The Womb of Earth went utterly still.
No fire.
No wind.
Even the mist held its breath.
Parashurama stood, but did not speak. Not immediately. He looked upward—not at the sky, but through it.
His hand did not reach into the brazier.
It reached inward.
And in that sacred silence, the world tilted—not in motion, but in meaning.
Devavrata felt it before he saw anything.
A void. Not empty. Foundational.
A sensation of being on the precipice of something that had no name, no image—only presence.
Then—light.
But not fire. Not sun.
The light that first whispered into the darkness: Let there be.
And with it, a hum deeper than sound, higher than silence.
It was not just heard. It was remembered.
The sound of a soul being born.
From Parashurama's chest—not lips—came a voice like an ancient bell rung once across all of time:
"The Brahmastra."
"It is not a weapon."
"It is the permission to speak in the voice of the First Maker."
"A single breath, carried on the wind of Dharma. That which strikes not one foe, but the very notion of opposition."
Around them, the mountain's spirit rose, forming not visions, but echoes of something older than history.
Devavrata saw a forest turn to ocean.
A kingdom vanish in a heartbeat—without scream or ruin.
He saw sages and rakshasas alike bowing before a single arrow notched but never loosed.
He saw three worlds pause.
And Brahma himself, eyes closed, as though listening for his own first breath.
"This Astra is not taught," Parashurama whispered now, reverently. "Nor can it be earned through cultivation or might."
"No mantra can summon it."
"No master may bestow it."
"It is Mahadev's judgment—not on your strength, but on your stillness."
Devavrata did not speak. He did not blink.
He simply stood… and felt how small he truly was.
Parashurama continued:
"You do not possess the Brahmastra."
"And you may never. That, too, is sacred."
"For it is not the mark of a warrior to seek creation's end…"
"It is the burden of those whom destiny has cornered so completely… that nothing but divine breath remains."
The master turned, voice soft:
"If it ever comes to you, Boy… know this."
"It means the world believes no other choice remains."
Above the Womb of Earth, the stars paused in their orbit. Celestial scribes in the higher realms turned their heads. For even the heavens are not immune to the unfolding of remembrance.
And then the brazier went out.
Not in smoke.
Not in ash.
But in completion.
As if even fire knew—there were some truths that could not be warmed.
Only witnessed.
Tiny fissures ran through the cave floor—not of collapse, but of release. As if the Womb of Earth, too, acknowledged that something dormant had awakened.
For the first time in years… Devavrata could not speak.
And then the flames flickered out.
Parashurama turned to him, grave and silent, but his next words were strangely light.
"Well," he muttered, "you're not quite dead. That's better than most."
Devavrata let out a soft, strangled laugh.
He did not feel stronger. He felt smaller. As though the more he learned, the more sacred the silence became.
Parashurama turned his gaze back to the flickering embers of the campfire, now burning low with dusk's hush.
"I could not teach you these three," he said, voice quiet. "They are not techniques. They are truths. Realms unto themselves, earned only when the soul becomes the instrument."
Devavrata lowered his head, not in shame, but in comprehension.
"But you taught me everything else," he whispered. "Vayavyastra, Vajrastra, Naagastra, even the dreadful Tvashtrastra… You laid bare a whole world of weapons. And I feel them in my blood."
Parashurama gave a rare smile, weary and warm.
"Yes. You now command what few ever even glimpse. A thousand mantras, ten thousand cycles of breath, seventy-seven astras—each born from the hymns of gods, the echoes of sages, and the laws etched into fire and stone. That, I gave you."
He turned, eyes reflecting the cosmic stillness of the mountain sky.
"But these three," he continued, "I showed you not to teach you how to wield them—but so that your soul would recognize them when the time came. They are not learned. They are remembered."
Devavrata looked at the sky.
"Then why show them to me at all?"
"Because without knowing the truth," Parashurama said, "you would mistake power for mastery. And that would lead you to ruin. The others—Shakti, Kshatriya kings, sages in their caves—think strength is what one conquers. But these astras… they are not used. They are accepted. And until you saw that, you could never truly master even the lesser ones."
