "Do you all believe that the kid is deserving of our King's divine punishment?"

The crowd remained passive; some even looked away.

"You don't even care, do you?" Vayu expressed exasperation.

There was silence, which was broken by Vayu's dry chuckle.

"HE'S JUST A BOY!" Vayu bellowed.

His lips barely moved, but the voice was deafening, seeming to hit them from every direction at once. It wasn't an echo; it was a perfect, instantaneous unison, as if a thousand invisible Vayus were all screaming the exact same words from every corner of the room, and from inside their own heads.

"A boy capable of moving between realms as he wishes," Indra emphasised. "Do you realise just how dangerous that is?"

"So Your Majesty would rather quell a troublesome child in the crib than raise it to become an upstanding individual?" Vayu responded. "Forgive me, my Lord, but where is the justice in that?"

Faint chatter bubbled in the court as the audience discussed Vayu's challenge.

"He's right. Although the child is mischievous, it doesn't warrant such a fatal retaliation."

"Yeah! Look at the kid's state, he's barely alive!"

"The poor child's jaw is completely decimated. I don't know how that will even recover - the weapon used was His Majesty's Vajra, after all."

Indra's gaze flickered around the room, and an unpleasant frown formed on his face. He raised a palm, and the murmurings dispersed. He coughed lightly and said, "Fine. What do you want?"

"With all due respect," Vayu started. "Fix it."

Indra stared at the broken child, then back at Vayu. He couldn't refuse, but his pride wouldn't let him offer a genuine apology. He chose the path of petty compliance.

With a dismissive flick of his wrist, a golden light enveloped Maruti. The charred flesh on the boy's jaw healed, and the splintered bone knit back together, leaving only a faint scar on his chin.

"There," Indra said, his voice tight. With a sneer, he joked, "He's fixed. Now, give us back our air."

The silence that followed was heavier than the vacuum had been. Vayu hadn't moved. The air did not return.

"No," Vayu said. "You healed a wound. You didn't fix the problem."

He gestured around the hall at the other gods, who were beginning to look genuinely panicked. "The problem is that our King can use a weapon of annihilation on a child without consequence."

He turned to face Indra again and said, "You fixed his jaw. You didn't fix his vulnerability. What stops you from doing this again?"

Indra's face hardened. "This is ridiculous! My judgment is final. I have healed him. That is the end of it."

The other Devas looked from their stubborn, prideful king to the cold, unyielding God of Wind.

As the standoff progressed, someone in the crowd gasped and exclaimed, "The air in Bhuloka is being siphoned away!"

Indra's eyes widened, and he glared at Vayu, "Cease this childishness at once. Do not let our petty grievances bleed over to the realm of mortals!"

The Devas started to panic. Although the air was fickle and capricious, Vayu was the most stable of them all. Ironically, it also made him the most stubborn and enduring. They were certain that in a contest between King Indra's ego and Vayu's endurance, there would be no winner.

But amongst the two, the King's ego was the easiest to undermine.

From the crowd, a man stepped forward. He appeared bald, but those with a sharp eyesight could see faint, almost translucent, locks of hair dancing about. It was Agni, the God of Fire, who first broke the stalemate. He stepped forward, ignoring Indra completely, and addressed Vayu directly.

"Your concern is justified, Lord Vayu," Agni declared. He looked down at the unconscious child. "This boy has my blessing. My fire will never harm him."

A wave of power flowed from Agni to Maruti.

A collective shock went through the court, followed by a ripple of understanding. The play was evident now.

Varuna, the God of the Seas, was next. "As will my waters."

Then Yama, the Lord of Death, stepped forward. "Death will hold no claim on him. He will be immortal."

It became a domino effect. One by one, the other Devas stepped forward to bestow their own boons.

Indra watched, and his face furrowed in fury with each person who stepped forward. He had been completely outmanoeuvred by his court. To save the last shred of his authority, he was left with no choice.

"Fine!" he bellowed, rising from his throne. He pointed the Vajra at the boy, but this time, a blessing flowed from it. "My Vajra will never again harm him. His body will be as strong as the weapon itself."

He glared at Vayu. "Are you satisfied now?"

Vayu returned a measured look and nodded. Then, he disappeared along with the boy.

---

Unsurprisingly, adding more powers to an already super-powered boy did little to temper his mischievousness. If anything, it made him more creative. He now had a whole new toolbox of divine abilities to work with, and the local sages were his unwilling test subjects.

As he entered his teens, his behaviour grew more and more egregious.

