He didn't feel pain. Not anymore.
There was no searing agony in his chin, no sharp sting in his skull, no crushing impact from the second-story drop. Just silence.
A suffocating, limitless, endless silence.
His body floated—or perhaps it stood. He couldn't tell. The space around him was neither dark nor bright. Just an eternal twilight, like the soft gray between dreams and waking. His thoughts, once sharp and stinging, like salt on wounds, now felt like whispers brushing against a fogged window.
"Where... am I?"
He looked down—or what his mind told him was 'down'—but there was no ground. No sky. No form. Only the memory of weight. He reached up to touch his face, only to find no face to touch. It was like existing in vapor.
Then, it hit him.
The blood.
The knife.
The trembling fingers that had wrapped around the kitchen blade.
The plunge—upward—piercing under his chin, scraping bone, shattering thought.
And the fall.
He had staggered toward the balcony, knees weak, breath catching, vision flickering. His blood had painted the floor tiles crimson as he leaned over the railing. One final breath—shallow, ragged.
Then, the drop.
Two floors. Not enough to die on impact. But enough.
He remembered his last words.
"Sorry, Amma."
A sob tore through his formless soul.
He hadn't meant for it to go this far. He had only wanted peace. For his mother. For his sister. For the house not to smell of alcohol, not to tremble with the unpredictable rhythm of his father's return each night.
The man was never violent. Never raised a hand.
But his absence—that was the violence. His silence, his disregard, his selfishness, all poured into glass after glass, drunk on escape while the family choked on the fumes of his freedom.
His mother cried only when she thought no one could hear. His sister hid the tears in smiles, always trying to be the glue between breaking walls.
And him?
He was the patchwork. Torn cloth barely holding on. He had tried to stand up, to speak, to shout—but every time he did, his father would drink more. More recklessly. More stubbornly.
What do you do when trying to stop the bleeding only makes the wound worse?
You blame yourself.
He thought he could bear it. Until he couldn't.
And now… now he was here. Or rather, nowhere.
He didn't know how long he had drifted—minutes, hours, years? Time felt like an echo in this realm. A distorted reflection. Only the guilt remained real. Solid. Unrelenting.
What had he done?
Was this it? Limbo? Eternal punishment?
"If this is hell," he thought bitterly, "then it's quieter than I expected."
And yet, the silence was not peace. It was deafening with the things unsaid, unspoken apologies, and invisible weights pressing against whatever was left of his soul.
He didn't feel cold. Or warm. Just… hollow.
The thought of his mother haunted him most.
Her soft hands. Her tired eyes. Her prayers whispered under breath when she thought no one listened.
And he had left her.
Alone. Burdened. Hurt.
A coward.
"I'm sorry," he said again, voice choked though he had no throat. "I'm so, so sorry."
The void offered no answer.
Only the ache.
Only the regret.
Was this what he deserved?
You helped no one. Not even in the end. That voice in his mind twisted with blame.
He didn't know if he wept—he had no eyes. But his soul did.
And in that endless sorrow, he curled inward, shrinking until his guilt felt bigger than the realm he occupied.
Until—
"Enough."
The voice struck like a gong across eternity.
Not loud. Not angry.
Just... final.
Firm. Gentle. Playful, almost.
"Krishna."
He froze.
The voice rang again, as if it knew him. As if it reached deep into the marrow of his spirit and called it forth.
"Wake up, child. You've slept long enough."
And suddenly, light.
Not burning, but vast. Not sharp, but infinite.
Something—someone—was coming.
The formless haze around him began to ripple. As though existence itself recognized a presence far beyond comprehension.
A warmth bloomed in the nothingness, growing until it consumed the very concept of "cold." The twilight shimmered, taking on shapes, colors, whispers of something greater.
And then—He appeared.
The light didn't grow or descend—it simply was, as if it had always been there, patiently waiting for the mortal mind to notice it. And when the Chosen One turned his gaze toward the origin, something primal in him trembled.
Not fear. Not awe.
Something older.
Recognition.
The figure stood—or rather, existed—within a halo of golden brilliance that shimmered with hues language had no names for. A thousand forms, each more impossible than the last, layered and peeled back all at once. Countless limbs, each bearing divine weapons and cosmic sigils. Infinite eyes, gazing in every direction, seeing every age, every soul, every universe. There were celestial animals spiraling around Him—Garuda, the eagle of kings; the lion of Narasimha; the fish, the tortoise; and something more vast, more ancient—Ananta, coiled and infinite.
