Brahmā's eyes narrowed, a flicker of unease crossing his ageless face.
"So… Indra truly spoke those words," he murmured, more to the cosmos than to Vajranga. "Then there is a chance."
That one careless declaration, that he would relinquish the throne of Svarga to whomever dared ask for it, had tilted the cosmic balance. If left unchecked, Rishi Durvasa's curse would not merely be a threat. It would become Dharma's decree.
Brahmā sighed inwardly.
He had always been fond of the Devas. They were polite, articulate, and devout. Every visit to Brahmaloka came with proper Pranāma and reverent silence. Plus, they mostly never started any new trouble in Triloka.
But Dharma had rules. Even for him.
"What is not mine," Brahmā said at last, his voice smooth and unshaken, "cannot be granted by me." He paused and then added with a gentle smile, a glint of cunning in his eyes, "However… what if I grant you another boon instead? As long as you set foot in Svarga, no Deva shall be able to defeat you."
He tilted his head slightly, as if offering a gift to a favored student. "How does that sound?"
It was a clever workaround. After all, the throne was not his to give. Technically, it was vacant. And his blessing? It applied only within the borders of Svarga. If the Devas had any sense, they would confront Vajranga before he entered.
Vajranga's eyes narrowed, analyzing the offer. He shook his head slowly.
"Hmm. That makes sense," he muttered, acknowledging the loophole.
Brahmā smiled approvingly and raised a hand.
"Wait."
Vajranga's voice broke the silence again.
He frowned, deep in thought. For centuries, he had endured rigorous tapasya, suffering, silence, and sacrifice. Was this blessing really enough?
"I want more." He lifted his head, voice unwavering. "As long as I stand in Svarga, let no Devas, Asuras, Yakshas, Rakshasas, Gandharvas, Pishachas, Nagas, Garuda, beasts, birds, or mortals bring about my defeat."
Brahmā's eyes lit with subtle admiration. Vajranga was not just powerful. He was shrewd.
The Creator nodded with serene gravity. The four divine objects in his hands, the rosary, the lotus, the water pot, and the Vedas, shimmered faintly as golden light radiated from his form.
"Tathāstu," he intoned.
Tathāstu. Tathāstu. Tathāstu.
The words echoed like a celestial mantra, reverberating across the Brahma Realm. A chorus of "Tathāstu" rang out, and divine energy surged into Vajranga's body like a river of light.
Whoosh.
A single beam of golden radiance struck Vajranga's chest, sealing the boon.
Brahmā's form flickered, breaking into glowing particles that drifted away like fireflies on the wind.
Vajranga lowered his head, hands folded. "Om Brahmaṇe Namaḥ…"
When he rose, he was smiling, pleased. He turned and departed, leaving nothing but silence and shimmering air behind him.
Far above, a final glimmer of Brahmā's presence lingered in the skies.
Vajranga, son of Kashyapa and Diti.
Compared to his infamous brothers, Hiraṇyākṣa and Hiraṇyakaśipu, Vajranga was composed, respectful, and rational. Perhaps, Brahmā mused, he would not be reckless. Perhaps there was still room for diplomacy.
"Kashyapa…" The thought echoed faintly in the Creator's mind.
Yes. There might yet be a way to avert a war if the right voice reached the Asura's heart.
...
Vajranga soared swiftly through the skies, his heart alight with triumph. The golden winds of Pātālaloka howled past him as he made for his palace, the joy of fulfilled tapasya urging his every stride.
He could not wait to see her. To tell Varangi, his wife, that the penance was over. That Brahmā had granted him a boon worthy of the cosmos.
But as soon as he crossed the threshold of his estate, a loud crash echoed from within.
Vajranga froze mid-step. The sound of shattering gold rang through the halls. Plates? Ornaments? His brow furrowed, and with a sweep of his cloak, he strode inside.
There she was.
Varangi stood with her back to him, framed by the broken remains of golden vessels scattered across the marbled floor. Her shoulders shook. Whether from anger or something deeper, he could not yet tell.
"Varangi?" Vajranga called softly.
She spun around instantly.
Her eyes lit up as if a goddess had answered her prayer, and without a word, she flew into his arms.
"Husband! You are back! I knew you would complete your tapasya. My heart never doubted you."
"What happened?" he asked, pulling back slightly to study her face. "Why the wreckage?"
Varangi's joy shifted, replaced by tight frustration.
"It's Puloman," she said, her voice clipped. "He claims guru Shukhracharya is still deep in meditation. With no king on the throne of patala, he has proposed a council of generals and princes to divide the power. No Asura King. Just a fragmented rule."
Her jaw was clenched. "But now that you have returned, you will crush him easily. No one else can challenge you."
Vajranga frowned. "Puloman's words carry weight? Where is Hiraṇyakashipu? Wouldn't he have put an end to such talk?"
