Morning came gently to Gokul.
The storm that had raged through the night felt like a distant dream, leaving behind cool air and earth washed clean. Birds returned to the skies, chirping without fear, as if reassured by something unseen.
Inside a modest home at the edge of the village, Yashoda sat awake, her back against the wooden pillar, a newborn resting peacefully in her arms.
She had not slept.
Every time she closed her eyes, she felt an inexplicable urge to look at him again—his calm breathing, his soft blue skin, the faint warmth that radiated from him like a living hearth.
Nanda stirred beside her.
"You should rest," he murmured. "He's safe."
Yashoda shook her head slowly. "I know," she said. "I just… I feel like if I look away, the world might steal him back."
Nanda smiled softly. "Then we'll keep looking."
The child opened his eyes.
Within him, awareness expanded—not violently, not overwhelmingly, but steadily, like the sun rising without asking permission.
He felt the village wake.
Milkmaids stepping out with pots balanced expertly on their heads.
Cows shifting in their pens, calm and well-fed.
Children rubbing sleep from their eyes, unaware that destiny had just taken residence among them.
He cataloged it all instinctively.
Safe.
Stable.
Simple.
Good.
Yashoda gasped softly. "Nanda… look."
The child was smiling.
Not the random twitch of a newborn, but a slow, deliberate curve of the lips. His eyes—dark and clear—focused on Yashoda with recognition.
Her breath caught.
"Oh," she whispered. "He knows me."
Within his mind, something unfamiliar warmed further.
Attachment.
He allowed it.
If he was to understand humanity fully, love was not optional—it was essential.
As the sun climbed higher, news spread quickly.
A child had been born.
No one questioned how or when. In Gokul, children arrived when they were meant to. Yashoda's long prayers had finally been answered—what more explanation did anyone need?
Neighbors came bearing sweets, flowers, and blessings.
"Oh, look at him!" one woman exclaimed. "Such calm eyes!"
"He doesn't cry at all," another whispered nervously. "Almost unnatural."
The child observed them quietly.
Humans were fascinating creatures—so quick to label what they did not understand, yet equally quick to love without reason.
A cow wandered closer to the doorway, her eyes gentle and curious. The moment she saw the child, she lowered her head reverently.
Milk spilled from her udders unprompted.
Yashoda laughed in surprise. "What's gotten into you today?"
The cow snorted softly and remained, refusing to move away.
Within the child's awareness, instincts surfaced—ancient, familiar.
These creatures recognized him.
Not as a god.
As kin.
Somewhere deep within consciousness, something stirred.
Not power.
Not memory.
A voice.
Dry. Calm. Amused.
«Passive Observation Mode active.»
The child did not react outwardly.
Internally, awareness sharpened.
…Ah. So this is the "tool" father mentioned.
The voice continued, unbothered.
«Current Environment Assessment: Rural. Peaceful. High dairy availability.
Threat Level: Negligible.
Recommendation: Enjoy infancy.»
If the child had eyebrows, he would have raised one.
Enjoy infancy?
Yashoda lifted him, pressing her forehead gently to his.
"Krishna," she whispered.
The name settled into him.
Krishna.
Not a title.
Not a destiny.
A name chosen out of love.
Accepted.
Days passed.
Krishna grew—not rapidly, not unnaturally, but with steady health that delighted everyone. He rarely cried. When he did, it was brief and purposeful—usually when Yashoda wandered too far.
He liked being held.
He liked warmth.
He liked laughter.
He especially liked when Yashoda sang.
Her voice was not perfect, but it carried sincerity, and sincerity resonated deeply within him.
The system observed quietly.
«Emotional Bond Forming: Primary Caregiver (Yashoda).
Result: Positive.
Note: Attachment increases intervention bias.»
Intervention bias?
He filed that away.
As weeks turned into months, strange things began to happen.
Broken pots repaired themselves overnight.
Milk never spoiled.
Sick calves recovered without explanation.
The villagers spoke in hushed tones.
"This child brings fortune."
"No—peace."
"No… balance."
Krishna listened.
He was careful.
Power, even passive, attracted attention. Attention attracted distortion. He allowed only what could be explained away by luck or coincidence.
Still, the world responded to him regardless.
One afternoon, Yashoda placed him on the floor while she worked nearby. A pot of butter sat temptingly within reach.
Krishna stared at it.
Butter.
His awareness reached out, analyzing texture, taste, cultural significance.
High calorie density.
Widely valued.
Emotionally symbolic.
He reached out.
His tiny fingers brushed the pot.
It tipped.
Butter spilled.
Yashoda turned just in time to see Krishna staring innocently at the mess, eyes wide.
"Krishna!" she scolded lightly. "What have you done?"
He blinked.
Then smiled.
Yashoda froze.
"…How can I be angry at that?" she sighed, laughing despite herself.
Within Krishna's mind—
«First Mischief Recorded.»
«Reward Pending.»
He paused.
Reward?
The voice added casually:
«Don't look at me like that. You tipped the pot. Cultural tradition demands consequences.»
Krishna approved.
That night, as he lay cradled in Yashoda's arms, awareness stretched once more.
Beyond Gokul.
Beyond Mathura.
He felt Kamsa.
The tyrant paced his palace, rage simmering beneath paranoia.
"Find him," Kamsa snarled at his men. "Search every village. Kill every child born that night if you must."
Krishna's gaze remained calm.
Line crossed.
Not yet corrected.
Patience.
He was not here to destroy immediately.
He was here to balance.
And balance required timing.
Yashoda hummed softly, unaware of the cosmic calculations occurring within the child she rocked to sleep.
Krishna closed his eyes.
For now—
He would grow.
Learn.
Laugh.
Steal butter.
Soon enough, the world would test him.
And when it did—
He would answer.
--chapter 5 ended--