The goat cleared his throat.
Which was strange, considering he had neither throat nor clearance.
Still, in the dim golden glow of dawn breaking through the banyan canopy, he stood on a rusted temple bell, fluff quivering with indignation, and declared in a tone that sounded suspiciously bureaucratic:
"I object to this quest."
Nikāma blinked. He hadn't slept. Or rather, he had—if dreaming about being chased by flaming contract scrolls counted as rest.
"You... object?" Nikāma said, rubbing his eyes. "You're a goat."
"Strategic Consultant, thank you," said the goat. "Cursed, not demoted. Don't confuse my fluff with incompetence."
The bird-woman, Kaśyapī, snorted and perched atop a broken pillar, preening her feathers like this was normal.
It wasn't.
"Let me get this straight," Nikāma said. "I accidentally activated an ancient glyph using a mango, woke up an ancient war, and now I'm being escorted by a bureaucratic goat and a half-bird librarian on a world-saving quest?"
"You forgot the part where the mango was sacred and stolen," Kaśyapī said. "Also, you're not being escorted. We're being dragged by the narrative vortex of a long-delayed cosmic resolution."
"...that sounds worse."
"Oh, it is."
Meanwhile, in a place that didn't exist
A dozen robed figures sat in a floating chamber made entirely of scripture.
Each wall hummed in Sanskrit verses, glowing with matha-karma circuits, powered by the chitta of forgotten monks. They argued not with voices, but with ancient harmonics only heard by the ātmic ears.
One of them stirred.
"He's activated the Prathama Glyph."
Another shuddered. "Impossible. The glyph was sealed in Mantrāntaka Protocol 7."
"The seal was broken."
"How?"
There was a long silence.
Then, as if the universe itself were embarrassed, a reply echoed:
"He sat on it."
Back on the mortal plane...
Nikāma tripped on a root and tumbled downhill, catching a face full of sweet earth, leaves, and goat.
"Would you stop falling?" the goat huffed, rolling off him. "Do you know how hard it is to protect someone with no sense of balance and negative destiny points?"
"Negative what?"
"You're -432. A leaf has better karmic alignment than you."
Nikāma sat up, spitting out soil. "That's not fair. I didn't ask to be chosen."
"No one ever asks," Kaśyapī muttered. "But the Mandala doesn't run on consent. It runs on unresolved cycles and divine HR paperwork."
The goat's ears twitched. "We need to get moving."
"Where?" Nikāma asked.
"Dvandvaloka," the goat replied solemnly.
Nikāma stared blankly.
"The Land of Eternal Arguments," Kaśyapī translated. "It's where all celestial disputes go to die. Or never die. Mostly that."
"They have good tea," the goat said wistfully. "Terrible ethics. But excellent cardamom."
Elsewhere, in the realm of the unformed
A being with too many eyes and not enough morals grinned through fractals.
"So... the avatar stirs."
A pause.
Then a whisper across timelines:
"Let the trials begin."
Back on the road...
Nikāma adjusted the cloth sack on his shoulder. It still carried the mango. He wasn't sure why he hadn't eaten it. Maybe guilt. Maybe fate. Maybe because the mango hummed whenever he got too close.
"Are we sure I'm the right person?" he asked quietly.
Kaśyapī landed beside him. "No."
"Then why keep going?"
The goat turned and stared at him, all seriousness now.
"Because destiny is a lot like indigestion. Whether you like it or not, it moves through you. Might as well make sure it doesn't ruin the carpet."