The first hammer fell before sunrise.
Its echo rolled through Manu's city like a drumbeat calling the waking world to attention. Soon others joined it — wood against wood, iron against stone — until the air itself seemed to thrum with purpose.
Seven days.
That was all the golden fish had given.
Ganesh, Aneet, and Keral stood at the edge of the great clearing beyond the city walls where the vessel was already taking shape. Massive timbers were being hauled into place by oxen and men, guided by sages who marked them with sacred signs.
Manu moved among them, sleeves rolled, giving orders with quiet urgency.
He did not look like a king now.
He looked like a man racing time.
Aneet watched him.
"He listens," she said softly. "That may be the only thing that matters."
Ganesh nodded.
"And he carries the weight without asking why," he replied. "That's rare."
Keral hefted a beam onto his shoulder and joined the workers without another word.
By midday, clouds gathered where none had been before.
They did not yet rain.
They only watched.
Ganesh stood apart, eyes closed, feeling the pulse beneath the world. The fire within him pressed gently, as if urging him to be ready.
Aneet joined him.
"Your thoughts are loud today," she said.
He smiled faintly.
"I was thinking about choice," he replied. "How Vishnu gives Manu a path… but gives the rest of the world none."
Aneet shook her head.
"He gives everyone a choice," she said. "Just not the same one."
Ganesh opened his eyes.
"And ours?" he asked.
Aneet met his gaze.
"We already chose," she said. "We stay."
He exhaled slowly.
"Yes."
That evening, they walked through nearby villages, spreading the warning where they could.
Some laughed.
Some listened politely and went back to their lives.
Some packed and followed them toward the city, hoping for a place on the great vessel.
Ganesh did not promise anything.
He only said:
"Come if you feel called. Stay if your feet refuse to move. Both roads are yours."
Aneet watched families argue under fading light, fear fighting with disbelief.
"This is the hardest part," she whispered. "Not the flood. The doubt."
Ganesh nodded.
"The world ends many times before it actually does."
Night fell heavy again.
Rain began — light at first, then steady, tapping against stone and wood like a quiet warning.
Ganesh dreamed once more.
He stood beside a river that flowed upward into the sky.
The golden fish swam through the air like water, circling him.
"Do you fear what comes?" it asked.
Ganesh considered.
"I fear what I cannot carry," he replied.
The fish shimmered.
"That is why you must walk," it said.
"So that what is not carried is not forgotten."
Ganesh woke with the sound of rain in his ears.
By the third day, the ark's ribs stood tall, curved like the bones of a colossal beast.
People gathered in growing numbers — sages with scrolls, healers with herbs, herders with chosen animals, mothers holding children too young to understand.
Manu moved among them, listening to each plea.
He could not take all.
Each refusal carved lines deeper into his face.
Ganesh watched him one evening, standing alone beside the rising hull.
"You carry this like a curse," Ganesh said gently.
Manu looked at him.
"How else should I carry it?" he asked. "I choose who boards and who stays. How is that not a curse?"
Ganesh answered, "Because you did not create the storm. You only choose not to look away from it."
Manu closed his eyes.
"That does not make it lighter."
"No," Ganesh agreed. "But it makes it honest."
On the fifth day, tremors shook the ground.
Not strong — but enough to rattle cups, to make birds flee trees in startled flocks.
Rivers nearby swelled, their currents growing wild.
The sea's roar could now be heard even from the city.
Aneet stood atop a low ridge with Keral, watching the horizon darken.
"It's close," Keral said. "I can feel it in my bones."
Aneet nodded.
"Then stay close to us when it comes," she said. "We will need your strength."
He smiled grimly.
"I have never run from a wave," he replied. "Even one that can swallow the world."
By the sixth day, rain fell without pause.
The ark stood nearly complete, towering above the field like a mountain of wood.
People moved in hushed lines, bringing what they had been told to preserve.
Ganesh and Aneet helped where they could — lifting, guiding, calming panic.
Yet all the while, Ganesh felt the fire within him strain.
Not to burn.
To act.
To stop the waters themselves.
That night, he sat alone, fists clenched.
Aneet found him there.
"You're holding it back," she said quietly.
"Yes," he admitted. "Every breath."
She sat beside him.
"If you let it loose," she said, "you might change everything."
He looked at her.
"And undo what Vishnu has chosen."
She nodded.
"Or undo yourself."
Ganesh closed his eyes.
"I don't know if I'm strong enough to stand still," he whispered.
Aneet placed a hand over his.
"Then lean on me," she said. "Stillness can be shared too."
He let out a long breath.
And the fire eased.
At dawn of the seventh day, the sky turned the color of bruised steel.
Thunder rolled without lightning.
The golden fish shone brighter than ever in its vessel, calling Manu.
The king came at once, bowing deeply.
The fish spoke:
"The time has come."
Manu straightened, face pale but steady.
"Then we board," he said.
Ganesh, Aneet, and Keral stood apart as lines formed.
People embraced. Wept. Whispered prayers.
Ganesh felt every goodbye like a blade.
Aneet stood tall beside him, eyes clear but shining.
When Manu approached them, he stopped.
"You will not come?" he asked.
Ganesh shook his head.
"Our road lies on the ground that will drown," he said. "But we will not be lost."
Manu bowed deeply.
"Then may whatever gods you walk with remember you," he said.
Aneet replied softly, "And may what you carry be enough to begin again."
Manu turned and stepped toward the ark.
The golden fish leapt from its vessel into the open air, and as it did, it grew — and grew — until it filled the sky with its radiant form.
Matsya.
The ocean roared in answer.
Ganesh felt the fire within him go still.
The flood had come.