In his trial of spirit, his soul became a phoenix, rising again and again from the ashes of its own destruction. His aura no longer roared with power—it whispered. It existed just beyond the senses, masked so well that even seasoned cultivators would mistake him for a mere mortal. Only the most enlightened could perceive the depthless calm that cloaked his presence.
By now, fate itself whispered to him. In the stillness of dawn or the hush of stars, he could hear the secret melodies that underpinned the world—vibrations of destiny woven like a harp's string. He could tug at them, shift them subtly, not yet to rewrite the story of the world, but to feel where it frayed, where it sang, where it waited for him.
One evening, as he emerged from a deep trance, the river shimmered with an otherworldly light. Fireflies circled him like guardians, and the soul-lotus on his chest glowed faintly through his robes.
He spoke softly, as if the river might answer.
"I feel it, Mother," he said, his voice distant. "The world's threads pull at me. They sing of wars yet to come… kings yet unborn… I can almost reach out and shape them."
Ganga appeared beside him, stepping from the water as if the current had sculpted her from light and mist. Her eyes were calm, but there was an ancient weight behind them—a mother's love tempered by divine duty.
"You are beginning to see beyond the veil," she said, placing a gentle hand on his head. "You stand at the threshold, my son. Soon, you will walk beyond time, where cause and effect lose meaning."
She knelt beside him, her fingers brushing the edge of the soul-lotus, now pulsing like a second heart.
"But beware," she murmured. "The void you seek is not a place. It is a truth. And that truth holds madness as easily as it holds enlightenment. Many stare into it, hoping for answers. Few return whole."
Devavrata nodded. The wind stirred his dark hair. He closed his eyes and listened once more to the pull of fate's melody, a quiet resolve blooming within him.
"Then I will walk into it," he said, "not to conquer it… but to understand it. To become worthy of whatever destiny awaits."
Before Devavrata could step back into the mortal world, before he could claim his lineage as prince once more, Ganga summoned him to the river's heart—where the veil between realms grew thin, and time moved like breath upon water.
She stood on the bank as the moon burned silver in the sky, her robes billowing like mist over the floodplain. Behind her, a massive structure rose from the riverbed—a temple not built, but birthed. It was sculpted from crystalline water, its walls ever-shifting yet indestructible, runes glowing faintly beneath its surface like sleeping stars. The very air shimmered with divine resonance, vibrating with truths too deep for speech.
Devavrata approached silently. He bowed, but Ganga did not return the gesture. Her expression was unreadable, serene as a still lake—but her eyes… her eyes held a stormlight.
"Your power grows, Devavrata," she said, voice low but laden with divine authority. "But power alone is not legacy. Power without mastery is a blade without a hilt. It cuts not just the enemy—but also the wielder."
Devavrata raised his head. "What must I do?"
Ganga turned toward the temple. The runes flared to life, and the temple gates opened with a sound like a tide breaking over stone.
"You will enter the Trial of Four Nights," she declared. "Each night, you will face a spirit I have summoned. Not of flesh, but of essence. They are drawn from ancient rivers of fate—each one a reflection of a virtue, a danger, a part of yourself. You must endure them—not just with weapons and aura, but with soul. Only then may you return to your father… as more than a son."
Devavrata bowed once more. "I am ready."
His spear vibrated at his back. The bow across his shoulder whispered like an old friend. He stepped into the temple.
First Night – Warrior's Wrath
The moon rose cold and sharp, bathing the crystal temple in argent flame. Mist clung to the ground like forgotten sorrow. Devavrata stood at the center of the arena—barefoot on translucent stone that hummed with ancient power—spear in hand, breath steady as the ocean's tide.
From the eastern arch strode his opponent, summoned by Ganga's will:
Viraat-Agniman, the Flame-Sworn Warlord.
His armor crackled with caged infernos, molten glyphs glowing across his broad chest. In each hand he held a jagged sword forged from volcanic glass, and from his eyes burned the endless fury of old wars.
"You who seek mastery," thundered Agniman, voice echoing like a battlefield drum, "face the trial of wrath. Show me your stillness before rage."
The floor beneath Devavrata trembled as heat surged through the chamber. He narrowed his eyes and spun his spear once, anchoring his soul.
Agniman charged, twin swords sweeping arcs of fire. Devavrata leapt to meet him, spear spinning in a blur—Varuna-Kranta, the Sea-Cutting Form. The spear deflected one blade with a spiraling twist, diverted the other with the iron shaft, and struck low with a sweeping kick that knocked sparks into the air.
They clashed again—fire against water, wrath against resolve.
Devavrata's spear danced like the wind over waves:
"Jala-Pravesh!" – the Diving Flow Thrust, piercing straight into Agniman's defense.
"Aabha-Lasya!" – the Light-Dance Sweep, which left afterimages to mislead enemy strikes.
"Ripu-Bheda!" – the Enemy-Splitting Form, channeled through a single, soul-guided lunge that cracked through Agniman's molten shield.
But Agniman adapted. With a roar, he struck the ground, summoning flames that became soldiers—red silhouettes of his fallen army. They swarmed Devavrata in a chorus of vengeance.
Backing into the shadows, Devavrata slung his bow from his back, fingers moving faster than breath. His arrows ignited with spiritual light as he loosed them into the flame-born horde:
"Nistri-Pavan" – The Arrow of Cleansing Wind, which split and blew away fire-soldiers in gales of purifying air.
"Jvalana-Moha" – The Flame-Binding Arrow, a shaft that coiled fire with fire, locking two spectral warriors in place.
"Chakra-Vikshepa" – The Spiral Dispersal Arrow, a rotating bolt that carved a ring of safety around him.
Each arrow hummed with intent—Devavrata no longer firing for death, but for balance.
When the smoke cleared, only Agniman stood—his fury brighter, his body cracked and glowing from within.
"You deny rage," he bellowed, "but can you bear it when it seeks you from within?"
Devavrata paused. For a moment, the warlord's words cut deep. He remembered his heaven's silence, the weight of prophecy.
The wrath was there. Always had been. He closed his eyes.
"I do not deny it," Devavrata whispered. "I burn it into purpose."
With a cry that shattered the stillness, he called upon his inner soul force. His lotus sigil blazed open, casting petals of blue-white light in all directions.
He raised his spear and performed his deepest technique:
"Hridaya-Bhedi Nartana" – The Heart-Piercing Dance.
It was not one move, but many—fluid, reactive, and layered in karmic wisdom. The spear moved like a serpent through eternity, responding not to Agniman's sword, but to his intent.
A thrust turned into a parry.
A dodge became a strike.
Each movement weaved through the warlord's anger, until at last—
Devavrata's spear pierced Agniman's heart.
But instead of blood, embers and memories poured out—wars fought, brothers lost, pride shattered. Agniman stumbled back and sank to one knee.
"You have mastered wrath," the warlord murmured. "But more—you've mastered yourself."
Devavrata knelt beside him, pressing a palm to his chest.
"Anger is fire," he said gently. "If we don't tend to it, it consumes us. If we honor it, it warms our path."
Agniman smiled—a flicker of peace crossing his scorched face. With a final bow, the Warlord of Flame dissolved into glowing ash, rising into the sky like fireflies returning to heaven.