The Chosen One—Krishna—froze. Words? Gone. Thoughts? Scrambled. His limbs trembled as if vibrating with the pressure of something too vast to name. Before him stood not a god—but God. Infinite eyes that saw time, space, karma, and possibility. Limbs stretched across dimensions. Fire and light and galaxies within a skin that shimmered like the truth behind dreams.
The Chosen One fell to his knees without thought. His soul screamed and quieted at the same time. There was no body now—no mind—just a presence, a truth laid bare.
This was not how mortals beheld gods. This was how truths beheld other truths.
He could hear it—a thousand voices, a single tone, thunder and flute woven into each other:
"I am the beginning. I am the end. I am the silence between your breaths."
The Chosen One did not speak. Could not. He was not worthy to utter sound in the presence of that which had no beginning.
But then, like a mist folding into breeze, that impossible form compressed.
Limbs vanished. Light cooled. The cosmic spiral dimmed.
And in its place stood a boy—no, a man. Dark-skinned, radiant, wearing a simple yellow silk dhoti, peacock feather perched in his wild curly black hair, a flute casually tucked into his sash. Youthful, but ancient. Mischievous, but cosmic. Beautiful beyond reason. And a glint in his eyes that should not have existed in one who had just been… everything.
Lord Krishna.
He smiled.
A smile.
That smile was everything. Reassurance, mischief, the entire ocean of kindness compressed into a single curl of the lips.
"Bit much, wasn't it?"
The Chosen One opened his mouth, blinked, and stared.
"Oh, don't look at me like I just broke the universe. You were gawking. Not a word, not a thought, just slack-jawed reverence. I'm flattered, really. I used to get that a lot back in Dwapara Yuga."
The Chosen One still said nothing. Lord Krishna walked over casually, barefoot, as though this was a midday stroll through Vrindavan.
"I'll tone it down. Divine light's a bit overkill for introductions, hmm? You mortals always do the whole 'unworthy, insignificant speck of dust' thing. Gets awkward."
He circled the Chosen One, who was now slowly, carefully rising to his feet, still dazed.
"Much better," Krishna said cheerfully, standing before him again. "Now we can actually talk. Or would you prefer I show up with a flaming chariot next time?"
"I—" the Chosen One managed.
"Hmm?" Krishna leaned in, eyes twinkling. "Go on. Say it. 'Who are you?' Maybe, 'What is this place?' Or my favorite, 'Is this… heaven?'"
"I…" the Chosen One tried again, words finally catching up. "I know who you are."
Krishna's grin widened. "Well done. Most folks faint before they get there. But then again… we do share a name, don't we?"
That made the Chosen One blink. "You… know my name?"
"Oh, of course. Krishna. A name filled with paradoxes—dark and beautiful, humble and cosmic. And now shared between us. I was the original, of course. The 'OG,' as your generation likes to say."
He winked.
The Chosen One, bewildered, actually chuckled. A little. Just a breath.
"There it is," Krishna said, pleased. "Your first laugh in this realm. We'll count it as a miracle."
The Chosen One swallowed. "Is this… am I dead?"
Krishna's gaze softened. He tilted his head. "Yes and no. You are between. The knife. The fall. Your last words… I heard them. As did she."
"…Amma," the Chosen One whispered. Guilt surged again like a tide inside him.
"She wept," Krishna said gently. "But she still prays for you. Your sister too. Even your father, drunk and silent, muttered your name. Regret doesn't need clarity to exist."
"I didn't mean to—"
"You meant only to end the pain. You did not seek oblivion. Only silence. Rest. A place where you wouldn't hurt them anymore."
"I tried to be strong," Krishna said. His voice cracked. "For Amma. For my sister. I really did. But Appa… he's not a monster. He doesn't hit us. But he drinks. Every day. And when I confront him, he just… drinks more. Disappears. Comes back stinking of alcohol and silence. And Amma… she cries when no one looks. My sister pretends nothing's wrong. She pretends I'm the rock of the family. But I was shattering too."
The Chosen One's knees threatened to buckle again, but Krishna held out a hand, catching him with surprising strength for such a playful frame.
"I didn't come here to judge you, Krishna."
"But I—"
Krishna tapped his forehead.
"No. You suffered. And you didn't scream it to the world. You carried it, bore it, tried to fix it. That… is devotion in disguise."
The Chosen One shivered. "Even though I stopped believing?"
