In the highest chamber of the Celestial Court, silence cracked.
Not from noise.
From doubt.
The gods sat on thrones of thought, shaped by eons of devotion. Some shimmered like suns. Others hummed like endless chants. But all of them—every last one—felt the same cold pull ripple through the divine grid.
One of them was bleeding.
The god Kirtava, patron of structure, lord of order, rose from his marble throne. His form stuttered—briefly—like a mantra spoken without breath.
A cut had appeared across his palm.
No blade had touched him.
But his idea had been pierced.
He stared at the blood—shimmering blue, pulsing with worship.
"This shouldn't be possible," he said.
Vaikuntharaja remained still.
But his eyes were burning now. Not with rage.
With realization.
"He has reached the point of inversion," he said.
"He is no longer pulling power away from us."
"He is becoming his own source."
In Shraddhalok, the people trained not out of fear—but memory.
In the nearby hills, breathlines were etched into the earth by bare feet and honest effort.
And across cities far beyond, statues of minor gods began to chip. Fade. Fall.
Aarav stood at the edge of a field, watching the wind move through crops like a living chant.
He didn't raise a sword.
He raised his spine.
And somewhere, a god shivered.