The final straw came during the sages' most important ceremony of the decade. It was a complex, multi-week ritual, and it all came down to a single, unbroken hour of chanting on the final day. The sages were on the home stretch, deep in a collective trance. Their voices wove the final verses of a mantra that had taken them weeks to perfect.

Maruti had been explicitly warned: do not touch, speak to, or interact with the sages or their ritual in any way. He, of course, found a loophole. His boon from Agni meant he was immune to fire. More than that, he had an affinity for it.

The sages poured the last of the sacred ghee into the ritual fire. They watched as the flames leapt higher, burning with an unnatural purity and intensity. They took it as a sign of success.

They didn't realise Maruti was inside the fire. Correction. Maruti WAS the fire!

He had merged with the flames, absorbing every offering, every ounce of power they poured into it.

They reached the final, critical syllable of the mantra. Their concentration was absolute. Their connection to the divine was a hair's breadth from being sealed.

And at that exact moment, Maruti released the energy.

The sacred fire imploded, sucking in the sound and light for a split second before erupting outwards in a massive, silent concussion of force. A shockwave of shimmering, rainbow-coloured smoke rolled over the clearing, smelling faintly of mangoes.

The sages were thrown back by the sheer, brain-breaking shock of it. Their trance was shattered. The connection to the heavens was severed. The mantra died on their lips.

Weeks of fasting, prayer, and unwavering focus - all of it, gone. Voided in a puff of fruit-scented smoke.

They sat there in the sudden silence, covered in a fine layer of multi-coloured dust, with a faint ringing in their ears.

This was the straw that broke the camel's back.

In a surprising act of cooperation, the sages stood up in unison and pointed at the monkey rolling on the ground in laughter.

Maruti saw the synchronised pointing and laughed even harder, assuming it was the start of some new, ridiculously stuffy game.

One of the sages, the eldest and most tired of them all, stepped forward. He spoke in a calm and steady tone that was chilling to hear. Especially for Maruti, who was used to hearing him shout.

"We are done," the sage said, his voice cut through Maruti's laughter and stopped it cold.

"From this moment on, your power will be a memory you cannot truly access. With the light of every new day, your awareness of these gifts will be wiped clean and be forgotten."

Maruti felt a strange, cold sensation wash through him, as if a trigger had been flipped deep inside his mind. The boundless, crackling energy he had lived with his entire life suddenly felt distant.

The sage continued, "You will live as a simple Vanara - strong and fast, but not limitless. The door to your true potential will be locked."

Maruti blinked, and a genuine sense of confusion dawned on him. He instinctively tried to float an inch off the ground, a trick he could do in his sleep, but his feet remained stubbornly planted in the dirt.

"But," the sage added, "a key will remain. Only when another speaks your praises, only when they remind you of your true nature for a purpose far greater than your own amusement, will that door be temporarily unlocked. Then, and only then, will you remember what you are."

With that, it was over. The sages lowered their hands, turned their backs, and began the long, arduous process of cleaning up their desecrated ritual site. They didn't spare him another glance.

Maruti was left alone, sitting in a pile of multi-coloured dust. He looked at his hands, then up at the sky, feeling for the first time in his remarkable life, completely and utterly… normal.

But this was how it was always supposed to be, right?

---

Spoiler: Author's Note

This was one of my most favourite chapters to write.

Hanuman is a well crafted character. Although he is almost akin to superman, his weakness feels more personal. He exemplifies imposter syndrome. He doesn't "believe" in himself, and constantly needs validation from those around him. Which is why you pray to him so that he remembers his powers and protects you.

 

[Hyperionthetitan]

Vayu, for the first time in his life, stood frozen in shock. After a beat, he dispersed and reappeared at the boy's crash site. What he saw was a large crater, amidst which lay the still body of the Vanara child. His breath was faint and fleeting. And his lower jaw was a mess of charred flesh and splintered bone.

A beat passed, and both the boy and Vayu disappeared.

---

The doors of Indra's throne room burst open as Vayu stepped in, carrying Maruti's still body. The hall was empty - the court wasn't in session.

Click to shrink...

Wait he had another son with a broken jaw?

 

[juniorsundar]

Wait he had another son with a broken jaw?

Click to shrink...

Which other son are you referring to?

 

[Hyperionthetitan]

Which other son are you referring to?

Click to shrink...

I thought hanuman is the one with broken jaw ,forgot how he got it tho

 

[Antares1883]

I'm probably going to sound like an asshole here but honestly I'm on Indras side.