"You don't believe in me anymore, and I understand," the Lord said, his voice warm. "But in your final moments, you still prayed. Not for salvation. Not for heaven. But for your family. That they would find peace, even without you."
"You stopped expecting. But you still prayed. Not for yourself. For your family. That's more faith than temple rituals or mantras."
"I'm sorry," Krishna said suddenly, voice breaking. "I'm sorry for giving up. For causing them pain. I know it was selfish. I'm sorry for turning away from you."
"And I don't blame you," Lord Krishna said warmly. "It's hard to feel devotion when your world is collapsing. That's the funny thing about Kali Yuga. Everyone thinks I stopped listening. But the truth is…" He leaned in with a mischievous whisper. "I never left. I just… went incognito."
Krishna blinked. "You what?"
"Low profile, you know? Mustaches, sunglasses, the whole divine disguise package." The god mimed donning shades and puffed his chest dramatically. "Can't have people blaming me for every spilled chai and heartbreak. Free will still exists, you know."
The Chosen One laughed again. This time, it lingered longer. The divine warmth in the space seemed to amplify it.
The Lord moved, crouching beside him, and placed a hand on his shoulder. A gesture of comfort, like that of old friends, silent but comforting.
There was silence.
Krishna sat down cross-legged on the nothingness and patted the space beside him. After a long pause, the Chosen One joined him.
"What now?" he asked.
"Now…" Krishna said, plucking his flute and spinning it like a pen, "I offer you a choice."
The Chosen One blinked. "A choice?"
The Lord smiled again. "A choice. The first of many."
He stood, arms spreading theatrically. "Option one—Reincarnation. Classic route. You get reborn. Maybe as a beetle, maybe as a parrot, maybe a poet, maybe someone luckier. Could take a few centuries to realign your karma. Admin's a bit slow these days."
The Chosen One blinked.
Krishna leaned in, eyes gleaming.
"Option two," the Lord continued, leaning in, eyes gleaming. "You go to another world. One that needs you. You become my Avatar. A warrior of Dharma. With purpose. With power. With guidance."
The Chosen One stared. "That's…"
"Insane? Unrealistic? Absurdly dramatic?"
"I was going to say impossible."
"Ah. My favorite kind of possible," Krishna said, grinning.
The Chosen One looked down. "Why me?"
A pause.
Then Krishna stood and placed a hand on the Chosen One's chest.
"Incorrect," he said firmly. "You are Atmaja Tava—my soul's child. Ansha Sattvavaan—brimming with noble essence. Vishwaja Yodha—a warrior destined across worlds. And a Manava Deva—a human with the potential to carry divinity."
The Lord plopped onto the ground beside him, cross-legged like an old friend.
The Chosen One could feel it—his heartbeat aligned with the divine's pulse. The rhythm of a universe yet unborn.
Silence again.
And then, the Lord chuckled.
"Besides, it would be boring if you were perfect. You'd be no fun to watch."
Krishna's gaze lingered on him—not judging, but watching. Chosen One swallowed the dryness in his throat, his voice barely a whisper.
"Was I just… something to watch?" he asked. "A story you tuned into now and then? Am I just… entertainment to the gods?"
The Lord tilted his head, the mischief never truly leaving his eyes, though something far older flickered beneath.
"Entertainment?" he repeated, grinning. "Well, you have made quite the series. Drama, tears, questionable choices… and that time you tried to give yourself a haircut at age thirteen? Legendary."
Krishna laughed, a low, rippling sound like music over water. Then he leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing with teasing intensity.
"I've been binge-watching your life on Divine Netflix," he said, proudly tapping his chest. "No ads. No skip intro. Just you—full high-definition karma, direct from the soul-stream."
Chosen One blinked, unsure whether to laugh or feel insulted. "So… that's it? I'm some divine sitcom?"
But Krishna's smile softened.
"Ah, no, no, little Krishna. You misunderstand. You're not the entertainment." He leaned back, arms folded behind his head. "You're the dream that dreamt of meaning. A thought that dared to ask why. You are not something I observed. You are something I breathed."
He gestured casually at the endless horizon behind them. The stars shimmered as if listening.
"This—" Krishna motioned around them "—all this? The worlds, the people, the gods, the questions, the music, the pain... they are me. Every story is my dream solidified. I imagined infinity once... and then you happened."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy. It was reverent.
Chosen One looked down, unable to hold that weight. "Then why do I feel so broken?"
Krishna's voice was gentle now. "Because even dreams must shatter to awaken truth."
