The wind did not reach here.
Buried far beneath the jungled cradle of ancient Bharat (India), where trees whispered the names of forgotten kings and rivers once ran silver, there lay a temple not etched in maps or memory. Its stone halls, chiseled by hands long returned to dust, slumbered beneath layers of silence and sanctity.
They walked barefoot — four of them — cloaked in roughspun robes the color of ash and saffron. Their hair matted, their eyes hollow with knowing. They were not priests, nor warriors, nor kings. They were remnants of something older. Carriers of silence. Witnesses of what should never be spoken...Sages.
Their steps echoed in the stone corridors, deeper and deeper into the earth, past murals that danced in flickering shadows — not carved, but seared into the walls by something divine and wrathful. Symbols spiraled and twisted in tongues not heard since the first breath of creation.
*****
And then… she appeared.
She did not need movement to command presence.
She stood at the center of the temple's sanctum — the fierce form, the eternal protector, the ender of illusion. Eyes wide, unblinking, carved with such violence they seemed alive. A mouth opened in an eternal scream — not of rage, but of truth that vaporizes. Her tongue reached forward like a blade drawn mid-curse, and her limbs radiated cosmic stillness twisted in dance.
Around her neck: a garland of skulls. At her feet: the crushed remains of ignorance and pride. Her many arms held weapons and blessings in equal weight, and behind her raged an unseen storm — not of wind, but of energy. Raw. Primal. Limitless.
The walls pulsed.
The air thickened.
Even gods, if they dared enter, would kneel in reverence, for she is someone no one could comprehend.
She was not carved.
She had always been.
The sages did not speak. They did not pray. They bowed — not in worship, but in recognition. For before her, there were no names. No mantras. No ego. Only surrender.
And yet… even her presence was not the destination.
They passed her.
Deeper.
Past sanctity. Past fear. Guided by nothing but the silent scream within their bones — the one that echoed from birth but made no sound.
At the end of the temple, past where even light hesitated, it waited.
A chamber veiled in stillness, older than fire, opened like a breath being held too long.
And there...it stood.
A monolith, neither born nor built. It stretched from earth to ceiling — a pillar of energy too radiant for form. Colors bled into each other like a sunset caught in crystal: indigo to vermilion, emerald to void. It did not glow. It pulsed. As though it had a heartbeat — as though it remembered something.
And though it was silent, the sages heard it.
It did not speak. But all seven knelt.
For they had found it — the source, the root, the CORE.
And though they could not understand it… they knew.
This was not meant to be touched.
And it never should have been awakened.
****
A breathless silence lingered in the underground chamber—thick, heavy, almost sacred. The air itself hummed with something ancient, something neither time nor memory could fully explain. The sages stood before the towering monolith, its ombré glow washing their faces in ethereal light. It wasn't just color—it was emotion made visible. Reverence. Dread. Wonder.
Sage Nirvahan took a hesitant step forward, his sandals brushing against stone worn smooth by centuries.
"Sage Rudran…"
He said quietly, his voice catching on the weight of the moment.
"We're here. But what now? What are we supposed to do with… this?"
Rudran didn't look at him. His eyes were fixed on the monolith—no, beyond it. Like he was listening to something that none of the others could hear.
"We pray,"
Rudran said softly.
Nirvahan blinked.
"Pray? To what? A stone? A light? We don't even know what this is."
His voice was rising, not out of anger, but confusion.
"We don't understand it, Rudran. We didn't even know it existed until it started calling us."From behind, Sage Nirgun scoffed under his breath and stepped forward.
"Pray to the unknown? That's madness. We're sages, not fools. How do you offer devotion to something you can't name, can't define, and can't touch?"
Rudran finally turned, slow and deliberate. His face was calm, but his eyes burned with something fierce—like the memory of fire.
"Faith."
He said.
"It was never meant to be understood. It isn't logic. It isn't reason. It is surrender. Complete. Unyielding. It's looking into the abyss and still stepping forward because you feel something deep inside—something louder than doubt."
He paused, his gaze returning to the monolith.
"Our minds—our brilliant, disciplined, logical minds—they were trained to measure, compare, and analyze. But faith doesn't live there. It never has. Faith lives where understanding ends. It blooms in the blind spot. The place where the soul stretches its hands forward and says, 'I do not need to see. I know.''
The words floated heavily in the air.
Sage Sharvan, the youngest of them all, stepped closer to the glowing stone. His voice was softer than a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might disturb the presence in the room.
"She is here,"
he said, voice trembling with something between reverence and fear.
"I feel her. The one they spoke of only in broken myths and forgotten hymns. She will help us. She will guide us."
Sage Rudran closed his eyes, tilting his head slightly upward as if basking in some warmth the others could not yet feel.
"The Holy Mother…"
he whispered.
"Sage Angira..."
