The desert storm quieted. Lightning still clawed across the black sky, but the thunder faded into the distance. Thor was gone—drawn back to Asgard's concerns, leaving behind only the scent of ozone and the faint echo of his hammer's strike.
I stood alone on the ridge above the S.H.I.E.L.D. ruins, the facility below me broken and smoldering from Loki's theft. Soldiers scrambled like ants in fire, shouting orders, dragging the wounded, securing what little was left. From their perspective, it was chaos. From mine, it was only the first ripple of a much greater tide.
The Tesseract had been taken. Loki was no longer simply Loki. He carried with him the whisper of Kali Purusha, and with that, Midgard's days of peace were numbered.
I inhaled the night air, my form still cloaked in the mundane illusion of Dr. Narayan Das. But beneath the disguise, my essence stirred with the full weight of Krishna's memory. Every atom of this realm vibrated with warning. The storm of dharma and adharma was not years away. It was here, now.
And I knew I could not fight it alone.
My thoughts turned to Mumbai. To Ravi.
The boy was still raw, scarred, grieving. He did not yet understand the seeds planted in him, nor the path that waited. But his heart burned with a quiet fire—anger sharpened by loss, yet softened by compassion. In him, I saw not only a survivor but a possible wielder of dharma.
He needed shaping. He needed to face himself before he could face the shadow. And I… could not reveal myself fully to him. Not yet.
A different face would do.
I closed my eyes, weaving the threads of mantra and illusion as easily as breath. The world around me bent, reshaping to the image I summoned. Broad shoulders. The weight of age carved into scars. A beard streaked with ash. In my hands, the phantom of an axe that had once split kings and demons alike.
Parashurama.
Not the godly form of Krishna, not the infinite reflection of Vishvarupa, but the stern visage of the warrior-sage. Through this mask, I could test Ravi without binding him to me. Through this guise, he would face trial, not comfort.
The winds carried my will eastward, across the ocean, across the cities, until they brushed against a sleeping boy.
Ravi awoke with a start.
The tiny apartment was dark save for the flicker of a dying neon sign outside the window. His uncle snored softly in the other room. The city's usual chorus of horns and stray dogs was muted tonight, as if the world itself held its breath.
But Ravi felt it. A pull.
It was not a sound, not exactly. More like the echo of a drum in his chest, steady and ancient, tugging at him with invisible strings. His skin prickled. His heartbeat quickened. And somewhere in the deepest folds of his memory—memory shaped not by books but by stories whispered by his father—he recognized the rhythm.
Legends. Myths. The epics of old.
He sat up, wincing as his ribs reminded him of wounds not yet healed. His bandages tugged against scabs. But he could not ignore the call. The beat grew louder, guiding him beyond the walls of the apartment, beyond the streets of Mumbai, to a place he had never seen but somehow knew.
A temple.
His feet carried him through alleys and markets, past shuttered shops and sleeping strays. The air grew cooler, sharper, as though the city's breath had thinned. And then, rising against the pale moon, he saw it: an abandoned shrine on the city's edge. Its walls cracked, vines crawling over faded stone. Yet its doorway glowed faintly, like an ember refusing to die.
Ravi hesitated. His father's voice echoed in his mind. The old stories are not dead, beta. They sleep. And sometimes, they wake for us.
He stepped inside.
The air was heavy, thick with incense long extinguished yet lingering like memory. Dust floated in shafts of moonlight that pierced the broken roof. Statues of forgotten gods stood half-shattered, their faces eroded by time. Yet in the heart of the shrine, where once an idol had rested, a figure stood waiting.
Ravi froze. His breath caught in his throat.
The man was unlike anyone he had ever seen. His frame was immense, his arms scarred and muscled like a blacksmith's. A beard streaked with grey framed his stern mouth. Across his back gleamed a great axe, its blade etched with symbols Ravi half-recognized from temple carvings.
The stranger's eyes opened. They burned not with rage, but with the cold fire of judgment.
"Ravi."
The boy flinched. The voice was deep, ancient, rolling like thunder across mountains.
"You know me," the figure said—not as a question, but as a fact.
Ravi's lips trembled. "Parashurama…"
The name tasted strange yet familiar, as though it had lived in his throat all his life, waiting for this moment.
The man inclined his head slightly. "You carry scars, boy. Wounds of the body. Wounds of the soul. Yet still you walk into the night, drawn here. Do you know why?"
Ravi shook his head, unable to find words.
"Because dharma calls," Parashurama said. "And dharma does not wait for the healed. It demands even the broken to stand."
The weight of those words pressed into Ravi's chest. His fists clenched, bandages tightening. He thought of his father's face, of the blood on the street, of the laughter of men who had killed without consequence. His voice cracked as he whispered, "I'm not ready."
