The heat warped the air. Ash churned. The lava below awaited its offering like a beast licking its lips.
But the child never fell.
Time stopped.
A sudden stillness froze the world in place, the lava mid-splash, the wind locked in silence. At the edge of the pit, the Grim Reaper raised a brow, her obsidian scythe humming lowly.
"...What are you, little one?"
Drawn by a whisper she didn't understand, she stepped into his spiritual realm.
Inside, she expected torment, confusion, or fear. But instead, she found herself in a place of stillness—white, pure, and calm. A serenity that pressed no weight upon the soul.
Until she reached the edge. There, where the peace ended, the fabric of space itself twisted—a rift, bleeding an aura so terrifying even the Grim Reaper felt her bones scream.
"This… this isn't mortal."
Without hesitation, she sent a signal—an urgent call across the realms.
An hour passed in frozen time.
From the shadows between death and destiny, the God of Death emerged, draped in silence.
"Why did you summon me?"
The Grim simply pointed.
"Take a look inside him. You'll see."
The god stepped into the boy's soul.
And immediately, his immortal mind trembled.
At the far end of the realm, the rift roared, leaking a pressure that twisted reality. And deep within it, he saw something sitting on a throne—a throne built of gold, silver, stone, trees, flowers, bones, skulls, wealth, and stars under the feet of the Throne. The chains holding back the throne seem to be the throne itself, just sitting there; those chains are just some useless metals now. The God of Death staggered back. Not out of physical force—nothing in existence could truly harm him—but from pure recognition. And the one being above the Karmic force. The true son.
"...The Throne of Destruction."
Only one in all realms could wield such a throne: the embodiment of end itself. A being born not to rule… but to erase.
The God of Death whispered, almost in reverence and terror:
"He is it. The one foretold. The Ultimate Destruction."
According to the laws of the old realms—Sura and Asura alike—the wielder of the Throne of Destruction was to be killed upon birth, no questions asked.
But even he, the God of Death, could not interfere in the living realm. The natural laws, shaped by Mother Goddess Shakthi, forbade divine interference with living fates. She was the origin of all, the soul of existence. And so, bound by rule, he resumed time.
The child plummeted once more toward his fiery death.
Maybe he survives," the Grim Reaper said, almost playfully.
And then—
From within the lava, she rose.
A woman of fire and grace, her body glowing like molten gold, her eyes soft and sad. She held out her arms and caught the child as it fell. Her mere presence calmed the lava, cooled the air, and muted the volcano's fury.
She looked around—at the sky, at the watcher's unseen—and descended back into the heart of Sarpamukhi, carrying the child into the fire below.
Watching it all unfold, the God of Death stood frozen.
"So… it begins again," he murmured.
"Perhaps this time… destruction cannot be stopped."
With a heavy heart, he turned and vanished into the Death Realm.