Sage Rudran says as he opens his eyes and looks back to Sage Angira who was behind all other sages
"Light the sacred flame once more; it is he who will whisper answers into our ears and show them in our minds."
At the call, Sage Angira stepped forward, his presence as quiet and heavy as thunderclouds before a storm. The others moved aside as he approached, the flickering monolith's light catching his eyes—crimson, glinting like embers.
"As you say Sage.''
From the folds of his cloth bag, Angira pulled a handful of ash—gray, fine, and ghostly—from the remains of those long cremated, their spirits carried now in dust. He brought the fistful to his lips, whispering ancient mantras in Sanskrit, each syllable vibrating like a memory of fire. His eyes remained closed, his brow lined not with worry, but sacred duty.
In a single motion, he cast the ashes upon the dry wood stacked at the center of the chamber.
And the fire answered.
It blazed to life in an instant—no flint, no spark, just divine ignition. The sacred flame surged upward, twisting and pulsing with colors, power, and divine heat.
****
The sages, in unison, placed their mats of smooth, pliable hay upon the stone floor, their bodies folding with the ease of centuries-old ritual. They sat in a circle, their faces cast in shadow, the fire between them growing wild, as though something within it stirred—a life all its own.
Sage Rudran, however, sat at the center, did not move. His eyes, dark and unblinking, stared not at the flame but into the heart of the unseen—into the very abyss of existence where she resided. His voice, when it came, was not merely spoken but seemed to reverberate in the depths of the earth, in the beating of their hearts.
"We call upon her now."
He whispered, his tone low, thick with an ancient reverence, and laced with a quiet terror.
"The one who is not of this world nor the next. The one who resides in the folds between life and death, in the very darkness where nothing dares to tread."
The words hung heavy in the air, thick with an oppressive power. The sages held their breath, instinctively lowering their heads, as if to protect themselves from the weight of what was being invoked. Even the fire flickered in response, shadows spiraling out from the flame as though they had a life of their own—alive with fear, alive with something far darker.
"She who is older than the stars."
Sage Rudran continued, his voice now a reverent tremor.
"Before time itself bent into the shape of our understanding, she stood—silent, untouchable, and absolute. Her eyes—if one could dare to meet them—are the void from which nothing can escape. She who devours, yet grants birth; she who is destruction and creation entwined as one."
The sages felt it then—the air tightening, as though the very heavens were drawing closer, suffocating them with its weight. There was a rumbling deep within the earth, a distant but unmistakable roar of a power beyond comprehension. The stone beneath them seemed to hum, vibrating with the presence of something older than the world itself.
"Faith?"
Sage Rudran's voice was now but a shadow of sound, barely a whisper in the thickening air.
"Faith is not required here. It is her will—her hunger—that calls to us. We are but whispers before her fury. And yet, we stand here, trembling before her, for we are bound to her."
The fire surged, casting grotesque shadows that seemed to writhe as if they were alive. There was a momentary stillness, as if the very world held its breath, and then the darkness at the edges of the room grew deeper. It spread, a living presence curling around the flames, suffocating the light, devouring it in the hungry blackness.
Sage Rudran's voice cracked in the silence that followed.
"She watches, and when she chooses to reveal her presence—her power—there is no escape. There is no turning back."
The flame blazed then, brighter, hotter, but with a coldness that struck to the core of their being. The heat was not warmth; it was the fury of a tempest, the fire of something primordial, waiting to consume.
The sacred fire flickered gently, casting long shadows on the moss-laden walls of the subterranean temple.
Mats of woven hay creaked beneath the sages as they sat in a solemn circle, unmoving, their eyes heavy with devotion. The stone monolith loomed over them—taller than any man, its surface glimmering with a strange ombre sheen that shifted with every flicker of the flame: indigo, gold, crimson, emerald, and void.
Then—it began.
Without warning, the stone pulsed.
A single, slow breath from a slumbering god. The colors danced more violently, and then with a sound like the groaning of the earth's bones, the monolith flared to life.
A blinding radiance poured from its every groove, swallowing the fire whole in an instant, reducing the sacred flame to a memory.
The room fell into silence—no crackling, no breathing—only the tremble in their bones and the roaring quiet of the divine.
Sage Rudran rose slowly, his eyes transfixed on the now-living stone.
"This is the answer..."
he whispered, the air shimmering around his lips.
"CRACKKK!!"
Then—thunder.
A bolt of light—no, of judgment—lashed out from the stone, spiraling like a serpent of rainbow fire. It struck Rudran directly in the chest.
There was no scream.
He vanished—vaporized, leaving behind only the impression of his kneeling form in scorched earth.
"R-Rudran!"
Sage Nirvahan staggered back, his lips trembling.
"RUDRAN!"
Another flare. The second bolt hurled itself with unrelenting precision into Nirvahan's side, folding his form into light before it disintegrated into ash.
