The battlefield had gone quiet, but not with peace—only death.
Black smoke twisted upward in thick spirals, clawing at the grey sky like the last breath of the fallen. Steel glinted beneath layers of soot and blood. Bodies lay scattered, limbs twisted in unnatural ways, armor cracked open like husks.
And in the center stood Daksha.
His body, bare under the rain, looked carved from pain itself—muscles knotted, skin torn in half a dozen places. Blood ran down his arms, painting his fingertips crimson. A Kara soldier came for him, spear thrust forward with trained precision.
Daksha didn't flinch.
He caught the weapon mid-air, snapped it like a twig, and rammed the broken haft through the man's throat. The soldier crumpled without a sound.
More followed—quick, coordinated, relentless.
Daksha didn't retreat. He didn't speak.
He welcomed them.
Ten. Fifteen. Maybe more. They struck with blades and arrows, hacking, stabbing, clawing to bring him down. One blade severed his leg just below the knee.
And for a moment, he fell.
Then… he rose.
Bones cracked back into place. Flesh knitted itself together with grotesque grace. His leg reformed, not as human at first—but scaled like a serpent, gleaming wet under the storm—before smoothing again into skin.
The Kara soldiers hesitated.
Fear had crept in.
Daksha smiled, lips tight.
"Pain is the root of rebirth."
He launched into them.
His fists crushed helmets like tin cups. Elbows drove into faces until bone shattered. He fought like a creature forged in torment—every blow echoing centuries of agony survived and overcome.
And when it was done, silence reclaimed the dead.
Only his breath remained. Thunder rolled overhead. The wind held still.
---
Across the battlefield, Parashu knelt in the mud.
He was shaking. Breath broken. Hands bloodied. His hair clung to his face in mats. The Air Flesh technique—the secret Master Vishma had warned could hollow a man—was ravaging his insides. Each use peeled away a part of him. Muscle. Mind. Soul.
His skin blistered. Melted. Then hardened, only to tear again.
He gasped, choked, and collapsed face-first in the dirt.
And above him... the Kara General stood.
A colossus. Towering. Wrapped in black iron and malice. His weapon—a halberd heavy with curses and ancient runes—glowed with a cold, unnatural light.
He raised it, ready to strike.
But something stopped him.
A shadow fell between them.
Not a person.
An axe.
It trembled where it lay, half-buried in mud—Parashu's father's axe, long dormant. And now, it pulsed. Faintly at first. Then brighter. Violet fire licked its edge.
Parashu stirred.
Still bleeding. Still broken.
But his chest lit with a sigil long hidden, carved into his lineage by fate and fire. The axe surged from the ground into his grip. Power bled into his fingers—wild, divine, terrifying.
The earth cracked.
Lightning didn't strike from the sky—it erupted from the soil beneath his feet.
The weapon twisted in his hand, reshaping. It glowed brighter, roaring with a hunger he barely understood. The power of the Yakshini—the same force Jamadigini had once refused to wield—awakened.
Parashu's eyes turned white.
He didn't scream.
He disappeared.
In the blink of an eye, the Kara General was airborne—then hurled against a stone wall, bleeding from wounds too numerous to count.
The battlefield paused.
And the war shifted.
---
On the village's eastern edge, Asura moved like a phantom.
Each motion was precise, each step purposeful. His twin sabers sliced through Kara warriors as if guided by something deeper than rage—something colder. His focus was unshakeable.
Until he saw her.
Just outside the flicker of firelight.
Durga.
Older. Hardened. Wearing the armor of the enemy. Her blade still wet with blood.
The world narrowed to silence.
He stood frozen, heart lurching.
"Durga..." he whispered.
She stepped forward, her face unreadable.
"You're late, Father."
The words gutted him more than any weapon ever could.
"You fight for this village now?" Her voice was steel. "Where were you when they burned it down? When Mother screamed and no one came?"
His throat clenched. "I tried—"
"But you didn't make it!" she snapped. Her eyes shimmered with fury and tears. "You always said you'd protect us. But you weren't there."
Asura looked down, his blade lowering an inch.
Durga's hand tightened around her saber.
"The Kara General made me a promise. If I bled for them, they would bring her back. Mother. Alive."
Silence.
He stared at her—this stranger who had once clung to his neck during thunderstorms.
"I don't care about your war," she said. "I care about what was stolen. And if standing between me and her... means fighting you..."
She drew her blade.
Asura didn't move.
In her eyes, he saw not just betrayal—but grief twisted into hope. A child's desperation weaponized.
He let his saber fall into the dirt.
And around them, the fire crackled—wild and unforgiving.
---