The God of Eagles sat majestically upon his throne, his golden eyes fixed on Om. A faint smile tugged at his lips, as though Om's very presence amused him.
Om's mind whirled with confusion. He could not comprehend why a being of such divine stature stood before him—or why he had been brought here at all.
Around the throne, the council of eagle retainers whispered among themselves in urgent tones. Finally, one elder rose, his voice trembling with concern.
"My Lord, please reconsider this decision a million times over. You know he will not remain still once he learns of this. He will come knocking at our gates soon. If that happens, the entire race of eagles will be dragged into peril."
The god did not flinch. His golden gaze remained steady.
"He already knows," the God of Eagles said calmly from his throne. "He is coming even now. I have little time left to speak with this boy."
The elder paled, sweat dripping down his forehead. With a hurried bow, he excused himself and left the chamber to strengthen security around the mountain.
The god turned his eyes back to Om. His tone softened.
"Drink the potion you found, Om."
Om hesitated for only a moment before obeying. He pulled the small vial from his bag—the one he had retrieved from a treasure chest during the trial—and drank it in one gulp.
Heat spread through his veins, and Om sank cross-legged onto the stone floor, slipping into meditation. For thirty grueling minutes he sat still, absorbing the potion's effects. His injuries burned as if fire licked his flesh, but slowly, painfully, his wounds knit themselves closed. When his meditation ended, his body was steadier, his strength partially restored.
Yet his chakra reserves remained weak—barely twenty percent of his total capacity.
He exhaled heavily, then opened his eyes.
The God of Eagles had been watching him the entire time, silent and unblinking, as though studying not just his body, but his very soul.
Om met his gaze with steady determination.
"Now tell me," he said, his voice low but firm. "Why did you bring me here? Why kidnap me?"
The god sighed, a sound that seemed far too heavy for any single being to bear.
"Because, Om… I want you to kill me."
The words struck Om like a thunderbolt.
His breath caught. His sword hand twitched. Of all the things he expected, this was not one of them.
This was the God of Eagles—a being so powerful he could end Om's life with a flick of his wrist. A god, who stood above mortals, above warriors, above kings.
And yet, he was asking Om to kill him.
The council fell silent. Their eyes burned with grief and protest, but none dared speak against their god. Their gazes alone pleaded: Please, my Lord, do not do this.
Om's throat went dry. His lips parted, but no words came.
The god, seeing his confusion, rose from his throne. His voice softened as he said,
"Come. Let us walk in the garden."
Om hesitated, then followed.
Together, they stepped outside the throne hall.
The garden lay atop the mountain peak, where air was crisp and clouds drifted lazily below their feet. Trees bore fruits Om recognized—mangoes, bananas, coconuts—and others he had never seen before, their petals glowing faintly with otherworldly light. Flowers painted the mountain in colors too vivid for mortal lands.
As they walked, the god finally spoke again.
"I know what you must be thinking. 'What nonsense is this old eagel speaking?' But my words are true. I want to die."
Om's voice was quiet, almost hesitant. "Why?"
The god said nothing. Instead, he slipped his robe from his shoulders.
Om froze.
The body before him was a map of suffering. Fresh wounds still bled sluggishly. His back bore the remnants of wings—once glorious, now nothing but charred stumps, scarred by flame. Long cuts marred his torso, some still raw, others old. His chest and arms carried gashes too deep for any ordinary being to survive.
Om's breath caught in his throat. Who could wound a god to this degree?
The god pulled his robe back into place. His voice was calm, but heavy.
"I want to die because of these wounds."
Om shook his head, disbelief in his tone. "You… want to die because of injuries? Are you serious? A god should heal."
The god chuckled bitterly.
"Yes, that is what you are thinking. Wounds heal with time. But not these. What if I told you… these wounds are not fresh?"
Om frowned. "They look like they were cut an hour ago."
The god's smile turned hollow.
"And yet, they are more than 1 million years "
Om's eyes widened. His heart stuttered. "What…?"
The god's voice grew distant, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
"These wounds were dealt to me in Treta Yuga, when I fought to save the Lord's wife from abduction. That day… my brother died. And I was struck down by a blade no mortal should ever toch ."
Om's mind reeled. "Who… who was the abductor?"
The god's golden eyes turned grim.
"Ravana."
The name echoed through Om's chest like a temple bell.
The god continued, voice weighted with centuries of grief.
"My brother and I confronted him as he carried away Sita. My brother gave his life in the attempt. And I was left broken beyond repair. The blade he wielded was divine. Wounds struck by it do not close until the victim's death."
Om listened, silent, his mind struggling to grasp the enormity of what he was hearing.
The god's lips curled in a faint, bitter smile.
"Because I tried to save Sita, and because my brother died to protect her, Nature itself rewarded me with strength beyond imagining. It gave me long life—unnatural life. A gift that became a curse. These wounds never heal. Every day, I feel death approaching… but it never comes. Nature keeps me alive, refusing to let me die, yet never letting me live. I am trapped in a cycle of endless suffering."
Om saw grief flicker in the god's eyes when he spoke of his brother. But also unwavering devotion. This was no ordinary being—he was a loyal follower of Lord Rama, still carrying the weight of that choice more than a millennium later.
The god's voice grew heavy.
"For 1 million years I have endured this pain. Every day, I die a little. Every day, I awaken again. I have searched endlessly for one who can end my curse. And now… after all this time, I have found you."
Om's voice shook as he whispered, "Why me? You could ask anyone to strike you down."
The god chuckled again, though sorrow lined his voice.
"No mortal can bear the karma of killing me. Even if an infant raised a hand against me, the entire race of that child would be cursed. For I am precious to Nature itself, for saving its god. That is why I cannot die. That is why I cannot live."
Om's chest tightened. "Then… why me?"
The god's golden eyes locked onto his.
"Because I can see karma. I have seen it in all living beings, stretched across centuries like threads. But you, Om…"
He paused, his voice reverberating with awe and certainty.
"You have no karma. It does not touch you. It does not bind you. You are outside its web. That is why only you can kill me."
Om's blood ran cold.
No karma? Was that possible? And if it was, what did it mean for him?