Shravan gasped and turned, eyes wild.
"What is this?!."
But the stone had already chosen—his form was lost in a blast that cracked the tiles beneath them.
One by one, the sages fell. The stone chose with divine indifference, shedding lightning like a god hurling judgment from the heavens.
Sage Angira alone remained. Fear strangled his chest as he turned and ran, the hems of his robes catching against the cracked temple floor. He tripped—sprawling forward—his hands bloodied, his cheek landing hard against the cold stone.
He raised his head slowly…
And met Her gaze.
The great statue at the altar—silent, dark, and furious in expression—now pulsed with light. Her eyes were illuminated, an impossible gold brimming with ancient wrath and knowing.
He could not breathe.
The final bolt arced down like a pillar from the heavens, slow and terrible in descent.
And it did not vaporize him.
It seared.
It burned.
It peeled back every layer of his flesh as he screamed, his form writhing beneath the watchful gaze of the Primordial Mother—She who bore no name, for her name was beyond language.
As he crumbled, flame and ash, the chamber fell still. The stone dimmed. The wrath subsided.
And the monolith stood quiet once more—shining faintly.
And then… the laughter.
It did not come from the statue, nor from any earthly throat. It echoed from the very womb of the temple—ancient stone vibrating with a sound older than time itself. A guttural, echoing, thunderous laughter—fierce as storm winds, sharp as splintered bone, and vast as the void between stars.
Walls trembled. Pillars cracked. The very air thickened with dread and reverence. The monolith, now humming with unstable power, began to split—hairline fractures glowing with otherworldly light. A storm surged within it.
And then—with a shriek of raw divinity—it ascended.
The monolith burst forth through the crown of the temple like a blade through flesh, trailing rainbow-ombre flames as it soared into the blackened sky above Bhārat. The winds howled in worship. Thunder peeled across the heavens.
High above the clouds, the stone hung still… trembling… until it shattered.
A celestial explosion. No fire. No smoke. Just an eruption of light—luminous, pure, sacred—scattering fragments across the globe like fallen stars. As they struck the earth, the light didn't die. It seeped into the soil. Into the air. Into the people.
Where the fragments came to rest, a thin smoke arose—colorless, yet weighty. It curled like a whisper into those rare souls who could bear it. Into their breath, their blood, their bones.
The Core had been awakened.
But not for all—only for those destined to bear its weight. Only for those who, when faced with the divine laugh of destruction, would not shatter.
****
The wind had died hours ago.
In a forgotten jungle, where vines strangled trees and ancient roots drank deeply from the bones of long-dead kingdoms, a sliver of divine stone struck the earth in silence. It left no crater. No fire. Just a faint circular mark — charred and pulsing.
A man approached.
Barefoot, with cracked lips and clothes stained in sweat and soil, he was no hero — just another wanderer. Perhaps a farmer. Perhaps no one at all. His name was lost to time, and soon, so would be his shape.
''Huh??''
Drawn by a force beyond his understanding, he moved toward the glowing shard. It hummed — not with sound, but memory. It knew him.
He reached out. Fingers trembling. Just the barest touch—
And the world bent.
"kyyuuckkk!!"
The shard erupted with colorless light. A tendril of energy—thin as thread, sharp as sin—snaked up his palm and vanished beneath his skin. He arched, back snapping. A scream tore loose, raw and animal.
"aaahhhhahhhhhhhh!"
Veins bulged across his arm, swelling with violet fire. The energy carved through muscle and nerve, traveling to his shoulder, then climbing his spine. He convulsed — froth at his mouth, blood from his nose — and fell to his knees as it reached the base of his skull.
Then silence.
Then stillness.
Then—
His head jerked back.
Eyes wide, unfocused. And slowly, unnaturally slowly, his irises began to shift — losing their dull brown until they shimmered with a strange, sick tint of yellow. Not gold. Not amber.
Something... older.
He collapsed face-first into the dirt, body twitching, breath ragged. But he was not dead.
He was awakened.
And the stone — now a dull husk — turned to dust and blew away.
He stood up, his breath even slightly as he looks up with energy swriling in his pupil making them glow yellow
"What... what is this? And… why is everything doubled?!"
He gasped, stumbling as his vision distorted, panic flooding his voice.
"Oye! What are you doing in the jungle alone?"
A voice called out from the trees, a man holding an axe to cut trees.
He turned toward it, yellow eyes wide and unstable.
"A-a… a—A DEMON!"
The man cried out, stepping back in terror.
"Huh? No, no—I'm not a demon, I'm—"
The glow in his eyes flickered... and then vanished—His head dropped, severed cleanly from his body.
"Tch. Even demons couldn't stand against me."The man muttered, spitting on the lifeless face as he walked away.
He was right...Humans were even worse then DEMONS!