He gestured toward the horizon where morning's breath was just beginning to pale the stars.
"Now, when you summon Agneyastra, it will not just be flame—it will be sacrifice. When you wield Vajrastra, it will not be lightning—it will be judgment. This understanding… is what separates a master from a butcher."
"One day," Parashurama murmured, "you may wield all three astras, Narayanastra, Pashupatastra, and the Brahmastra. But if that day comes… the world will be ready to end—or be reborn."
Devavrata stood, the silence inside him vast.
And in that moment, he finally understood:
It was not the number of astras he could summon,
But the truths they represented—
And whether he had the soul to bear them.
And Devavrata stood, not as a warrior among weapons—
But as a pilgrim at the edge of divinity.
These were not astras.
They were hymns.
And he was being asked to carry their silence, not their fire.
The brazier was cold now. But the silence it left behind glowed—not with warmth, but with a kind of sacred finality.
Around them, the Womb of Earth slumbered.
A hidden sanctuary carved in the heart of the Vindhya ranges, its soil was older than cities, and its stones bore the fossil-marks of rishis who had meditated there before time wore names. Moss grew in spirals, not randomly but in sacred yantras, and faint glyphs pulsed beneath the roots—sigils of the Bhargava lineage, protectors of law and flame.
No birds sang here. No beasts dared tread.
This was not a place for life.
It was a place for awakening.
Devavrata stood slowly, turned toward his master, and knelt.
Not as a student kneels to a guru.
But as a soul bows to the one who helped it know itself.
"Guru," he said, voice steady but low, "I came to you seeking power."
Parashurama grunted, stroking his axe absentmindedly. "You got none of it."
Devavrata smiled faintly. "What I received… was purpose. And the clarity to carry it."
He touched his head to the black-veined stone floor, feeling the ley-lines hum beneath his brow. "For what you've given me—truth, torment, stillness, the shape of fire—I shall carry your name in my breath until my last."
The old warrior snorted and scratched his tangled beard. "All this reverence. It's making my ears itch. You weren't this polite when I was slamming you into cliffs."
Devavrata rose, his eyes calm like a lake that had seen a star fall into it.
Parashurama stepped forward, offering his arm.
Not as a farewell.
But as a rite.
"Stand up, boy. Warriors don't bloom in greenhouses. They grow under lightning."
For a breath, the old warrior looked away. Not to hide weakness—but to honor the boy who had survived everything he could give. His eyes did not mist. But the silence behind them did.
Devavrata clasped his teacher's arm—scarred, iron-hard, and warm. "I'll try not to burn the field while I'm at it."
Parashurama smirked. "Burn it if you must. Just make sure something stronger grows in its place."
They stood there, surrounded by the hollow wind of that sacred valley, the last light of dusk bleeding into ochre shadows. From somewhere deep within the cavernous roots of the mountain, the low toll of an ancient bell echoed—the Bhargava Gong, said to sound only when fate itself changed direction.
There was a silence, but not an awkward one.
The kind of silence that comes when souls know they'll next meet on opposite ends of destiny.
"When we meet again…" Devavrata began.
Parashurama shrugged, his one visible eye narrowing. "I'll try not to aim for the throat. Maybe a leg."
They both chuckled—softly, but not without weight.
And yet—
Neither of them knew.
Not then.
That their next meeting would not merely split loyalties.
It would split the sky.
It would rupture the ley-lines, awaken sealed astras, and bring the world to the edge of unmaking.
It would be a fight not just between teacher and student…
…but between past and future, between wrath and will, between a curse older than time and a vow forged in sorrow.
It would be the battle that tore open the heavens and shattered mountains:
The War Between Bhargava and Bhishma.
But that was not today.
Today was the day a student bowed… and a master watched him rise.
Parashurama exhaled.
The mountain answered with a gust of wind that stirred the dust into spiraling mantras.
"Go," he said finally. "Hastinapura awaits."
And far above, in the layers of heaven untouched by time, a conch sounded—not as omen, but as witness.