Ajitha's chest rose and fell in uneven breaths as silence wrapped itself around the great peak of Kailas. A few minutes had passed since their first confrontation, yet his heart still beat furiously as though the mountain air itself carried the weight. Slowly, he calmed, though his eyes remained fixed upon the figure before him—Ashwathama.
Before him, Ashwatthama sat cross-legged on the cold, ancient ground of Kailas, meticulously tending to his torn bandages with a practiced hand. His movements were mechanical, weary, as if he had repeated the task countless times—an immortal ritual for a man who could not die.
There was no urgency in the way he worked, only resignation.
Ajitha took a cautious step forward, the pressure of the ancient mountain pressing down upon him like an invisible weight. Even as a Divine Lord, he felt it. His voice broke the silence, rough and uncertain.
"Why are you here?" he asked. "I mean… on Kailas?"
Ashwatthama did not raise his head. Still threading the cloth around his arms and torso, he replied in a deep, hoarse voice that carried the weight of centuries. "There is no other place left on Earth with breath and life... only Kailas. It is true that I cannot die, but that does not mean I will suffer without oxygen or warmth. Even immortality has limits to what it can endure."
Ajitha blinked. His mind blanked for a moment as he processed the calm, almost matter-of-fact tone. He had never considered the suffering that came with eternal life—the loneliness, the physical torment, the endless cycle of repairing a body that never truly healed.
His gaze drifted to Ashwatthama's forehead, where blood still seeped from an unhealing wound. The ancient curse of the Mahabharata... The immortal wound that no time could mend.
Memories stirred within Ajitha—lessons, scriptures, and myths he had read long ago. Of a warrior once known for his strength and devotion. A man who bore the mani—a divine gem embedded in his forehead, granting him power, endurance, and an immortal body. But that same man had committed an act so vile during the Mahabharata war that Krishna himself had ripped the gem from his brow and cursed him to wander the earth until the end of time.
Ajitha narrowed his eyes.
His spiritual sense swept across the barren Earth, diving deep into forgotten lands and ruins. It didn't take long. His senses locked onto something… peculiar. A gem, ancient and still pulsing faintly with divine energy, buried beneath layers of dust and stone. It had been embedded carelessly into the crumbled wall of a forgotten fort, used like a common stone to fill a gap in the structure.
Ajitha raised his hand, and with a silent invocation, mana surged through the air. Across the planet, the stone around the gem began to tremble. With a sudden crack, the rock dislodged from the wall and shot through the atmosphere like a comet, drawn to his command.
Within moments, the stone hovered before Ajitha, wrapped in a delicate aura of violet mana. He made a subtle gesture, and the outer shell of rock began to peel away, layer by layer, until only the gleaming gem remained—small, radiant, and ancient.
He reached forward and caught it in his palm.
The gem pulsed faintly in his grasp, like a heartbeat that had been waiting for centuries to be felt again.
Ajitha turned to the immortal sitting before him. Ashwatthama was still adjusting his bandages, his face showing no sign of surprise or interest. Ajitha stepped closer, extending the gem toward him.
"Is this… yours?" he asked quietly. "I'm not sure, but it's the only thing on this dead planet that gives off such a peculiar energy. I sensed your lingering aura on it... It called to you."
For a long moment, Ashwatthama said nothing.
His fingers paused. He lifted his head, and his ancient eyes locked onto the gem in Ajitha's hand. For a brief second, something flickered in them—recognition… sorrow… perhaps hope. But it vanished as quickly as it had come.
He gave the gem a cursory glance before looking away once more.
"I gave that gem to Krishna," he said softly. "After what I did… after the blood I spilled… he said it would return to me when the time was right. When my curse would lift, and I would be needed again… for something greater."
Then, as if it meant nothing, Ashwatthama went back to adjusting his bandages—tugging at the cloth with the same weary, mechanical rhythm.
Ajitha gazed down at the gem resting in his palm, its surface glimmering faintly in the dim radiance of the sin flames that still flickered around him. The heartbeat-like rhythm of the gem resonated softly, like an ancient memory whispering through time. His eyes drifted toward Ashwatthama, who sat slouched beneath the faint glow of Kailas's eternal light, his bandaged body a monument of sorrow and endurance.
Ajitha could almost read the thoughts crossing the immortal warrior's weary mind. According to legend, the Mani—the divine gem of Ashwatthama—was destined to return to its owner in the era of Kalki, the final avatar who would cleanse humanity and restore dharma. But that prophecy had long since turned to dust. Earth was no longer alive; its lands were ash, its seas were void, its skies barren. With humanity extinguished, the birth of Kalki was an impossibility. The cycle had ended—or so it seemed.
Ajitha sighed softly, the air trembling as he slipped the gem carefully into the inner pocket of his robe. "The legends were never meant to end this way," he murmured under his breath, before turning his gaze to Ashwatthama.