Varangi went still for a moment. Then, her voice turned quiet.
"Hiraṇyakashipu is dead."
Vajranga's eyes widened.
"Dead?" he breathed. "But..."
She nodded grimly. "After Hiraṇyaksha fell, Hiraṇyakashipu rose to power. But he, too, was defeated. Prahlāda took the mantle next, only to relinquish it to Hayagrīva. In time, Indra struck them both down."
Shock bloomed across Vajranga's face.
Hiraṇyakashipu and Hayagrīva, both slain?
A deep breath filled his lungs, and he left with iron resolve.
"I am going to the Asura King's Palace," he said. His tone was cold, his eyes burning. Crimson cloak swirling behind him, Vajranga turned on his heel and launched himself into the skies.
Like a bolt of divine fire, he streaked toward the temple and crashed down at its gates with enough force to send the guarding soldiers reeling from the windblast.
But before he could take another step, "Vajranga! Do not act in haste!"
Puloman's voice rang out from within the chamber.
Vajranga entered slowly, his crimson silhouette filling the vast hall.
Inside, dozens of Asura generals had gathered. One by one, their gazes fell on him. Grey eyes glittered with unreadable light.
"...Vajranga," rumbled General Shambara, his war-scarred face twitching in disbelief. "He is back."
"By the flames of Pātāla," hissed Bāṣkala, his braided hair trembling as he rose from his seat. "Look at his aura. It is heavier than before. His very presence bends the air."
General Ketumān folded his arms, jaw clenched. "He is no longer the warrior who vanished into penance. He is stronger now."
"If he becomes our king," said Gokarna, reverence thick in his tone, "he will lead us to reclaim what was taken. Svarga shall tremble once more."
Vajranga stood tall beneath their praise, his expression unreadable, his cloak billowing like a storm cloud.
Now the game of kings would begin again.
…
One by one, the Asura generals rose from their seats. Their gazes locked onto Vajranga with a mix of awe, anticipation, and thinly veiled ambition. The air buzzed with unspoken energy, half reverence, half readiness for war.
Puloman, seated atop a lesser throne, had gone deathly pale. His fingers twitched at his sides, and whatever he had planned to say died in his throat.
Vajranga arched an eyebrow.
How curious. Only a few thousand years had passed, hardly a blink in their kind's reckoning, and yet Puloman already seemed to have withered.
"Ha…" Vajranga chuckled quietly, letting the sound roll like distant thunder. He savored the hungry admiration in the eyes of the gathered generals as he strode forward, his boots echoing against the temple stone.
"So," he said at last, his voice casual but carrying the weight of command, "after all these centuries, you are still choosing a new King of the Asuras."
He turned slowly, allowing every pair of eyes to meet his. His tone sharpened.
"Then I will say it plainly. I will be that king."
A hush fell over the chamber.
"Who stands in favor? And who stands against?"
Vajranga's gaze landed squarely on Puloman, fully expecting him to rise and challenge, if only to save face.
But Puloman did not move.
He shrank further into his seat, visibly struggling. Then, with a deep breath, he stood.
"I… agree."
The words surprised even him. But once said, they came more easily.
"Vajranga is strong. Resolute. Born of noble blood. In my heart, there is no other fit to be Asura King. I have waited for his return."
The hall exploded with approval.
Vajranga blinked. Wait. What?
Hadn't Varangi said Puloman had tried to divide the realm? And now here he was, offering his loyalty with the poise of a court poet.
Something had changed.
Still, the roar of the crowd left little time for contemplation.
"Jaya Vajranga! Hail to the Lord of Pātālaloka!"
"Pranām to the Asura King! Our blades are thine to command!"
Vajranga's cloak swirled as he raised a fist skyward. Divine energy pulsed outward, drawing strength from the earth, the flame, and the dark waters of Pātālaloka. It rushed into his core like a living storm, answering his call.
"Very well," he said with a grin that held the promise of war. "Next, we march on Svarga!"
His laughter echoed across the marble hall, deep and unstoppable.
The coronation feast was raucous and grand.
But Puloman was gone before the wine reached his lips. He returned alone to his private temple, shoulders low, his mouth twisted in a bitter line.
"Again," he muttered, pressing his fingers to his temple. "My plan fails again. Not king. Not even a prince."
He leaned against a gilded pillar, tapping it absently with one knuckle.
"Wouldn't it have been better for all of us to rule together? Divided by realm. Equal in power. Without bloodshed…"
His voice faded into the silence. "At least I did not get punched this time."
A long sigh escaped him. Then, just as he began to close his eyes, a silken voice echoed softly through the hall.
"Father…"
Puloman stiffened. His eyes flicked toward the doorway. The biggest source of his worry had arrived.
---
A.N.: This Asura King will be different. After all… he is the father of ....! Heck, even his grandsons are legendary! Mwahaha! 🔥
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