Vrindavan was alive.
Not metaphorically.
Not poetically.
It breathed.
The moment Krishna crossed its boundary, the forest responded.
Leaves shimmered despite the absence of wind. Flowers bloomed out of season, colors deepening as if freshly painted by the universe itself. Birds altered their songs mid-note, harmonizing instinctively, while cows—placid, stubborn creatures by nature—lifted their heads as one.
Krishna felt it.
Recognition.
Acceptance.
Welcome.
He inhaled deeply, and for the first time since his incarnation, the land answered him fully.
Within his mind, the system paused… then updated.
«Environmental Synchronization Complete.
Location: Vrindavan.
Compatibility: Perfect.
Dharma Resonance: Extremely High.»
Krishna smiled.
Yes. This would do nicely.
The villagers noticed immediately.
"This forest feels different," one elder murmured.
"The air is lighter," said another.
"My joints don't ache," an old man added, amazed.
Children laughed louder. Cows grazed peacefully. Even the river Yamuna sparkled with unusual clarity.
Yashoda noticed too.
She adjusted Krishna on her hip, eyes narrowing slightly as she surveyed the surroundings.
"This place feels… warm," she said.
Krishna rested his head against her shoulder. "It likes us."
She laughed softly. "You talk as if places have feelings."
Krishna did not correct her.
They settled near the riverbank, setting up homes beneath tall trees whose shade felt protective rather than oppressive. Life resumed quickly—Vrindavan welcomed them like it had been waiting.
And then—
She appeared.
A girl about Krishna's age, dark-haired, sharp-eyed, standing with hands on her hips as she watched him toddle dangerously close to the river.
"Hey!" she called. "You'll fall in!"
Krishna looked up.
Radha.
Not destiny yet.
Not romance yet.
But a presence.
A spark.
The system froze.
Then, very carefully, spoke.
«Significant Entity Detected.
Emotional Resonance: High.
Probability of Narrative Importance: Catastrophic.»
Krishna blinked.
Catastrophic?
Radha marched over and grabbed his arm firmly. "You don't listen, do you?"
Krishna smiled at her.
She froze.
"…Why are you smiling like that?"
He tilted his head. "You're loud."
Her mouth opened, then closed.
"…You're strange."
"People say that a lot."
She sniffed, unimpressed. "You're new."
"Yes."
"You break things."
"Sometimes."
She stared at him for a long moment, then nodded decisively. "I'll watch you."
Krishna laughed.
That laughter rippled through Vrindavan like a bell.
Flowers bloomed instantly nearby.
Radha stared at them, startled.
"…Did you do that?"
Krishna shrugged.
Nearby, Yashoda and the other women exchanged puzzled glances.
"That child," one murmured. "She's been here her whole life. She never talks to strangers."
Yashoda smiled faintly. "Krishna has that effect."
As days passed, Vrindavan adjusted to him.
Or rather—
It revolved around him.
Play became sacred.
Laughter echoed like prayer.
Butter thefts increased dramatically.
Krishna became the center of every game, every chase, every song. Children followed him instinctively, and Radha—despite claiming she was "only keeping an eye on him"—was always nearby.
No sadness.
No longing.
Just joy.
Within his awareness, threats still loomed.
Mathura grew restless.
Kamsa's fear hardened into obsession.
But Vrindavan stood protected.
Krishna walked beside the Yamuna one evening, feet splashing playfully in the water.
He felt it then.
Not a demon.
Not yet.
A watcher.
Someone observing from far beyond mortal sight.
The system chimed cautiously.
«Observer Detected.
Alignment: Neutral.
Recommendation: Ignore for now.»
Krishna agreed.
Let the gods watch.
This phase was about joy.
Balance was not only enforced through destruction.
Sometimes—
It was preserved through laughter.
Krishna ran back toward the village, Radha chasing him, yelling threats she had no intention of enforcing.
The forest laughed with them.
And for the first time—
The world felt right.
--chapter 15 ended--