"I met the Queen of the Elves," Ajitha said at last, his tone calm but carrying the echo of cosmic weight. "She told me something about Earth's origin. According to her… this planet isn't from this galaxy—perhaps not even from this universe. Do you know anything about that?"
Ashwatthama froze for a moment, his hands stilling on the torn bandages. For the first time, a genuine spark of surprise flared in his ancient eyes. The statement had shaken something deep within him, though he quickly composed himself.
His voice, when it came, was steady but edged with disbelief. "I don't know anything about that," he admitted slowly. "I am a man, not a god. I have witnessed the rise and fall of empires, the birth and death of civilizations, but the secrets of creation and cosmic origin lie far beyond my reach."
He paused, the faint sound of his unraveling bandages whispering through the air. "You mentioned a queen… Althea, was it? Tell me, who is she? How does she know such things? The way you speak, it sounds as though she's seen Earth fall from another universe with her own eyes—and if that's true…" He gave a wry, almost amused smile beneath the wrappings. "Then she must be older than any being I've known. Perhaps millions of years old."
Ajitha let out a tired chuckle and carefully lowered himself to the ground, the soul pressure still bearing down on him like a mountain. His body trembled faintly as he crossed his legs and sat facing the cursed immortal.
"She's the Queen of the Elves," Ajitha explained. "And yes, their lives stretch across ages unimaginable to us. But she wasn't there when Earth arrived. It was her grandmother—the previous queen—who witnessed it. Their race keeps records that even time dares not erase."
Ashwatthama nodded faintly, the bandages fluttering as a rare gust of wind brushed past the two men. "Ah, the Elves," he said with a trace of nostalgia. "The tall ones with eyes like dawnlight and ears that could catch the whispers of the stars. They came to Earth long ago, before the great silence. I met them once… curious beings, always searching for meaning in creation. They visited this planet several times, even before its destruction."
He fell silent for a while, as if lost in memories buried beneath centuries of suffering. Then, his gaze lifted, studying Ajitha with a quiet intensity.
The longer he looked, the deeper his confusion grew. There was something about Ajitha—something not quite mortal. The pressure of the mountain didn't seem to crush him the way it should have. His aura, though restrained, was dense… divine even. And the faint glimmer of the cosmic within his eyes reminded Ashwatthama of ancient deities.
But Ajitha was human. That much was certain.
And yet… how could a human breathe freely outside of Kailas? How could he survive when the atmosphere itself was gone, when even the everyone had abandoned this realm?
Finally, Ashwatthama broke the silence. His voice was low, but laced with a hint of suspicion.
"Tell me, Ajitha," he said. "Who are you really? And how are you alive… outside of Kailas? No mortal can step beyond this mountain and survive, not even I. The air is gone, the world is dead. Yet you…" His eyes narrowed slightly, studying the faint glow of mana dancing around Ajitha's form. "…you walk this wasteland as if the earth itself obeys your will."
Ajitha didn't answer immediately. His expression was calm but unreadable, his gaze steady as he met Ashwatthama's questioning stare.
For a moment, neither spoke. Only the low hum of distant winds echoed across the desolate peaks of Kailas.
Ajitha's gaze was fixed on the horizon — where the fractured Earth met the endless void. Finally, he broke the silence, his voice calm yet carrying the authority of one who had seen the fall of countless civilizations.
"You know," he began slowly, "about those beings… the ones who called themselves Harbingers. They were the ones who came and shattered the invincible dome that once surrounded Earth — what they called the Realm Lock. When that barrier broke, the mana that existed beyond this world, perhaps even beyond our solar system, surged inward. You must have witnessed how everything changed after that."
Ajitha sighed softly, his gaze drifting toward his trembling hands before lowering to his chest, where faint flickers of sin flames pulsed beneath his skin. "I too am someone who changed because of it," he murmured.
Ashwatthama nodded faintly. His expression was solemn, the dim light reflecting off the dried blood seeping through his bandages. He hadn't seen the Harbingers himself — their arrival had been long after his name had faded from mortal tongues — but he had heard the echoes of their influence reverberate through time.
"Yes," he murmured, his tone carrying the weight of centuries. "I remember the tremors of that day… not through eyes, but through the very pulse of the planet. I felt it, deep within the earth — like the heart of creation itself had started beating again after an eternity of silence."
He shifted slightly, resting his hand upon his knee as if recalling memories carved into his immortal soul. "After the Realm Lock fell, the world changed overnight. Humans began to awaken to powers once thought to belong only to gods. They flew through the skies, commanded the elements, and wielded mana as if it were a natural part of their existence. And then…"
He looked away, his voice deepening. "…the others came. The races beyond the stars — elves, dwarves, halflings, and those whose names humanity could not even pronounce.
Ajitha listened intently, his eyes sharp. The flames around him flickered gently, responding to his shifting emotions.
Ashwatthama continued, his tone carrying the weight of countless ages. "There were a few among those races who were… sensitive — intuitive enough to sense me. They came out of curiosity, drawn by the old, cursed power that still clings to my soul like a shadow that refuses to fade. The elves came too — not to fight, but to question. They sought answers about why Earth had sealed itself away, and why the seal had broken now, after so many eons."
