The breaking didn't come with thunder.
It came with a breath.
And then—dust.
Inside the Grand Temple of Shraddhalok, where Vaikuntharaja's central statue towered five stories high, something subtle began to shift.
First, the light dimmed—not fully, but enough to notice.
Then, the scent of incense faded.
Then—on the statue's open palm—cracks.
A thin line ran down from the center of the god's golden eye.
The priests didn't see it.
They were too busy forcing louder chants. Longer rituals. More sacrifices of devotion, trying to drown the silence that now spread like oil.
But the children saw.
Meha watched from the square. Ravindra watched beside her.
And Aarav, standing at the city's edge, didn't look back.
He didn't need to.
He felt it.
The final moment came at sunset.
A high priest raised his arms for the evening prayer—an act that once made the whole city drop to its knees.
This time, only half obeyed.
Then a third.
Then only a few.
And as the final syllable was spoken, the idol cracked open—not with explosion, but with a soft, dry crumble.
The golden layer fell away like old paint.
Revealing underneath…
nothing.
No divine presence. No core. Just empty stone.
Hollow.
And as the dust settled, someone whispered:
"We were praying to our own fear."
Shraddhalok didn't fall.
It simply woke up.