Krishna winked again. "So. Do you accept?"
The Chosen One breathed. Thought. Looked at his hands.
Then—he nodded.
Krishna clapped once. "Splendid! Now… comes the fun part."
He leaned in conspiratorially.
"You get one wish."
"What?"
"One wish. Just one. Standard divine terms apply. No infinite wishes. No reviving the dead. And no wishing me into a Pokémon. I'm on a divine budget."
"A… divine budget?"
"It's the Yuga, man. Kali's expensive."
The Chosen One actually laughed out loud.
And the Lord of the Cosmos laughed with him.
It echoed across the liminal realm—not like thunder, but like a river rushing through ancient stone, playful and timeless. Krishna wiped a tear from his eye, though no such tear truly formed in this space of nothingness. "Ah, young Krishna," he chuckled again, reclining midair with his arms behind his head, "do you know how rare it is for someone to laugh here? Most people scream, cry, or beg. You… you laughed. That's very you."
His laugh crumbled into silence, his shoulders slackened, and his gaze dropped to the shimmering floor beneath his feet.
"I don't understand…" he murmured. "Why me? Why… someone like me?"
The words were almost a whisper, brittle and dry. The divine presence across from him tilted his head. His peacock feather swayed.
"You're going to begin that human thing now, aren't you?" Krishna—the Lord—asked with faux exasperation. "The whole 'I'm not worthy,' 'I'm broken,' 'I'm just some guy' speech."
The mortal didn't smile.
"I am just some guy," he said quietly. "I wasn't anything in that world. Just another invisible person in a loud, broken home. I... I wanted to fix it. But I couldn't. I failed."
He gripped his own arms, nails digging in.
"Why not someone better? Smarter? Stronger? Someone who didn't—" He clenched his jaw. "Someone who didn't take the coward's way out?"
Lord Krishna didn't interrupt. He simply tilted his head, his face a tranquil lake of compassion.
"I ran from it all," Krishna continued. "My family… my responsibilities. I couldn't protect my mother from crying herself to sleep. I couldn't stop my father from breaking into another bottle every time I tried to talk to him. I couldn't even make my sister smile anymore." His voice cracked. "And then I quit. I took the final exit. And now you—you're telling me I'm chosen?"
He looked up, eyes burning. "For what? To fail again?"
The Lord of Dwarka said nothing at first. Then, he sighed—not with frustration, but with ancient knowing.
"Your pain," he said gently, "is not a disqualification."
Krishna blinked, confused.
The Lord's voice softened, yet carried thunder beneath it. "You think broken things cannot become sacred? Then let me tell you something, Krishna—no god was ever born without suffering."
He stood, suddenly appearing far taller than before—his silhouette gleaming against the infinite cosmos behind him.
"Parashurama was driven by rage. Rama wandered the forests for fourteen years, his kingdom stolen. Shiva drank poison to save the world. Even I," he said, gesturing to himself, "have grieved. I watched the Yadava clan destroy itself. I stood beside Arjuna as he aimed his bow at kin. I cried in silence when Radha stayed behind."
The Chosen One sat stunned, his heart thudding as if struck by truth.
"Your sorrow," Krishna said, stepping forward, "is not a stain. It is a sign that you felt. That you loved. That you tried."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy. It was gentle. Soft, like monsoon rain kissing dry earth. Lord Krishna didn't speak immediately. He let the mortal breathe—let him unravel.
And then he stood.
Not with grandeur. Not with booming declarations. He simply walked over and sat cross-legged beside the mortal, knee to knee. As if the distance between godhood and manhood could be erased with posture.
He reached forward—and booped the mortal's forehead.
Krishna shrugged. "Do you think I pick avatars the way mortals pick politicians? With glittery resumes and long-winded campaigns?"
He leaned in.
"I pick hearts. Bruised, scarred, imperfect hearts. Because those hearts still beat. Still care. Even when it hurts."
The mortal looked away. "But I didn't believe in you anymore."
"I know."
"And I… I tried to leave. I did leave."
"I know that too."
"Then how can I be chosen?"
Lord Krishna stretched back onto his palms, gazing upward at the swirling stars.
"Because, in your final breath, you said 'Sorry, Amma.' Not 'I hate you all,' not 'The world is cruel,' not 'Remember me.' Just… 'Sorry, Amma.'" He turned back to him. "Even at your lowest, your soul reached for someone else's happiness. That is Dharma, Krishna."
The mortal's breath hitched.
"You followed Dharma even without knowing what it was. That's how I knew."
