Rain did not fall that night.
It descended.
Sheets of water crashed against Mathura's streets as if the sky itself wished to wash away the sins committed within its walls. Lightning tore across the heavens, illuminating the prison courtyard in blinding flashes.
Vasudeva stepped out of the shattered prison gates, holding the newborn close to his chest.
The storm should have stopped him.
It did not.
Every step he took felt guided, his feet landing surely even on slick stone. The guards lay unconscious around him, their breathing slow and steady, untouched by fear or pain.
In his arms, the child was silent.
Too silent.
Most infants cried at the shock of cold air, at the roar of thunder, at the unfamiliar weight of the world. This child merely watched, blue skin glowing faintly beneath the flashes of lightning.
Within that small form, awareness stretched outward.
The world opened itself to him like a book he had already read.
He felt Kamsa sleeping uneasily in his palace, sweat soaking silk sheets.
He felt the guards stationed at the city gates, their minds dulled by sudden exhaustion.
He felt the river Yamuna, swollen and furious, rushing like an untamed beast.
Vasudeva reached the city gates.
The chains that had bound him fell away without a sound.
He stared at his wrists, stunned.
"Is this… real?" he whispered.
The child blinked slowly.
Yes.
That answer was not spoken, yet Vasudeva felt it settle into his bones like certainty.
He crossed the threshold of Mathura, the gates opening as if pushed by unseen hands. The storm intensified beyond the city, rain slashing sideways, winds howling like mourning spirits.
The path to Gokul lay ahead.
Between them—
Yamuna.
The river roared in the darkness, its waters churning violently, swollen from relentless rain. Lightning revealed waves crashing against the banks, fierce enough to swallow cattle whole.
Vasudeva stopped.
His breath caught.
"How…?" he murmured, despair creeping in despite everything that had already happened.
The infant shifted slightly in his arms.
Within the child's mind, calculation replaced contemplation.
Crossing now would risk Vasudeva's life.
Waiting would invite discovery.
Intervention was required—but subtle.
He extended awareness, not power.
The river felt him.
Yamuna did not fear.
She recognized.
The waters slowed.
Then—
They parted.
Not violently. Not suddenly.
The river bowed.
A dry path formed between the towering walls of water, shimmering faintly under lightning's glow. The storm continued to rage above, yet within the corridor, silence reigned.
Vasudeva fell to his knees.
"T-this is…" his voice broke.
The child's gaze remained calm, almost amused.
Of course it worked.
Vasudeva stepped forward, heart pounding as he walked across the riverbed. The waters loomed on either side, massive and alive, yet utterly restrained.
Halfway across, a sudden gust of wind threatened to unbalance him.
The child lifted one tiny hand.
The wind stilled instantly.
Vasudeva stared down at him in awe and fear.
"What are you?" he whispered.
The infant yawned.
He was not ready to answer that question.
On the far bank, as Vasudeva stepped onto dry land, the river closed behind him, flowing as if nothing had happened.
The storm began to fade.
Rain softened.
Wind quieted.
Lightning retreated.
As if the world had merely been holding its breath.
In Mathura, Kamsa jolted awake.
His heart raced, a cold dread clinging to him like a second skin.
Something was wrong.
He rose from his bed and stormed toward the prison, fury and fear sharpening every step.
Too late.
By the time Kamsa reached the empty cell, the truth struck him like a blade.
"The child…" he whispered hoarsely.
His scream echoed through the palace.
Meanwhile, in Gokul—
A village slept peacefully, unaware that destiny approached its gates.
Nanda and Yashoda rested in their modest home, unaware that their lives were about to change forever. Lamps flickered gently as Vasudeva approached, exhaustion finally catching up to him.
He knocked softly.
Yashoda opened the door, confusion quickly turning to shock.
"Vasudeva?" she whispered. "At this hour?"
Without a word, he placed the child in her arms.
The moment Yashoda touched the infant, warmth flooded her chest. Tears welled up without reason.
"He's… beautiful," she breathed.
The child looked up at her.
Something unfamiliar stirred within him.
Affection.
Not calculated. Not required.
Genuine.
He liked her.
Vasudeva explained quickly, his words tumbling over one another—Kamsa, the prophecy, the danger.
Yashoda listened, clutching the child tighter with every sentence.
"You will keep him safe," Vasudeva said desperately. "Please."
Nanda arrived then, face grave yet resolute.
"If the child needs protection," he said firmly, "he will have it."
Within the infant's awareness, probability shifted.
This environment was ideal.
Love was abundant.
Threats were manageable.
Balance approved.
Vasudeva turned to leave, heart heavy yet hopeful.
As he stepped outside, the infant's gaze followed him.
A subtle impulse moved through awareness.
A promise.
I will return.
And when I do, Mathura will answer for every line crossed.
Back in Gokul, Yashoda cradled the child, smiling through tears.
"Welcome home," she whispered.
The child closed his eyes.
For now—
He would grow.
Laugh.
Play.
Steal butter.
The world could wait.
--chapter 4 ended--