"No one is ready," Parashurama said, stepping closer. His presence filled the shrine like a storm cloud. "But the world does not care for readiness. It cares for strength. For will. For sacrifice."
The axe glinted as moonlight kissed its edge.
"Tell me, Ravi. Do you seek vengeance… or justice?"
The boy swallowed. His heart pounded. He thought of killing those men, of feeling their blood on his hands. The thought tempted him. It whispered of release, of power. But then he thought of his father again—his father's kindness, his insistence that anger was never the answer.
"Justice," Ravi said, though his voice wavered.
Parashurama's gaze bore into him, sharp as a blade. For a long moment, silence filled the shrine, broken only by the distant bark of a dog outside. Then, at last, the warrior-sage nodded.
"Good. For vengeance burns the hand that wields it. But justice… justice endures."
The figure stepped back, resting his axe against the floor. The sound echoed like thunder.
"You will be tested, Ravi. By pain. By fear. By temptation. The shadow that rises does not care for your grief. It will feed it. Twist it. Make you its servant. Only if you master yourself will you master it."
Ravi's throat was dry, but he forced himself to meet those burning eyes. "How? How do I fight something like that?"
Parashurama's expression softened, just barely. "Not by being like me. Not by being like your father. By being yourself, tempered as steel is tempered—through fire."
The axe lifted, its edge gleaming brighter now, as though drinking the moonlight. The warrior pointed it toward Ravi's chest.
"Will you stand, Ravi, when the fire comes?"
The boy's knees trembled. His lungs burned. Every instinct screamed at him to run. But instead, he straightened his back. He clenched his fists. And though fear churned in his belly, he forced the words out.
"Yes."
The shrine trembled. Dust cascaded from the ceiling. The statues seemed to stir, their broken eyes glinting faintly.
Parashurama lowered the axe. For the first time, a flicker of something like approval crossed his face.
"Then walk your path," he said. "And remember—dharma is not given. It is chosen, again and again."
The figure turned, his form already dissolving into mist, into shadow, into nothing at all.
Ravi blinked. The shrine was empty.
Only silence remained.
But in his chest, the drumbeat still echoed.
From a distance, unseen, I watched.
The illusion of Parashurama had faded, its purpose fulfilled. Ravi had stood before fear and chosen justice over vengeance. It was only the first step, but it was a step nonetheless.
I let the disguise fall, my true essence cloaked once more in anonymity. The boy had not seen me—only the mask. That was as it should be.
For when the time came, he would need not Parashurama, nor a god cloaked in infinite light. He would need Arjun.
And I would be ready.
The dawn crept slowly into Mumbai, painting the smog-stained sky in hues of rust and amber. Horns began to sound, rickshaws rattled awake, and the city returned to its endless rhythm.
But Ravi felt apart from it all.
He sat on the roof of his uncle's apartment, legs folded beneath him, the cool cement damp with morning dew. His hands were still wrapped in bandages, but he hardly noticed the pain anymore. His mind was elsewhere—back in the abandoned shrine, replaying every word, every glance, every weight of silence.
Parashurama.
He had spoken with Parashurama. The thought alone made Ravi's chest tighten, his breath shallow. It had felt real—more real than anything else he had ever known. The warrior-sage's voice still echoed in his ears, vibrating through bone and marrow. Dharma does not wait for the healed. It demands even the broken to stand.
But why him?
Ravi pressed his fists against his knees, staring at the rising sun. He was no warrior. He had barely survived his first fight. His father had been the strong one, the guiding light, and now he was gone. What did dharma want with him?
The rooftop door creaked. His uncle shuffled out, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "You're awake early," he muttered, lighting a beedi with trembling fingers. He was a thin man, weary, his shoulders bent beneath years of factory work and debts he could never repay.
Ravi glanced at him but said nothing.
The old man exhaled smoke, watching it drift into the morning air. "Your father used to do the same thing," he said softly. "Sit up here, staring at the sun, as if waiting for answers."
Ravi's throat tightened. He swallowed hard, biting back words that might have spilled.
"Whatever you are looking for, beta," his uncle said, "I hope you find it. But don't lose yourself chasing shadows."
Ravi lowered his gaze. Shadows. If only his uncle knew how close that word cut.
The day dragged on. He tried to return to normal life, to lose himself in errands and chores. He helped carry sacks of rice for the neighbors, fetched water from the tap down the alley, even repaired a loose wire in the apartment's fan. Yet no matter how he busied himself, his thoughts circled back to the shrine.
The choice he had made. Justice, not vengeance.
But what did justice even mean in a city where gangs ruled alleys, where the police looked the other way, where the poor were crushed under wheels no one could stop? Justice felt like a word from his father's books, something holy but impractical, as unreachable as the gods themselves.