There was a long pause. The mortal's hands were trembling.
"I still feel like I broke everything," he said.
Lord Krishna exhaled through his nose. "Everything sacred is broken before it becomes divine."
"Even I—me—I have wept, young Krishna. I have held the dying. I have been cursed, mocked, betrayed. Do not shame your pain. You are not a failure for feeling crushed by a world that doesn't know how to carry people like you."
Tears began to rise in the mortal's eyes.
"I'm a mess."
"You're my mess," Lord Krishna said proudly. "A beautifully chaotic, self-sacrificing, sari-folding, sister-defending mess."
That laugh came easier now.
The Lord winked. "Besides, if you were perfect, I couldn't roast you so much."
Krishna wiped at his face. "So… what happens now?"
The Lord rose to his feet again, offering a hand.
"You stop apologizing for being human. And you start accepting that this mess you are? It's divine clay."
The mortal took the hand.
"Still feel like a wrong pick," he whispered.
"I'm a god, remember?" Lord Krishna said. "I don't make mistakes."
"But what if I fail again?"
Krishna's face grew solemn—just for a moment.
"Then you'll rise again. And again. Until the fire of your soul remembers the shape of its flame."
The Lord smiled.
"Come on. I've got cosmic paperwork to file."
The mortal blinked. "Gods have bureaucracy?"
"No," Lord Krishna grinned, "but the idea of a divine HR department tickles me."
The two of them laughed again.
And for the first time, Krishna—the human—felt something crack open within him. Not despair. Not guilt. But the beginning of belief—not in a god, but in the fact that maybe, just maybe, he was never as alone or unworthy as he thought.
They stood together—divine and mortal. Brothers in name. Partners in dharma.
Krishna stood, stretching as if they had merely wrapped up a long chat under a banyan tree, rather than redefined the soul of a broken boy.
"Well then," he said brightly, "time for your wish. You get one. No wishing for more wishes. Divine budget cuts, you see. The recession hits all realms equally—even Vaikuntha."
Chosen One blinked. "You're joking."
Krishna tilted his head. "I'm known for that. But also very serious. One wish. Anything that does not violate the natural order—or bore me to tears."
The Chosen One sat cross-legged in the quiet realm, eyes narrowing slightly. "So… anything except godhood, unlimited power, immortality, or a vending machine that dispenses endless mango lassi?"
Krishna perked up. "Oh, that last one's tempting. But no, still out of budget."
Chosen One chuckled faintly. "Of course."
But then his smile faded. The realm grew still, almost reverent. With all distractions silenced, the immensity of the choice pressed down on him like a celestial weight. No noise. No anxiety. Just thought—pure and uninterrupted.
He closed his eyes.
If this world I go to is one of battle, survival, Dharma... what do I lack? What can make me worthy of the sword I couldn't grasp?
The memories came—his father's silent tyranny, his mother's hidden grief, the helplessness he had drowned in. He had knowledge, he had will, but he lacked clarity. Speed. Insight. Precision.
I need something that grows with me, he thought. Something to help me see, learn, evolve… something that won't just kill, but will help me live righteously.
But none of them felt right. They didn't make his soul stir.
Then, slowly, like a rising sun, an image bloomed—one of quiet discipline, relentless progress, invincible will.
The Nano Machine.
From the manhwa he had once read. A microscopic marvel of divine-level tech—capable of accelerating learning, healing, awareness, perception. It didn't just boost strength—it rebuilt a person, from mind to muscle.
"I want the nanomachines," Krishna said firmly, eyes open, gaze steady.
Lord Krishna paused, then gave a grin wider than the stars. "From Nano Machine, the manhwa?" His tone leapt like a child discovering a favorite snack. "Oho! A man of culture, I see."
The Chosen One blushed slightly. "They… made sense. The interface. The autonomous evolution. Instant feedback. Guided training. I don't want shortcuts—I want a system to grow. To earn it."
The god gave a proud nod, stretching out his arms. "Excellent choice! Sleek, practical, and stylishly edgy. I'll need to call Saraswati for the AI overlay. Version 2.0 has personality."
He walked in a circle, hands behind his back, mock-offended. "And here I was hoping you'd wish for a legendary cow that dispenses gulab jamun."
"I'd eat that cow out of existence in a week."
"Exactly!" Krishna beamed. "Good thing you're going with something sustainable."
He snapped his fingers.
