The cliffs above the ocean held their breath.
The sea, freshly tamed by the Varuṇastra, lapped quietly at the shore, like a lion resting after a blood-soaked hunt. The sun dipped low behind silvered clouds, painting the world in hues of bronze and pale indigo.
Parashurama sat upon a flat stone carved by time, his axe planted beside him like a banner of ancient grief. Devavrata remained standing at the edge of the cliff, staring into the horizon where sky and sea braided into one.
"You changed, boy," the sage said after a long pause. "The one who first came to me… he sought power. The one standing now… seeks something else."
Devavrata didn't turn, but his voice reached the master—calm, grave, and deeper than before.
"I thought I wanted strength to protect the throne. To silence doubt. But the ocean…" he paused, eyes closing briefly, "the ocean has no throne. It only carries."
Parashurama nodded, lips tightening into the ghost of a smile.
"You speak like one who has tasted the world's pain. Not read it in scripture. Not heard it in song. But tasted it. Salted and raw."
"I did," Devavrata whispered. "And it lingers. Not as bitterness. But as a burden."
The sage leaned forward slightly, his voice lower, more intimate.
"That is the curse of dharma. It does not reward—it remembers. It asks, and keeps asking, until your soul thins like gold beaten across eternity."
"Then let it ask," Devavrata said. "I am no longer afraid of its questions."
Parashurama laughed—a shorbreath than joy.
"Bold words. But you'll find wind is not like the sea or flame. Fire tests will. Water tests sorrow. But wind—" he lifted a finger toward the skies—"wind tests truth."
Devavrata turned to him now, eyes calm but watchful.
"And what truth does it seek?"
"The truth you hide even from yourself."
A silence fell between them. But it was not empty—it was full. Full of unshed prayers, unspoken dreams, unburied pasts.
Then Devavrata spoke again, quieter now.
"Did you ever think of turning away from this path? After the Mahadeva gave you the astras? After the bloodshed?"
Parashurama's gaze turned to the horizon—where storm clouds now began to brew, distant but inevitable.
"I thought of it every time I closed my eyes. But warriors like us… we don't walk away. We are walked upon. By history. By destiny. By the very gods who chose us."
He rose, lifting the Parashu once more. It hummed faintly—resonating not with rage, but with memory.
"You still have far to go, boy. The Vāyavyastra awaits. The trial of the storm."
"What does it demand?"
Parashurama turned to him, eyes like weathered stone.
"Nothing."
A beat passed.
"And that is what makes it deadly. For the wind owes nothing. It remembers nothing. It simply is. It does not ask your sorrow. It does not care for your dharma. It will strip away everything—your doubts, your beliefs, your truths—and leave behind only what cannot be taken."
Devavrata's eyes darkened, yet held steady.
"Then let the wind come."
"It will not come," the sage said, stepping back. "You must call it."
Far above, the skies began to stir.
Somewhere deep in the air—unseen but inevitable—the storm awakened.
The cliffs trembled.
The air, once still in reverence, began to coil. It was not a wind that came—it was presence, invisible but undeniable. The kind that lifts the hairs on your neck before it lifts the world from beneath your feet.
Far above, the sky had turned strange. Stars blinked at midday. Clouds had not gathered, but had simply stopped… as though unsure of where to go. The sun trembled behind a pale veil, diffused and watchful.
Parashurama stepped back, his voice now solemn.
"The Vāyavyastra does not test strength. Nor sorrow. Nor resolve. It tests the truth of who you are."
Devavrata stood at the cliff's edge, the sea behind him a calm witness, and the heavens ahead preparing to unravel.
"Then let it test me," he said.
"No," Parashurama corrected gently. "Let you find yourself within it."
A single breath escaped Devavrata's lungs. The moment he exhaled—
The world vanished.
He stood in nothing.
No ground. No horizon. No air. Just an endless, formless wind, howling across eternity. It did not blow from a direction—it moved through existence itself. Through memory. Through marrow. Through the soul.
And the wind spoke, Not in words, but in questions woven from currents, each one older than kings, deeper than oceans.
A cyclone of silence encircled Devavrata, then— The Questions Came:
"Who are you when no one remains to name you?"
"What will you protect when all thrones turn to dust?"
"When honor becomes burden, and duty becomes chain… will you still walk forward?"
"Will you fight for a world that cannot love you back?"
"What remains of a warrior… when the war is over, and the silence is louder than victory?"
Devavrata staggered. The questions did not wait for answers—they ripped them from inside him, from places even he feared to know. Visions battered him like divine gusts:
His mother, vanishing into the silver current with her seven sons, sorrow in her eyes and blessing on her lips.
His father, hollowed by regret, love too late to mend what was lost.
The throne room of Hastinapura, heavy with whispered ambition, draped in velvet oaths hiding venom.
A battlefield not yet real, but already etched in fate—where fire and ash replaced flags, and brothers bled for kings.
He staggered, body bowed. His knees found no ground, yet he felt himself fall.
"I am… Devavrata," he said. "Son of the Ganga."
"Names," the wind whispered back. "Are not identity."
He fell to his knees. There was no ground, yet he felt the collapse.
Then—
Ganga.
Not as form. Not as vision. But as a presence.
The wind shifted.
Mist coiled around his limbs.
The scent of lotus blossoms curled from nowhere.
The hush of water over ancient stones whispered through the gale.
Her voice emerged—not spoken, but remembered in his bones.
"You are my current, child.
You are not the still pond. You are not the silent lake.
You are the river.
You move because the world does not."
He inhaled—not air, but meaning.
"Then I will be the breath in the storm," Devavrata said, rising.
"I will not stand still.
I will carry dharma forward—even when the path disappears beneath me."
The wind rose like a tidal wave of sky—but he did not flinch.
"Even when the world forgets me… I will remember myself."
"Even when they turn their backs—I will walk ahead."
"Even when love demands silence—I will speak through my deeds."
Lightning cracked above—not in fury… but in acknowledgment.
Then, before him, the wind folded. A shape emerged—a spiral of air, flickering with stormlight and silence, and within it: a single astral glyph, like a floating breath.
The Vāyavyastra.
As Devavrata reached out and the glyph entered him, the gale stopped.
Not lessened. Not faded.
Stopped.
And in that impossible silence, a single truth echoed through his mind, as if the wind itself had branded it into his soul:
"Each time you summon the wind, something in the world that hides will be revealed. Secrets buried. Lies unmasked. But truth is not merciful."
"Use me—and know that you may never un-know what I show you."
Devavrata opened his eyes.
He was on the cliff again.
The storm clouds above dispersed like respectful warriors leaving their general to rest. The wind that remained now bowed to him—playful, watchful, no longer a force… but an ally.