And yet—Parashurama had spoken as if Ravi's answer mattered. As if it had weight beyond one boy's grief.
By evening, the pull returned. Not as strong as before, but faint, like a string tugging gently at his heart. He found his steps wandering without thought, carrying him through the market, past vendors shouting prices, past children chasing a deflated ball. His feet led him toward the old temple district, though the shrine itself was now dark, empty, silent.
He stood at its gates, staring at the cracked stone. His chest tightened with disappointment. He had half-hoped Parashurama would be waiting again, axe in hand, words of clarity on his lips. But the shrine was nothing more than dust and silence.
Still, something lingered. A trace. A scent. A whisper.
Ravi stepped inside, brushing his fingers across the cold walls. The air seemed heavier here, charged with a presence he could not see.
And though no figure stood before him, he felt watched.
From the shadows, I observed.
The illusion of Parashurama had vanished with the dawn, but my presence remained. I stood cloaked in a veil of Kama-Taj sorcery, invisible to mortal eyes, watching Ravi retrace his steps with hesitant courage.
He was searching. Not just for me, not just for answers, but for himself. That was good. The first step of dharma was not obedience, but seeking.
I whispered a mantra under my breath, weaving threads of perception. The air thickened. A faint shimmer of light crawled across the cracked stones. Ravi paused, sensing it, though he did not understand.
His instincts were awakening.
Yes. The boy had potential. But potential was not enough. He needed tempering, like steel in flame. And soon, very soon, the flames would come.
For even as I watched, I could feel the tremor in the fabric of the world. Loki carried the Tesseract across Midgard, the shadow of Kali Purusha coiled around him like smoke. Every hour brought him closer to unleashing a storm that would drown this realm.
And when that storm broke, Ravi would be tested again—not by words, but by blood.
The next days unfolded in strange rhythm.
Ravi returned to the shrine each night, unable to resist the pull. Sometimes he prayed, awkwardly, repeating mantras half-remembered from his father's lessons. Sometimes he simply sat in silence, waiting, though no voice answered. Yet he always left with a strange calm, as if the walls themselves whispered patience.
His uncle worried. "You're too young to carry so much grief," he said one evening, stirring lentils over the stove. "Don't chase ghosts, Ravi. They won't feed you. They won't save you."
But Ravi only nodded, keeping the truth locked in his chest.
By the fourth night, something shifted.
As he sat in the shrine, eyes closed, he felt the drumbeat again—not faint this time, but strong, pounding through his veins. His breath quickened. His skin prickled. He opened his eyes, expecting to see Parashurama.
Instead, he saw fire.
A vision, flickering across the broken walls: soldiers with glowing eyes, a cube of impossible light, a man with horns and a cruel smile. The city crumbling beneath blue fire. And behind it all, a shadow vast and formless, writhing with hunger.
Ravi gasped, clutching his chest. The vision burned itself into his mind before vanishing, leaving him shaking, drenched in sweat.
"What… what was that?" he whispered, though no one answered.
But in the silence, he knew. It was not a dream. It was a warning.
I stepped closer, still hidden, watching the boy tremble.
The vision had not been my doing. It had come from the cube itself, from the Tesseract's restless energy leaking across the veils of space. The shadow was reaching out, probing, searching for cracks in mortal souls. That Ravi had glimpsed it meant only one thing—he was already touched by the current.
That was dangerous. But it was also necessary.
I extended a hand, shaping a ward of light, a subtle weave of protection that clung to Ravi's aura like a cloak. He would not recognize it, but it would keep the shadow's whispers from breaking him too soon.
"You will see more," I murmured softly, though only the walls heard me. "But do not fear, Ravi. You are not alone in this."
The boy straightened slowly, wiping sweat from his brow. His fear had not vanished, but beneath it glowed a spark of defiance. He clenched his fists, whispering to himself as if to steady his own resolve.
"I won't run. Not again."
The words echoed through the shrine, quiet yet strong.
And I smiled.
By the week's end, Ravi was no longer the same boy.
His wounds still hurt, but he no longer winced with every step. His eyes held less grief, more determination. He spoke less, listened more. His uncle noticed the change, though he could not name it. Neighbors began to glance at him differently, sensing something shifting in his presence.
The boy who had once been only a victim was becoming something else.
Not yet a warrior. But no longer helpless.
And soon, when the path of dharma demanded it, he would take his place in the storm.
For the shadow was rising. Loki marched with the Tesseract, and Thor hunted him. The Avengers would gather, unknowing that their battle was not just for Earth, but for the soul of every realm.
And when the time came, Ravi—my chosen spark—would stand among them.
Not because fate decreed it. But because, when asked in the silence of an abandoned shrine, he had chosen.
Justice.