A low hum filled the space. And from the very air, silver filaments emerged, swirling in elegant spirals like liquid threads of moonlight. They coalesced around the Chosen One, entering through his skin—without pain, without cold. Only an overwhelming sense of potential.
He gasped. His vision expanded—colors shimmered with spectral clarity. His heartbeat slowed, his breathing sharpened. But more than that—he understood things now. The structure of thought. The mapping of possibilities.
Then a sound.
A pleasant, melodic chime echoed in the back of his mind. A soft, crystalline voice followed.
"Initialization complete. Medha system—activated..."
The Chosen One blinked as a translucent interface appeared before him—an elegant HUD with ornate gold and silver glyphs flowing like Ganges script. And in the corner, an adorable figure materialized, no taller than his hand. A chibi version of a modern goddess—She wore modern fusion attire—a hoodie with glowing runes, long flowing digital hair made of cascading binary and peacock feathers, thick glasses perched atop a slightly oversized head, and holding a touchscreen tablet like a scepter, and a slight, knowing smirk.
She bowed. "Namaste, Krishna."
He stared. "You're… adorable."
The AI smiled faintly, eyes narrowing with faux seriousness. "Flattery detected. Protocol: mild amusement."
And from the side, Krishna exploded with laughter.
"Oh she likes you already!" he howled. "Medha—model A-1088. Co-developed by yours truly and the Goddess Saraswati."
Chosen One turned, amazed. "Wait—you built her with Saraswati?"
Krishna nodded proudly. "With Saraswati, of course. I supplied the mischief. She added the wisdom. Together—boom! Digital divinity."
"You've been blessed by the sassiest subroutine in all of creation. Medha, daughter of Saraswati."
Medha hovered beside him and adjusted imaginary glasses. "Mission Parameters: Monitor user progress. Deliver training suggestions. Record data. Offer psychological nudges toward Dharma. And roast when necessary."
The Chosen One smirked. "Roast?"
She nodded solemnly. "Dharma without humor is tyranny."
Lord Krishna clapped like a proud father. "Ah, my favorite line!"
Medha flicked his head. "Stop taking credit."
The god mock-flinched. "She really is Saraswati's child…"
Krishna grinned as Medha hovered back to her interface position—nestled like a third eye just above his vision. Her presence was comforting. Not overbearing. Just… quietly there.
Krishna sat beside him, cross-legged, nudging his shoulder. "It's alright to feel overwhelmed. The tool doesn't replace your journey—it enhances it. Think of her as… your insight, personified."
"Do all your avatars get something like this?"
"Not always. You're special. You chose clarity, not power. That says everything."
A long pause followed. Then Medha chimed in again. "By the way, Lord Krishna suggested your default interface background be changed to—"
"Rainbow cows," Krishna offered brightly.
"Decline," Chosen One muttered.
"Too late. Downloading Krishna's Chaos Pack 1.1," Medha teased.
Krishna gave her a wink. "She's got jokes too. Just like her mother."
Chosen One watched the interaction, a strange warmth bubbling in his chest. The presence of Medha—of Krishna—it made him feel… not alone. Never alone.
"I'm not just going to survive, am I?" he asked quietly.
Krishna looked at him with those infinite, mischievous eyes. "No. You're going to live. Wildly, messily, gloriously. With style."
"Even if I fail?"
"Especially if you fail. The best stories come from struggle. Now—shall we continue?"
The Chosen One nodded.
The wish was granted. The mind was sharpened. And now, it was time for the divine armory.
The Chosen One stood slowly, his movements more fluid, his body harmonizing with new, silent rhythms. It was like waking from a lifetime of fog.
Krishna stared, silent, as the divine particles still shimmered around his skin—residue of a wish granted by a god and crafted by the goddess of knowledge herself. Medha, now quietly nestled in his consciousness, occasionally pulsed with curious warmth, as though watching his emotions with childlike wonder. The HUD flickered softly at the edges of his perception, comforting but unobtrusive.
Lord Krishna was already lying on his back on the grass, arms folded behind his head, gazing up at a sky painted in impossible colors.
"You seem... too quiet," he said, side-glancing with a grin. "Not thinking of wishing for more wishes, are you? I already said no. Divine budget, remember?"
Krishna—the mortal one, that is—chuckled softly, still marveling at everything. "I'm just… trying to take this in. The nano machine, Medha, you—this place... it's more than a lot."
"A lot? My boy, this is the divine starter pack. Wait till you get to the expansion pack."
The Chosen One gave him a flat look. "Please don't tell me you're going to give me some flying monkey or a magical talking cow next."
