If there was one thing Gokul learned quickly, it was this—
Peace did not mean quiet.
Krishna grew like any other child, except for the fact that "any other child" did not inspire cows to follow him around like devoted disciples or cause milk pots to mysteriously empty themselves wherever he crawled.
By the time he could walk—unsteadily but determined—Yashoda had already learned a valuable lesson:
Never turn your back on Krishna for too long.
It always started innocently.
A laugh from the courtyard.
A suspicious silence.
A pot placed just a little too close to the edge.
Then—
Disaster.
"KRISHNA!"
Yashoda's voice echoed through the house as she rushed in to find white butter smeared across the floor, the walls, and—most impressively—Krishna himself.
The boy stood in the middle of it all, small hands coated in butter, eyes wide with what looked like genuine shock.
He looked down at his hands.
Then back up at her.
Then smiled.
Yashoda froze.
"…You did this on purpose," she accused weakly.
Krishna tilted his head.
Within his mind, awareness ticked calmly.
Butter acquisition successful.
Collateral damage: acceptable.
The system chimed in, faint but unmistakably smug.
«Mischief Level Increased.
Title Unlocked: Amateur Butter Thief.»
He blinked once.
Amateur?
He made a note to improve.
Yashoda sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You're going to be the death of me one day."
Krishna toddled forward and hugged her leg.
Crisis averted.
She melted immediately.
Nanda, watching from the doorway, laughed. "He takes after you."
Yashoda shot him a glare. "I have never stolen butter in my life."
Nanda wisely chose not to respond.
As Krishna grew older, so did his curiosity.
He explored Gokul freely, barefoot and carefree, his laughter echoing through the village paths. The children followed him naturally, drawn to his confidence and warmth. Where Krishna went, joy followed.
And sometimes—
Trouble.
One afternoon, Krishna spotted a group of older boys bullying a younger child near the cattle pens. The boy was crying quietly, clutching a broken toy.
Krishna stopped.
Awareness expanded.
Threat level: minor.
Dharma line: crossed.
He approached casually.
"Why are you breaking his toy?" Krishna asked, voice light.
One of the older boys scoffed. "Go away, butter-mouth."
Krishna smiled.
He picked up the broken toy and examined it carefully. Then he tapped it lightly against the ground.
It fixed itself.
The boys stared.
The younger child gasped.
Krishna handed it back. "You should share instead," he said cheerfully.
The older boys felt something heavy settle in their chests—an inexplicable pressure, not pain, but unease.
They backed away without another word.
Krishna watched them leave.
«Minor Intervention Logged,» the system noted.
«Correction Applied: Non-violent deterrence.
Efficiency Rating: Acceptable.»
He approved.
Violence was inefficient at this stage.
As days turned into months, stories began to circulate.
"He stole butter from three houses in one morning!"
"My cow follows him everywhere!"
"He talks like a grown man when he thinks no one is listening!"
Krishna heard it all.
He allowed it.
Reputation could be useful.
One evening, as the sun dipped low and villagers gathered near the river, a stranger arrived.
He wore traveler's robes, his posture stiff, his eyes sharp despite the casual appearance. He watched Krishna closely from a distance.
Krishna noticed immediately.
Awareness locked on.
External Observer detected.
Intent: Malicious.
Affiliation: Mathura.
Kamsa's net had reached Gokul.
The man approached Yashoda with a forced smile. "Fine child," he said lightly. "Healthy. Strong."
Yashoda smiled politely, instinctively shifting Krishna closer to her.
Krishna looked at the man.
The man felt it.
Cold sweat broke out along his neck.
Krishna stepped forward.
"Do you like butter?" he asked innocently.
The man hesitated. "W-what?"
Krishna extended his hand, offering a lump of butter.
The moment the man touched it, his vision swam. Guilt surged—faces of children, blood, orders obeyed without question.
He staggered back.
"I—I must go," he stammered, turning pale.
He fled Gokul that very night.
Far away, Kamsa felt something snap.
"What happened?" he roared.
No answer came.
Krishna watched the sunset, expression calm.
«Threat Neutralized,» the system reported.
«Method: Psychological Overload.
Collateral Damage: None.»
Krishna nodded slightly.
Good.
That night, Yashoda tucked him into bed, brushing butter-stained curls from his forehead.
"You're going to cause trouble when you're older," she murmured fondly.
Krishna yawned.
Within his mind, awareness stretched once more across the land.
Mathura trembled under tyranny.
Gokul slept in peace.
Dharma wavered, but did not fall.
For now.
He closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, there would be more butter to steal.
And more balance to maintain.
--chapter 6 ended--