Darkness crept through the ancient chamber like a living thing, dimming the luminescent fungi one by one until only a ghostly glow remained. Svetavastra felt it building—a pressure in his bones, in the hollow of his chest where his cosmic core once resided. His borrowed spiritual powers trembled, recognizing something vast approaching.
The divine sword materialized out of thin air. It hung suspended in the sacred air, its blade humming. Golden light rippled from its edge in waves.
The yearning hit him like physical pain. One touch, his heart whispered with a child's simplicity. One touch and you could save them all. No more borrowed power, no more struggling against forces beyond mortal comprehension. One touch and you could be whole again...
"Such hesitation," came a voice that made his borrowed spiritual energy recoil in recognition. "How far we have fallen."
Atisha emerged from between one heartbeat and the next, divine armour gleaming like captured starlight. But it was the eyes that struck deepest—eyes that held the fire of a thousand suns, that had witnessed the birth and death of ages. Eyes that knew him completely, stripped bare of all pretense.
"Once," Atisha continued, each word falling like judgment, "we commanded the hosts of heaven. Gods themselves knelt before our strength. Now look at you—scraping by on borrowed power, hiding behind mortals while darkness devours the world we swore to protect."
Images flooded Svetavastra's mind—not memories, but present horrors. The border city consumed by darkness. The refugees fleeing north, terror in their eyes. The monks of Kailashan scattered to the winds.
"Without me, you are nothing," Atisha's voice cracked like thunder. "A shadow playing at divinity. How many more villages will burn? How many more innocent lives will be lost because you are too weak to save them? The darkness spreads, and you can barely hold a single divine sword."
The sword's hum deepened, resonating with something primal in Svetavastra's being. Its light pulsed like a heartbeat, each wave making his borrowed spiritual powers feel more inadequate, more temporary. More false.
But as his hand began to rise, drawn by that siren song of power, other memories surfaced—not of glory, but of grace. Irawati, blind and aged, sharing her spiritual essence without hesitation. Aryaman, kneeling in the dirt, focused only on serving his people. The preta, earnestly attempting meditation despite eons of suffering. Manu...
Manu, whose every gesture spoke of faith not in power, but in something deeper.
"No," Svetavastra said, and though the word was quiet, it carried the weight of mountains.
The chamber went still as death. Even the fungi's light seemed to hold its breath.
"No?" Divine wrath crackled in Atisha's voice, making the very stones tremble. "You would reject your own essence? Deny what you are?"
"The sword was never our essence," Svetavastra said. Each step forward felt like pushing through divine resistance, like walking against a cosmic wind. "It was a tool—a skillful means, nothing more. Our true essence was always our vow—to protect, to serve, to stand against injustice. That hasn't changed, even if our means have become humble."
"Without power, how will you fulfill that vow?" Atisha demanded, but uncertainty flickered across those perfect features like ripples on still water. "How many will die while you cling to this false humility?"
"Look!" Atisha's voice rang with divine fury as she gestured, and the chamber walls dissolved into visions. Villages burning under demon fire, children crying as darkness devoured their homes, temples crumbling as faith died in human hearts. "This is what spreads while you hide behind mortal weakness. This is the cost of your humility!"
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Each vision struck like a blade to Svetavastra's heart, but he stood unmoved. "You show me suffering to justify power," he said quietly. "But how many times has power itself caused such suffering? How many empires have fallen because gods thought strength alone made them wise?"
"Strength is wisdom!" Atisha's form blazed brighter, her divine beauty terrible to behold. "The cosmos itself teaches this truth - the strong protect the weak. When Lord Purandhara slew Vritra, when I vanquished Marutaketa and sent Raktabija to underworld - was this not power in service of justice?”
"And yet," Svetavastra countered, “true power lies not in might, but in choice."
The sword pulsed between them, its light casting shadows that danced like arguments across the walls.
"You speak of choice?" Atisha's laugh held the bitter edge of celestial judgment. "Then choose! Choose to be what you were born to be - the shield of worlds, the sword of heaven, the protector of justice itself! How many ages did you train? How many lives did you spend perfecting these divine arts? Would you waste all that preparation, all that purpose?"
Her words struck deep, resonating with memories that felt like mountains in Svetavastra's mind. Ages of training, lifetimes of preparation, purposes as vast as the cosmos itself. The weight of divine destiny pressed down like a physical force.
"I choose what you have forgotten," Svetavastra said, each word carefully placed like a step across turbulent waters. "The greatest power lies not in what we can do to others, but in what we choose not to do. Not in how many we can defeat, but in how many we can uplift. True strength flows not from domination, but from compassion."
"Compassion?" Divine scorn made the fungi lights flicker. "Will compassion stop Raktabija's armies? Will gentle words turn back the tide of darkness? This is not a time for philosophical debates - this is war!"
"And that is exactly why we must choose differently," Svetavastra replied. "War begets war. Power calls to power. I have to break this cycle, change comes with not raising armies, but with transforming hearts."
"Pretty words," Atisha sneered, though something flickered in her divine eyes - an uncertainty, a question. "But while you transform hearts, the darkness transforms bodies into corpses. While you preach peace, demons feast. How many will you sacrifice for your principles?"
"How many have already been sacrificed for power?" Svetavastra's voice grew softer, yet somehow filled the chamber more completely. "Look deeper into those memories you showed me. In every burning village, every crumbling temple, every crying child - what do you see? Not just darkness destroying, but power corrupting. Strength without wisdom becoming tyranny. Force without compassion becoming cruelty."
The chamber grew still, the very air heavy with competing truths. Divine radiance met mortal wisdom, celestial purpose faced earthly understanding. The sword hung between them, no longer just a weapon but a question incarnate - what truly protects? What truly saves?
"You would reject everything we are?" Atisha's voice held something new - not just anger now, but a tremor of something deeper. "Everything we could be?"
"No," Svetavastra said gently. "I choose everything we should be. The harder path. The slower victory. The deeper truth."
His fingers touched Atisha's cheek. Divine energy surged through him like lightning, threatening to burst his mortal vessel. Memories crashed through him—battles that reshaped mountains, moments of cosmic triumph, aeons of divine service. But mixed with it all was something new: wisdom born of vulnerability, understanding forged in limitation, compassion learned through dependence on others.
The illusion shattered like a struck mirror, fragments of divine light exploding outward before dissolving into nothingness—the void that holds all possibilities. The sword disappeared with it, but Svetavastra felt no loss. Instead, a profound peace settled over him like the first rainfall of monsoon.
"No-god God!" the preta breathed in awe. "Your form... it shimmers with inner radiance!"
Through the dissolving stone wall came Manu's voice, tight with concern. "Sveta! Are you there?"
As the barrier fell away, they saw each other clearly—Manu's usually perfect composure marked by whatever trial he had faced, his eyes holding new depths of understanding. Something passed between them in that moment, deeper than words—a recognition of shared transformation through ordeal.
Beyond them loomed an ancient door that seemed to bend light itself around its edges. Sacred symbols writhed across its surface like living things—not mere script but cosmic riddles taking form, each pattern a truth waiting to be realized. The door radiated age and power, as if it had waited eons for this precise moment.
"The entrance to the relic chamber," Manu said softly, moving to stand beside Svetavastra. His presence was steady as Mount Meru itself.
The preta stirred in the bracer. “That was nerve-wracking.”
Despite everything, Svetavastra smiled. Even in the midst of cosmic drama, some things remained wonderfully constant—like the preta's earnest thoughts. They approached the door, ready to face whatever trials lay ahead.