The moment Matsya revealed himself, the world seemed to draw breath.
Then it exhaled.
The sky cracked open.
Rain did not fall.
It descended — in endless silver curtains, heavy as if the heavens themselves had begun to melt. Thunder rolled like the footsteps of mountains, and the air shook with the roar of wind racing across the plains.
The great ark groaned as its moorings strained, water already lapping at its base.
Manu stood at its ramp, shouting orders as sages and chosen souls hurried aboard, clutching scrolls, seeds, cages, memories of a world about to vanish.
Above them, Matsya towered — vast beyond measure, scales glowing like molten gold, eyes calm as eternity. The divine fish dipped into the rising waters, and the ark lurched as if caught by an unseen current.
Ganesh, Aneet, and Keral stood apart, feet planted on ground that was already turning to mud.
Aneet felt the cold water soak into her boots.
"It's starting," she said, her voice steady despite the chaos.
Ganesh nodded.
"Yes," he replied. "Now we walk."
As the ark began to move, pulled by Matsya through the swelling flood, Manu turned one last time toward them.
The king raised his hand in silent farewell.
Ganesh lifted his own in return.
Aneet bowed her head.
Keral clenched his fist over his heart.
Then the ark drifted away, swallowed by rain and mist, becoming a dark silhouette against the raging sky.
And the three were alone with the drowning world.
The first wave hit like a living wall.
It tore through the lower fields, sweeping away fences, carts, and the huts that had stood only hours before. The water surged around their legs, almost knocking Keral from his feet.
He roared and drove his heel into the ground, bracing himself.
"Move!" he shouted. "Before the next one comes!"
Ganesh extended his hand.
The fire within him surged outward — not as flame, but as force.
The mud beneath them hardened, turning briefly to solid stone, giving them a stable path.
Aneet did not hesitate.
She grabbed Keral's arm and pulled him forward.
They ran.
Not away from the flood — but across it.
They reached a low ridge where a cluster of villagers had gathered, trapped by rising water on all sides. Children cried. Elders clung to each other. Fear was thick in the air.
Aneet climbed onto a rock, voice cutting through the roar.
"Listen to me!" she shouted. "Tie yourselves together with rope! No one moves alone!"
Some stared at her in shock.
Others obeyed at once.
Ganesh moved among them, steadying shaking hands, lifting those who could not stand.
Keral stood at the edge, facing the oncoming surge like a living wall.
"Come!" he bellowed. "Now!"
The next wave crashed into him.
He staggered — but held.
The water split around his massive frame just long enough for the villagers to scramble past.
Ganesh felt the fire strain.
Not to stop the flood.
But to slow it.
He clenched his jaw, forcing his will into the ground, shaping brief ridges, stepping stones of solid earth that formed and dissolved as people crossed.
Every step cost him.
Every moment felt like standing against a mountain.
Aneet guided the last child across, then turned back.
"We've done what we can here," she said. "The ridge will be under soon."
Ganesh nodded, breath heavy.
They moved on.
The world dissolved into water and sky.
Forests became floating islands of tangled branches.
Hills turned into dark silhouettes barely breaking the surface.
The flood swallowed roads, temples, memories.
They walked where they could.
Swam where they must.
Always searching for signs of life.
They found a group clinging to the roof of a shrine, water swirling just beneath the eaves.
Ganesh dove without thinking, fighting the current, hauling people up one by one while Aneet and Keral pulled them to safety.
They found herders driving terrified animals toward a narrow rocky spine.
Aneet ran ahead, arrows flying — not to kill, but to sever ropes and fallen trees blocking the path.
They found a mother screaming for her child, swept away moments earlier.
Ganesh closed his eyes, reached with his will.
The fire within him flared like a beacon beneath the water.
He dove again — and came up gasping, holding a coughing, terrified boy in his arms.
The mother collapsed, weeping, clutching him.
Aneet turned away so they would not see the tears in her own eyes.
But not every search ended that way.
They reached a place where only silence remained — broken beams, floating debris, and bodies drifting in the gray light.
Ganesh stood in the water, fists clenched, rain mixing with tears he did not bother to hide.
"I can feel them slipping away," he whispered. "So many… at once."
Aneet waded to him, placing both hands on his shoulders.
"Look at me," she said.
He did.
"You are not here to stop the flood," she said firmly. "You are here so it doesn't become the last thing they know."
Keral stood behind them, head bowed.
"My people believed only strength mattered," he said quietly. "But this… this breaks strength."
Ganesh swallowed.
"Yes," he said. "That is why it must be witnessed."
As hours turned into a blur of rain and darkness, the water rose higher, forcing them toward a distant mountain peak that still broke through the flood like the spine of a drowned world.
They guided every survivor they could find toward it.
By nightfall, dozens had gathered there — soaked, shivering, terrified, but alive.
Aneet took command at once.
She organized fires where dry wood could still be found, rationed food, and placed the injured in the shelter of rock outcroppings.
Her voice never wavered.
Ganesh sat at the edge of the peak, staring out at the endless water.
The ark was long gone.
The world was gone with it.
Keral joined him.
"You could still try to stop it," he said quietly. "I can feel how much you're holding back."
Ganesh shook his head.
"If I break Vishnu's design," he said, "I break the reason this age must end. And if I do that… what right do I have to walk beyond fate at all?"
Keral studied him.
"You carry fire like a curse," he said.
Ganesh looked at him.
"It is," he replied. "And also the only light I have."
That night, the sky offered no stars.
Only rain and darkness.
Yet amid the roar, Ganesh felt a gentle pull.
He stood and walked to the edge of the peak.
Far out across the endless waters, he saw it — a colossal golden glow moving through the storm.
Matsya, guiding the ark through chaos with calm inevitability.
Ganesh bowed his head.
"Carry what you must," he whispered. "We will carry what remains."
Beside him, Aneet stood in silence.
She did not bow.
She simply watched.
And in her stillness, Ganesh felt the fire within him steady.
Not burning.
Illuminating.
As dawn slowly tried to break through the storm clouds, Ganesh turned back to the survivors gathered on the peak.
Children slept fitfully against their parents. Elders murmured prayers. Fires flickered weakly in the rain.
He felt the weight of every life pressing against his heart.
"We will stay here," he said to Aneet and Keral. "As long as it takes."
Aneet nodded.
"Yes," she said. "Until the world remembers how to breathe again."
Keral planted his feet firmly.
"Then this mountain becomes my battlefield," he said grimly. "And I will not fall."
Ganesh looked out once more at the endless flood.
The sky had fallen into the sea.
And they were walking inside it.