"They say power is a blessing
But even Blessings rot when held too long"
—When Gods were Mortal vol. 1
Prologue -(Excerpt from the book Sumedh is reading)
"Before time wore a name,when silence ruled the stars , Two supreme Forces shaped all that would ever be
Kalpatman- The boundless Dreamer
Kaalsura- The perfect warrior
For eons, They were harmony and Kaalsura noble and unmatched, protected all creation, The seven lesser Gods Of Creation(Chitravah), Destruction (Rudranay), Balance (Vishantak), Elements (Vayajal and Agnidhar) and Sacred (Kalbindu and Vyomketu) each granted him a vardan in gratitude, Seven boons. Seven blessings
But power demands worship. And worship erode will. Kaalsura the protector become Kaalsura the possessed. His soul grew wild. His hands bloodied his gaze consuming.
The gods fought him- even Kalpatman But none could destroy what had become divine. So they shattered him. His spirit scattered. His presence sealed.
To halt his spread, five races were born- Humans, Spirits, Shadows, Curses, and Hollows
And in death, the demon sleeps....But every death since, feeds his dream of return"
Present Day- year-2114 (Place- Neelvan)
The book was old
It's cover cracked like dry earth. It's pages yellowed, laced with the scent of dust and memory. A soft glow from the window spilled across the open chapter.
Twelve year old Sumedh leaned closer, whispering the ancient monologue aloud.
".......And in death, the demon sleeps.... But every death since, feeds his dream of return"
He Looked up eyes wide
"What if it's not just a story?" he murmured
His mother entered quietly, placing a glass of warm milk beside him. Her smile was soft, touched with a trace of nostalgia.
> "Your grandfather used to say the same thing," she said. "He believed it was all real. He called it forgotten history, not mythology."
Sumedh closed the book slowly. His fingers lingered on the final lines like they might fade if he let go.
> "It doesn't feel like fiction," he whispered. "It feels like remembering something I was never taught."
---
The Father Arrives
The door clicked open.
Footsteps — heavy, disciplined, precise.
> "Sumedh."
His father's voice — sharp, without room for argument.
Colonel Varun entered like a storm held in uniform. His stare locked on the book.
> "Still wasting time with fairy tales?"
Sumedh didn't flinch. "It's not a fairy tale. It makes sense."
> "It doesn't matter if it makes sense. The entrance exam is in six years. You're already behind."
Sumedh turned, frustration building. "Six years! I'm twelve."
> "And your competition is thirteen," Varun snapped. "Some students start JEE prep at ten. NEET at eleven. This world doesn't wait for dreamers, Sumedh."
Sumedh stood up.
> "You're not listening. I never chose this. You chose this career for me."
His father's eyes darkened. "You think children get to choose in a world like this? You were born with potential. Trained from the age of five. Do you know how many families would give everything to have a child with your ability?"
Sumedh's fists clenched. "I was five. I didn't even know what I wanted."
> "You were meant to serve. Not wander in fantasy."
> "Meant by who?" Sumedh shot back. "You? Society? A system that punishes people for liking something different?"
The silence between them cut deeper than words.
His mother tried to speak, but Varun raised his hand coldly.
> "Mock drills resume at 5:00 AM. If I catch you with that book again, I'll burn it."
Sumedh didn't reply.
He walked out, leaving the book behind — but not the words.
---
🛏️ Night – Sumedh's Room
His room was small. His dreams, much larger.
He sat in bed, lights off, staring at the ceiling.
Then... memory seeped in.
---
Age five.
A warm backyard.
His father laughing, spinning him in circles.
> "Will I become a hero someday?" little Sumedh had asked.
> "You already are," his father had smiled.
They used to play. Paint stories on the floor with muddy fingers. Pretend he was a god, a king, a star.
Now, that same man stood like a wall behind medals and discipline. The love hadn't vanished — but it had become... conditional.
He missed the man who dreamed with him.
> "I didn't stop loving stories," Sumedh whispered to the dark.
"I stopped loving who I became when I stopped telling them."
Far beyond the walls of their apartment, something stirred — ancient, slow, watching.
And within Sumedh's heart, something older than memory whispered:
> "You are not just meant to be strong.
You are meant to remember."
---
© 2025 Parth Bhelekar. All rights reserved.
This is an original work of fiction. The world, characters, lore, and systems belong solely to the author.
Please do not copy, repost, translate, or adapt without permission.
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Kaalvigraha™ — When gods bleed, chaos begins