The god sat up, eyes sparkling. "Don't tempt me. I do have a talking parrot who recites Vedas backward. Terribly smug bird."
They both laughed again—easier this time. As if the gulf between mortal and divine had thinned even more.
Lord Krishna's gaze shifted then, serious, but not heavy. "But jest aside, I did say I have two gifts for you. The nano machine was your wish, yes. But these… these are mine to give. Tools, companions, guides."
Krishna blinked. "Companions?"
"Exactly!" The god clapped his hands. "What kind of journey doesn't include a legendary weapon and a mysterious creature of wisdom?"
The Chosen One looked at him in surprise.
Lord Krishna clapped his hands.
There was a ripple through the air—a soft wind that sang like a conch. Before Krishna's eyes, space itself parted like silk curtains, revealing a floating blade suspended in the void. It glowed with a serene but terrifying light—neither hot nor cold, but ancient. Its hilt was carved with celestial runes that moved, rearranging themselves as if whispering truths too old for tongues. The sword was unlike anything he had seen. Not ornate, not heavy with embellishment—but impossibly true. Every edge hummed with presence. Every shimmer seemed to reflect not just light, but principles.
Krishna stepped forward.
"Asi," Lord Krishna said softly. "The first sword. Born from the fire of Brahma. The slayer of Adharma. A blade that only answers those who walk with truth."
Krishna stood, instinctively reaching out. His fingers brushed the hilt—
And passed through it, like mist.
His eyes widened, brows furrowed. "I... I can't grab it."
"Nope," the god said brightly.
Krishna turned to him, confused. "Why?"
"Because," Lord Krishna said, walking forward and placing a hand on his shoulder, "you are not ready."
Krishna's expression fell.
"This sword is no mere weapon," the god continued. "It is a vow forged in steel. It chooses when to appear. When the soul is aligned. You may follow Dharma now... instinctively, perhaps. But to wield Asi, you must become Dharma. Not just obey it. Embody it."
Krishna stared at the blade, its celestial form slowly dissipating back into the void.
"When the time comes," Lord Krishna said gently, "you will not need to reach for it. It will come to you."
He nodded, unsure, but trusting.
"Still," he muttered, "would've been nice to have a sword."
"Patience," the god said, eyes glinting. "Now, onto the second gift. This one bites."
"What?"
And then the ground shifted again. Another ripple of divine magic, and from the spiraling light rose a form—serpentine, elegant, and feminine. A serpent, long and ethereal, its scales shimmering with hints of the cosmos—stars and nebulae dancing across its skin. Her eyes were sapphire, and intelligent beyond measure.
Krishna stepped back instinctively. "Is that... a snake?"
"Not just a snake," Lord Krishna said proudly. "Avatar of Ananta Shesha. Just as you are my avatar, she is his. A fragment of the cosmic serpent upon whom Vishnu rests. As I have my serpent, you now have yours."
The serpent lowered her head in greeting.
Krishna blinked. "She's… beautiful."
"You are my avatar. She is Shesha's. Balance, you see."
Chosen One stared, wide-eyed. "You're serious?"
"She's not just a companion. She's a guide. A guardian of cosmic truth. She'll keep you steady when Dharma becomes unclear. And she bites. Occasionally. Usually for fun."
The serpent hissed at Krishna in disdain.
"She says your jokes are aging poorly," Medha translated cheerfully.
Krishna sighed. "Tough crowd."
The god clapped his hands. "You shall name her! I vote for… Hissy McVenomface!"
The snake hissed violently.
Krishna laughed so hard he nearly fell.
"Then how about… 'Noodle-chan.'" The god looked extremely pleased with himself.
The snake narrowed her golden eyes and hissed. Menacingly.
Krishna burst out laughing, again. "Noodle-chan?!"
The god pouted. "What? It's catchy!"
"She deserves better," Krishna said, wiping a tear.
"Ok, ok, third time's the charm." He knelt next to the snake. "I was thinking of naming her… hmm… 'Nagini-chan.'"
The serpent narrowed her eyes.
Hissed.
LOUDLY.
Chosen One laughed—deep and freely. "That sounds like a budget anime villain."
"This is the last time. I promise." The god smiled smugly. "I was going to name her 'Sssindhu'—you know, like the ocean and the sibilance—"
The snake hissed loudly in horror, tail smacking the ground indignantly.
Krishna couldn't help it. He laughed, again, loud and warm.
