It began as a shimmer.
A strange glint above the mountains. At first, people thought it was a star. Then a comet. Then something divine.
But it didn't move.
It grew.
A thin crack in the sky itself—like glass under pressure—spreading inch by inch across the horizon. The clouds didn't pass over it. They parted around it. Birds flew away from it.
And every breath in the city grew heavier.
Aarav stood on the rooftop of the old archive, eyes fixed on the tear.
He didn't blink.
Because he knew exactly what it was.
Not a weapon.
Not a storm.
A door.
"They're sending something through," he said quietly.
Beside him, Bhaktarakshaka—no longer god's Fang, now simply warrior and witness—tightened the cloth around his fists.
"What?"
"Not thought," Aarav answered. "Not dreams."
"Form."
That night, lightning struck the sky but left no sound.
And from the tear came something ancient—not a god, not a demon.
A concept made flesh.
A being that fed not on worship, but on every moment someone said, "I'm not enough."
Its name had been forgotten long ago.
But its face would soon be remembered by all.