As they huddled in the flickering light of the Kutol forge-home, maps sprawled across the table, relics humming with restrained energy, and the air thick with battle talk, Atama suddenly leaned back with a heavy sigh, fingers laced behind his head.
"You know… before we go jumping blades-first into angel guts, there's something you all should know about the Kid," he said, glancing sideways at the boy who had his fists clenched tight.
The Kid froze.
Atama scratched his chin. "You ever hear of King Shantanu?"
Kiyomi narrowed her eyes. "The ancient monarch? From Earth's oldest myths?"
Seko leaned forward slightly, his expression unreadable.
Atama nodded slowly. "That's not just myth. That's his bloodline. This kid isn't just some demi-god. He's from before—like way before. Ten thousand years back. Somehow… through a rupture in space-time, he ended up here, now. Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was that twisted river."
The room fell silent.
Kiyomi's voice cracked slightly, "Wait… you mean the king who married Goddess Ganga? The one whose children she kept… sacrificing?"
The Kid's face darkened, shadowed by both pain and something deeper—acceptance.
"I was one of those children," he said quietly. "The Eighth."
He looked toward the crystal-lit window, watching the distant trade towers shimmer.
"She sacrificed seven of us to the river, for reasons even I didn't understand then. A pact. A cycle. A mercy, maybe. But I was spared—not by choice, but by consequence. Something went wrong. I was left behind. Lost in the fabric of time… until I ended up here."
Atama whistled softly. "Ganga's kids weren't normal. They were celestial fragments given form. That kind of lineage… that's no joke. And maybe that's why you're always hearing whispers from the void and manipulating thoughts like it's a goddamn hobby."
Seko glanced toward The Kid, eyes sharpening with understanding.
"So you weren't born a weapon," he said. "You were abandoned as one."
Kiyomi, for the first time, didn't have a snarky reply.
The Kid simply nodded.
"And now… I've chosen what to point myself at."
They all knew.
The Angel. The one who corrupted Kutol. Who traded morality for Deno'r crystals. Who cloaked tyranny in wings and righteousness.
The past didn't matter anymore. Not when war was coming.
And now they knew—this wasn't just a war of criminals or rebels.
This was divine revenge.
Atama's eyes narrowed slightly, the soft hiss of molten metal bubbling in the background of the Kutol forge. He leaned forward, setting aside the half-eaten alien fruit. The atmosphere turned grim as he continued, tone weighted with reverence and gravity.
"You're right to bring that up," he said. "The original curse—Vashishta's curse—wasn't aimed at mortals at all. It was divine justice aimed at the eight Vasus, celestial beings. They were supposed to be protectors of cosmic balance… but they broke sacred law."
He paused.
"They dared steal Sage Vashishta's divine cow, Nandini. A being not just capable of wish-granting, but a symbol of pure dharma. The Vasus didn't steal it for themselves—they did it to please one of their wives. But it didn't matter. Vashishta… he didn't forgive betrayal so easily."
Kiyomi shifted slightly, her face furrowed. "He cursed gods?"
Atama nodded. "Yes. He cursed all eight Vasus to be born as mortals on Earth. Powerless. Vulnerable. Fragile."
Seko listened in silence, something in his eyes sharpening.
"But Ganga," Atama continued, "the divine river goddess… she begged for mercy. Not for herself, but for her children. The Vasus. And Vashishta, seeing her sincerity, softened the curse."
"Seven of the eight Vasus," he said slowly, "would be allowed to die at birth… their suffering brief, their penance short."
"But the eighth?"
His voice lowered to a near whisper.
"The eighth Vasu—Dyu—was condemned to live. To endure a full human life. To suffer the weight of time, pain, and loss. To carry the memory of divinity but be shackled to mortality."
The Kid didn't flinch. He stood perfectly still.
"The soul of that eighth Vasu," Atama said, looking him dead in the eyes, "is you. That's why space and time rippled around your survival. Why fate keeps dragging you back."
Kiyomi's jaw clenched. "So… he's cursed to exist?"
"To never belong," Atama answered. "Not to heaven, not to Earth. That's the burden of divine arrogance… and Vashishta made sure the world would remember it."
The forge fell silent again.
Only now, it wasn't just a tale of gods and punishment.
It was a reminder that even celestial beings—those thought to be untouchable—were not free from consequence.
And one of them was standing among them… trying to forge a path through ashes, curses, and a dying galaxy.
As the forge's ambient hum vibrated through the air and discussions faded to silence, a stillness settled over Seko like a shroud.
Then—
A voice.Ancient. Divine. Gentle, yet carrying a weight that could crush mountains.
"It was supposed that Bhishma was sent here to choose his own destiny for a brief amount of time."
Seko's entire body tensed. His instincts screamed. This wasn't some illusion or mental trick—this was real. The kind of real that seeps into your bones and rewrites your soul.
He turned sharply, eyes wide with the first real fear he had felt in centuries. The world had changed around him.
Time itself had stopped.
The fluttering of Kiyomi's scarf was frozen mid-air. The flickering flames in the background sat still like paintings. The Kid stood unmoving, mid-expression. The murmuring sounds of Kutol's market outside had been silenced. Only one other moved.
Atama.
He was calmly standing near the wall, chewing something unholy looking from a food pouch. But his eyes had sharpened, unnaturally so. He could hear it too.
"I suppose I must be surprised," the voice spoke again, "that aside from whom I desire to hear, someone else is hearing..."
The tone was neutral. Neither warm nor threatening. Yet the pressure of it was enough to make Seko's chest tighten.
"Be careful on your rough journey."
Just like that—it ended.
Time snapped back into motion.
The flames flickered again. Kiyomi's scarf fell with a soft rustle. The background noise of the market resumed.
Atama slowly turned toward Seko, eyebrows slightly raised, a rare look of seriousness etched across his usually mocking features. They had both heard it.
And whatever that divine presence was—it knew who Bhishma was.
More importantly… it knew what Seko was becoming.
A silence lingered between the two, unspoken yet full of weight.
Seko didn't say a word.
He just stared at his trembling hands... and realized for the first time—
He might be part of something even fate itself dared not meddle with.
Atama, still leaning casually against the wall, tossed the last bite of his fruit into his mouth. He chewed with that same old smug expression—but for once, his voice carried none of its usual playfulness.
He exhaled slowly.
Then, quietly, he said:
"I can think of infinite things in one second, I swear...But that thing... was beyond me."
The sound of the forge resumed. The world moved again.
But between the two of them, a quiet understanding remained—something ancient had taken notice.And it was watching.