The goat's name was Vṛddhadanta.
Nobody knew this, of course. Not the priest, not the gathered crowd, and certainly not Nikāma, who was still wiping goat saliva off his robe with a mixture of amusement and quiet concern.
But the goat knew.
And so did the Sky.
You see, Vṛddhadanta had been a royal astrologer in his previous life. A terrible one, mind you—he once predicted rain during a solar eclipse and confidently declared that comets were just "angry birds in a hurry." His reincarnation as a goat had been unanimously approved by the Celestial Committee for Cosmic Karma, with one stipulation:
"Let him remember everything… just in case we need a laugh later."
— Clause 12.3B, Goatification Protocols
And so Vṛddhadanta bleated softly to himself, his ancient soul trapped in a body that chewed cud as if chewing the universe's bitter truths. He stared at Nikāma with the tired wisdom of a thousand reincarnations and a mild itch in his left hoof.
"He doesn't know who he is," the goat thought. "That's usually where the gods go wrong."
Meanwhile, back in Divya Aksara, the alarm at the Karma Registry Department was still going off.
Pravira, Head of Celestial Compliance, stormed into the room clutching a steaming cup of soma brew and a scroll labeled "DO NOT OPEN WITHOUT A SENSE OF IRONY."
"What now?" he grumbled. "Who tripped the Vedamātra Signature? Is it another accidental enlightenment situation? Please tell me it's not a goat again."
Mahadivanta pointed to the swirling mirror of destiny hovering in midair. On it played a grainy magical projection of Nikāma calming the goat and accidentally activating a Yantra Glyph from his palm.
"Did you see that?" Mahadivanta said. "The glyph. It's the Prati-Kāraṇa Śūnya—the Emblem of Unwritten Endings."
Pravira dropped his cup. It hit the floor, bounced once, and turned into a frog.
"That glyph was sealed during the Yugāsandhi Pact! No one was even supposed to remember it!"
Mahadivanta grinned. "Well… someone forgot to forget."
Back in Somaṭāra, things were escalating quickly.
A large, ornamental umbrella had just caught fire. The priest, now fully convinced Nikāma was either a saint or an omen of pestilence, had fled into the hills. Two children were arguing over whether Nikāma should be given mangoes or exorcised with chili powder. A traveling bard began composing a song on the spot titled, "The One Who Tamed The Sacrificial Goat."
And Nikāma? He was too busy staring at his palm.
There it was again—the glowing glyph.
Prati-Kāraṇa Śūnya.
Like a spiraling mandala of soft gold light, etched into his skin by some force that had definitely not asked for permission. It flickered with meaning—too ancient for the mind, yet instinctively understood by the soul.
"Did… did the goat do this?" he whispered.
Vṛddhadanta snorted.
Then—because the moment required drama—spoke.
"Yes," said the goat.
Nikāma blinked.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"I said, yes," repeated Vṛddhadanta. "And also, no. The glyph was always within you. I merely provided the comedic timing."
Silence fell.
A woman screamed. A merchant fainted into a cart of tomatoes. Somewhere, a monkey fell off a tree in sheer disbelief.
"You can talk?" Nikāma asked.
The goat nodded solemnly. "And sing. But I only do that during eclipses."
Nikāma sat down on the dusty road, the glyph on his palm slowly fading.
"This is a dream, right?" he muttered. "This is what happens when you drink old butter tea."
"No, boy," said Vṛddhadanta. "This is what happens when your soul gets filed in the wrong department of the cosmos."
Far away, in the Rāshṭrikāl Assembly—the ruling chamber of the Realm of Nine Kingdoms—an oracle screamed mid-ritual and dropped her crystal lamp.
"The One-Who-Was-Never-Filed," she gasped. "He walks!"
The councilors murmured. The Mahākarta, seated on a throne shaped like an inverted mountain, leaned forward.
"Send the spies," he whispered. "And the jesters."
"Yes, my Lord?" the Oracle blinked.
"Send both. If this boy is what I think he is… we'll need to kill him or hire him for propaganda."
Back in Somaṭāra, Nikāma was still sitting cross-legged in front of a talking goat.
"What now?" he asked, as the sun began to dip behind the banana-leaf rooftops of his village.
The goat looked him in the eye and said:
"Now, you run."
"From what?"
"From the assassins that your glyph just woke up. Oh, and they also hate goats."
Nikāma paused.
"…Seriously?"
"Deadly serious. And hilariously underpaid."
The first poisoned arrow struck the mango tree beside him.