The silver bark shimmered faintly, as though stars themselves were carved into its skin. Golden leaves rippled overhead without wind, releasing faint motes of light that drifted around Om and Dawon. The vast emptiness stretched beyond the tree, no sky, no ground—only an endless openness that seemed to curve inward, as though they were inside a pocket of reality detached from the known world.
Om stood still, one hand resting on Dawon's mane. His thoughts throbbed with unanswered questions. For the first time since arriving, his voice broke the stillness.
"Why… why were we brought here? What was that rift? Why did it pull us in?" His tone was steady, but underneath lay both suspicion and awe.
The response came not through ears, but directly into their minds. A voice older than mountains, smooth yet vast, filled every crevice of their consciousness.
"Child of cursed fate, Descendant of Somanandi… you ask why you stand before me. The rift was not your doing, nor mere chance. I felt your presence brush against the seams of space. Unusual. Disturbing. Two anomalies walking side by side. And so, I summoned you."
Om frowned, gaze narrowing. "Summoned…? You mean the rift wasn't an accident?"
"Nothing is accidental where you are concerned."
The words wrapped around his thoughts like chains. Dawon let out a low growl, head tilting as though struggling to resist the weight pressing upon them. Om's fingers clenched tighter into his mane.
He wanted answers. Needed them. The phrase had been haunting him since the bull-statue dream. Cursed child of fate. It wasn't something he could ignore any longer.
His jaw tightened. "Then tell me… what is this curse? Why am I called that? The bull statue once said it too. What does it mean? What am I?"
The tree's golden canopy flickered. Each leaf trembled, scattering pale light that momentarily blinded him.
Then came the voice again.
"You are not ready."
Om's fists clenched. His heart hammered in protest. "Not ready? That's all I ever hear. Not strong enough, not ready, not worthy. If I'm cursed, then tell me! If you summoned me, then why speak in riddles?" His voice cracked with frustration, echoing oddly against the empty expanse.
The tree remained silent for a long breath. Dawon shifted, his claws scraping against the invisible surface beneath them. The lion's golden eyes softened, watching Om, waiting.
At last, the voice returned—calm, patient, immovable.
"A truth revealed to one without strength is not wisdom, but burden. You do not yet possess the weight to carry the knowledge you demand. If I speak it now, it will shatter you."
Om staggered back as though struck. His teeth ground together. Anger, fear, and helplessness swirled inside him like a storm. He wanted to scream, to curse at this eternal being, but the sheer gravity of its presence held him in check.
His chest rose and fell rapidly. After a long silence, he forced himself to calm down.
"Fine," he muttered, voice hoarse. "If you won't tell me about this curse… then tell me about you. What are you? What kind of place is this?"
This time, the voice was not solemn, but resonant—almost proud.
"I am Kalpa Vriksha. The wish-granting tree. The root of possibility, the flowering of all that can be. In ages past, mortals and gods alike sought me, for within my fruit lies the power to fulfill desire itself. Kingdoms were built upon my leaves, wars fought for my branches. Yet here, beyond land and sky, I endure—resting until the threads of existence demand my presence once more."
The words rippled through Om's mind like thunder. His breath caught.
"Kalpa… Vriksha…?" The name alone carried weight, a force of myth dragged into reality. His grandfather had once whispered fragments of stories—of a tree that granted any wish.
His throat went dry. "Then… this really is you? The same tree from the legends?"
"Legend is only memory softened by time. Yes, child of cursed fate. I am that tree. Though I do not belong to this age, still I endure."
Om's body trembled. The idea of standing before a being worshiped in stories, a being that could alter destiny, was almost too much. His thoughts raced. If the Kalpa Vriksha was real… then what about the other legends? What about the forgotten gods themselves?
His lips parted with the most dangerous question yet. "…If you are the wish-granting tree… then could you remove this curse?"
The silence that followed was deafening. The golden canopy dimmed slightly, leaves folding inwards as though withdrawing. When the voice returned, it was quieter, yet heavier than before.
"Even if I granted wishes now, yours would not be fulfilled. Do you not yet understand? Your curse is not a chain placed upon you, but a truth of your very existence. To remove it would be to remove yourself."
Om froze. The words stabbed through him like icy blades. He shook his head violently. "No… no, that can't be true. I'm… I'm still me. I'm still Om!"
Dawon nudged him, golden eyes steady. The lion's presence steadied his shaking frame, but his thoughts remained in chaos.
The Kalpa Vriksha continued.
"Your fate is not to be undone by a simple wish. Not even mine. In time, you will understand why the bull statue named you thus, why I echo it, and why even the rift obeyed when I called. But until you are stronger, you must carry your questions unanswered."
Om's shoulders slumped. He hated it. Hated being powerless in front of the truth. Hated that even here, standing before the most mythical existence he had ever encountered, he could not force answers.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to steady his breathing. Slowly, his eyes lifted again toward the silver trunk and its golden canopy.
"…Then why us? Why me, and Dawon? Why did you summon both of us?"
The light pulsed faintly. The voice deepened.
"Because you are two impossibilities. You, the cursed fate, who should not persist. And Dawon, the descendant of Somanandi, a lineage that should not exist in this age. Together, you form a paradox. Together, you may yet alter what even gods could not. And so, I wished to see you… with my own presence."
Om's breath shuddered. He turned to Dawon, who stared up at the golden leaves with quiet defiance, as though silently agreeing that his very existence was a challenge to the laws of reality.
The boy's lips curled into a faint, pained smile. "…Then what now? You summoned us, answered nothing, and left us with more questions. What are we supposed to do?"
The Kalpa Vriksha's leaves shimmered once more, releasing tiny motes of golden dust that swirled around Om and Dawon.
"You will return. This place is not for you to remain in. Grow, fight, struggle. In time, you will stand before me again. When your soul no longer trembles beneath truth, I will answer."
The air thickened. Om felt a pulling sensation, the same as when the rift had first taken them. His stomach lurched.
"Wait!" he shouted desperately. "Just one more answer—why me? Why this cursed fate?!"
The last thing he heard before the world inverted was the whisper of the Kalpa Vriksha, softer than before, almost like a farewell.
"Because existence itself chose you."
Light engulfed them. The golden leaves vanished. And Om, with Dawon pressed close at his side, was swallowed once more by the rift.