He gave a small, humorless laugh. "They came to me because they knew I was old enough to have witnessed that time. Old enough to remember what the world was before silence claimed it. But even then," he added with a bitter smirk, "they were perceptive only to a degree. None of them could sense the others who slumber here. Only me — because I can no longer keep my power buried in this accursed state."
Ajitha's eyes narrowed. "Wait… you were there when the Earth was sealed? Then do you know who did it?"
But before Ashwatthama could answer, Ajitha's mind raced back to the earlier words — 'they were perceptive enough to not sense others but me'. A chill ran down his spine. Does that mean there are others still on this planet? But how? I couldn't even sense Ashwatthama's presence until I stood before him…
Before he could voice the thought, Ashwatthama spoke again, his tone heavy with remembrance. "At first, everyone believed Krishna had sealed the Earth before his passing. People all over the world felt the tremors — saw the sky shimmer with that divine mark. But that wasn't the truth. The Earth was sealed long before my birth. I sensed it, faintly, even in my youth, but never thought much of it. Yet, when Krishna departed his mortal vessel, the seal surged — its power deepened, as though something was reinforcing it."
He sighed and gazed up at the ashen clouds above Kailas. "Those who had reached the higher states of existence — those like me — could feel it clearly. The seal wasn't meant to restrain us, nor to isolate Earth from the cosmos. At first, it seemed like it was trying to keep us out of reach of the greater universe, but even that wasn't true. Hanuman once leapt beyond the stars, reaching for the Sun itself — the seal did not stop him. Even weapons I forged and unleashed could pierce through it. It was there, yet it allowed passage."
Ashwatthama's eyes glowed faintly with divine light as he continued, "In time, we who sensed the seal learned to ignore it. It did not affect us. Our strength did not come from the mana you speak of, Ajitha. We drew from within — from Tapas, from will, from the divine essence bestowed by the gods. The Brahmastra, for instance, was not born of energy, but of creation itself — a fragment of Brahma's will. Such powers — the Divyastras — Gandiva, Vijay Dhanush, the Gada, the Pashupatastra — all carried divine essence, each strike embodying celestial law."
Ashwathama's voice carried across the cold expanse of Kailas like a slow, ancient wind.
"The Realm Lock," he said, "didn't affect anyone directly. Even when it grew stronger, it mattered little — because in our era, no one depended on mana. The strengthening of the seal was seen by all — humans, beasts, even the smallest living things felt the tremor of that divine act. But as I told you before that when Krishna left his mortal body… something changed. The seal pulsed with new life — its strength multiplied. That surge, however, was only felt by those of my level… and by the few who stood near Krishna at his final moment."
He looked down, adjusting the loose bandage around his arm, the movement heavy with centuries of exhaustion.
"We… the remnants of that age… were always seclusive. And when Kaliyuga began, the tides swallowed Dwarka whole. No one tied to Krishna remained. Thus, the reason for the Realm Lock's strengthening was lost to time."
He paused, glancing at Ajitha with faint pity.
"If you truly wish to know why the Realm Lock exists — and why it strengthened after Krishna's departure — then you should ask Krishna himself."
For a brief moment, Ajitha wanted to laugh. The idea of meeting Krishna — the eternal Preserver, a being beyond the bounds of mortal reality — was absurd even for him. Instead, he simply looked up at the endless void above. The veil of the sky shimmered faintly, revealing a canvas of galaxies and shifting nebulae. His lips parted slightly, and he asked, almost mockingly, "How?"
He didn't expect an answer.
But one came.
"He just left his mortal body. He's still alive — beyond this realm, in Vaikuntha. But for you to meet him…" The voice carried through the air, rich and resonant, filled with vigor and ageless strength. "…that is impossible."
It wasn't Ashwathama who had spoken.
Ajitha turned sharply toward the source. A figure stood upon a jagged cliff, silhouetted against the fractured starlight. His presence was unlike any mortal's — it was as if the mountains themselves bowed beneath his weight. His frame was broad and carved with muscle, his skin sun-bronzed yet glowing faintly, as though the fire of countless dawns burned within him. Strapped across his back was an enormous axe, its blade faintly humming with divine resonance — every rune etched upon it shimmered like molten gold. His hair, long and unbound, flowed behind him in the cold wind, streaked with the scent of forests and blood-soaked battlefields.
His eyes — sharp, ancient, and unwavering — carried the calm of a sage but the fury of a storm barely contained.
Even before he spoke again, Ajitha knew this was no ordinary immortal. This was a warrior-sage whose wrath had once humbled kings and whose name was whispered in both fear and reverence through millennia — the man who had trained heroes and slaughtered armies.
A being neither god nor man, but something terrifyingly eternal.
And as the air around them thickened with divine weight, Ajitha realized who he was facing.
The immortal warrior-sage — the son of Renuka and the sixth avatar of Vishnu's rage.