Night had fallen, but the sky refused to dim. The stars blazed unnaturally bright, as if summoned to witness something sacred. Devavrata stood motionless within the center of the ashen training grounds, his breath deep and slow, his aura dimmed after days of continuous sparring. The mountain wind had died. Even the leaves held their breath.
Across from him stood Parashurama, arms folded, the ends of his battle-scarred dhoti stirring faintly in a wind only he seemed to command.
The silence between them was not empty.
It was the moment before a storm.
Parashurama stood at the edge of the judgment-field, where the earth remembered blood and silence in equal measure. The winds had calmed. The sky dimmed, not from cloud, but from something ancient—something watching.
He gazed at Devavrata, voice like distant thunder.
"I have tested you with three divine weapons granted to men by the Laws of the World themselves.
The Agniyastra, flame eternal.
The Varunastra, tide unbroken.
The Vāyavyastra, breath of the formless winds.
And you did not falter. You bent the elements, but you were not bent by them.
You are worthy of fear…
But now, I ask—are you worthy of truth?"
Devavrata bowed low, dust clinging to his knees like offerings of ash. His voice was quiet, but not uncertain.
"You have called me a warrior.
You have called me your disciple.
Call me what the truth demands.
If the weight is heavy—let it fall on me.
I do not seek glory. I seek the burden that no one else dares to carry."
The sage's eyes flickered—approval touched by sorrow, like sunlight seen through smoke.
"No one is ever ready. But readiness is not always a choice."
Parashurama raised one hand.
The air split.
A spiral of radiant mantras emerged, forming slowly between his fingers—ancient, golden sigils woven together like the language of the stars. They shimmered with heatless fire, constantly rearranging, like divine thought seeking form.
Devavrata's eyes widened.
His breath caught in his chest as the glyphs stilled into a blazing wheel—a mandala not made for mortal comprehension. It sang, softly. Not with sound, but presence. The very world seemed to dim in deference.
The sigil of the Brahmastra.
A weapon of extinction.
A shard of origin.
Said to be born of Brahma's first breath.
So powerful it could silence time in a single direction. So sacred that sages had buried its invocation deep within the folds of Dharma itself.
Devavrata inhaled, spine straightening, as if called to attention by creation itself.
Parashurama spoke with reverence:
"The Brahmastra.
Not a weapon, but a vow.
It does not ask whom you wish to destroy. It asks: do you know what should remain?"
Devavrata's gaze lingered on the sigil, awestruck. His voice was low, uncertain:
"Will you teach me this?"
A silence.
Then—Parashurama closed his hand. The sigil vanished.
"Not yet," he said quietly. "This is not a weapon you can learn. It must claim you. And that time has not yet come." "
He turned, eyes shadowed by a deeper storm.
"What I will show you now is older than law. It was not granted by gods. It was not carried by devas or sages. It was forged. It was born in exile. In silence. In penance. From guilt. From judgment."
He continued "What I now offer is no divine relic. Not a gift from gods… but a weapon of man. Of a fallible, failing man."
Parashurama stepped into the center of the judgment-field, where once he had shattered kings with a single breath. But now, he moved like memory—slow, heavy, unrelenting. The air shifted with him, as if even the wind remembered what had been done here.
He did not look at Devavrata as he spoke—he looked at the ground.
"After the last war I waged…
When the kings of the Earth lay broken, and the rivers ran red and the earth cracked open beneath my fury…
I went where even the wind would not follow."
His voice was no longer just sound—it was a weight.
"I exiled myself to the Ruins of Vaikuntha's Edge,
where the fire of Brahma brushes against the void.
There, I did not pray.
I did not speak.
I wept—but not with tears.
With truth."
Devavrata watched him in silence, sensing that interruption would be heresy.
Parashurama's gaze darkened, sharp enough to cleave time.
"You see… When you slay the wicked, it is easy to believe you are righteous.
But one day, I crossed the line.
I began to believe I alone could decide who deserved to live and who deserved to be ash.
I was no longer a warrior.
I was a god with bloodied hands."
He turned, finally meeting Devavrata's eyes. There was no madness in that gaze. Only clarity—painfully earned.
"So I created a weapon.
One that would never lie to me.
One that would judge me first, every time.
One that I could not wield unless my heart passed its test."
He raised his hand once more—not into the sky, but toward the earth.
And from the ground, something began to rise.
Not light. Not fire.
Something older.
Symbols carved into the very crust of the world, now glowing, igniting as if they had only been sleeping all these ages.
A slow circle of mantras appeared beneath him, etched in crimson and gold, flickering like memory woven into flame.
"The Bhargavastra.
My creation.
My burden."
Devavrata's brow furrowed.
"You forged it?"
Parashurama nodded.
"Not in a forge.
Not with iron.
It was born… from repentance.
Shaped by all the death I could not take back."
The glyphs pulsed once.
Then he stepped away, revealing the center of the field—where the markings coiled like a sleeping serpent of fire, waiting.
"This astra has no shape of its own.
No fire, no wind, no water.
It takes the form of your judgment.
And before it ever harms your enemy—it turns on you."
Devavrata's lips parted.
"It judges… the wielder?"
Parashurama's voice grew lower.
"It drags your intentions into light. Every hidden motive. Every unspoken wish.
And it strikes, boy.
Without mercy. Without fail."
The earth around the circle began to tremble. The glyphs brightened.
"If your cause is impure—even by a strand—it will consume you.
If your truth is unsteady—it will show you your ruin.
If you dare to wield it without clarity… it will end you."
Devavrata stood still, his breath shallow.
"Why teach it to me?"
Parashurama stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder—gentle, but firmer than steel.
"Because you will one day stand at the heart of a battlefield
Where dharma wears more than one face.
Where brothers will raise blades against brothers.
Where loyalty and righteousness will pull you in opposite directions. .
And every choice will carry ruin."
He leaned closer, his breath like wind from another age.
"Because in that moment, your sword will fail you. Your vow will chain you. And only one thing will remain—truth. The Bhargavastra will test if you can bear it."
Devavrata looked at the sigil again. It did not blaze like flame, nor shimmer like water. It pulsed—slow and steady—like the beat of a heart made of judgment.
One half was etched in light. The other in shadow.
The glyph spun, slowly rotating in the air, casting fractured light across Devavrata's face.
"If you accept its trial, it will draw forth every shadow within you.
Every lie you've lived, every silence that cost the world a truth.
Every moment you stood beside power and called it duty."
Devavrata stepped closer. Face to face now.
The sigil hovered now between them—silent, radiant, terrible.
"Will you carry this?" it seemed to ask. Not in words, but in knowing.
"Will you carry judgment—when it cannot be spoken?
When it is not thanked?
When it isolates you from all love, all glory, all peace?"
Devavrata looked into the glyph—and saw himself.
All of himself.
He did not tremble. He did not kneel. But when he spoke, his voice was as steady as the mountain beneath him:
"If truth must have a witness, then let it be me.
If justice must pass through fire, let it pass through me."
Parashurama's voice echoed as if from eternity:
"Step forward, boy. The Bhargavastra does not test your strength. It does not care for valor.
It seeks truth—unhidden, unpolished, and unforgiven."
The sigil pulsed once—then flared.
And the trial began