"She hates it," he gasped between laughs.
"She has no taste in divine puns," Lord Krishna said, pouting. "Sssindhu is a brilliant name."
Krishna made a face. "Fine. What would you name her, wise mortal?"
The serpent turned toward Chosen One, expectantly.
He studied her for a moment, sensing the nobility in her frame, the ancient strength, the divine patience.
"Sheshika," he said softly. "A name that reflects who she is. Not just a copy. A she. A will of her own."
The snake coiled proudly and flicked her tongue in approval.
"She accepts," Lord Krishna declared grandly, then winced as the serpent flicked her tongue mockingly in his direction. "Traitor. I created you."
"She likes it," Medha chimed in. "Also, registered domain name available."
"Oh now everyone's making fun of me," the god grumbled.
Krishna grinned. "Well, you did name a divine serpent Noodle-chan."
"You wound me, child."
The laughter hung in the air like incense. Warm, sacred, and eternal.
"She's perfect," Krishna said, stroking her scales. She shimmered faintly, vibrating with quiet power and promise.
"She'll guide you. Remind you. Teach you what Dharma, Satya, and the balance of things truly mean. You may stray, stumble, even fall. She'll help you stand again."
Krishna looked between the two divine beings—one eternal god smiling like an old friend, the other a cosmic serpent watching him with eyes older than stars.
"You don't send your champions alone," he said softly.
"Of course not," the god replied. "Even when they feel alone… I'm still with them. Just in quieter ways."
Krishna stood, now with Medha in his mind and Sheshika coiled around his arm. He was still afraid. Still unsure. But less so.
He had tools. Companions. Purpose.
Still, a lingering fear touched him. "What if I fail? What if I can't be what you expect?"
Lord Krishna looked at him, and in that moment, his playfulness softened. His voice, when it came, was quiet but rang with eternity.
"I expect nothing," he said. "I hope. I believe. I trust. Even I, the so-called god of mischief and music and war, have failed. But you? You are trying. That alone makes you more worthy than half the heavens."
Chosen One bowed his head slightly.
"Thank you."
Krishna beamed.
"You're welcome. Now, before you ask—no, you don't get a third gift. This isn't a divine garage sale."
"Darn."
"But," Krishna added with a wink, "you do get one more push."
Chosen One raised a brow. "Push?"
The God stepped forward, hand on the boy's chest, eyes soft and knowing.
"It's time."
Chosen One blinked. Time? He glanced around the timeless realm—the swirling sky, the stilled stars, the quiet that had no dawn or dusk. The idea of time seemed… almost laughable here.
"But—" he began, and then hesitated. Not in protest. Just… pause.
Krishna's eyes met his with serene clarity.
"You're hesitating," the God said gently.
Chosen One exhaled, hand brushing Sheshika's cool scales.
"I'm not scared of the battle. Not even of dying again. But what if I fail? What if I forget all this? What if… I lose myself out there?"
The question hung in the stillness, heavier than any sword.
Krishna stepped closer. No flute, no tricks, no mischief. Just Him. The eternal witness. The timeless friend.
"You'll forget many things," Krishna said softly. "The sound of this place. The texture of my voice. The ease of your heart in this realm."
Chosen One's fists clenched, but he said nothing.
"But," Krishna continued, placing a hand over the boy's chest, "you will never lose what I placed in you. Not the knowledge. Not the will. Not the spark of Dharma that burns in your soul."
His hand pulsed faintly. Warm. Alive.
"I will be with you. In every moment of doubt. Every breath drawn in fear. Every decision that hurts. I will walk behind your steps, whisper through Medha's voice, and guide you through Sheshika's presence. You are not leaving me, Krishna. You are becoming me."
The Chosen One felt something shift. A calmness unlike any he'd known. Not peace—purpose.
"But what if I want to come back?" he asked, almost like a child.
Krishna chuckled. "Then I'll scold you. Hug you. And send you right back. That's what friends are for."
Chosen One smiled at that.
"Besides," Krishna added with a twinkle in his eye, "I've got a vested interest in this story. I like watching it unfold. Especially the you parts."
Chosen One laughed again, light and unburdened.
And then—Krishna stepped back.
He raised a single finger.
"Close your eyes."
He did.
"Breathe."
He did.
"Now fall."
The God gave him a gentle push.
The moment stretched like a held note in a raga.
There was no fear. No scream. Just light. Motion. A sense of gravity shifting.
And in his heart, a single final whisper:
"I am with you. Always."