A voice cut through the dark empty space.
Sharp. Clear. Loud.
Not loud in sound — loud in presence. It did not rise. It did not strain. It simply arrived, and the silence rearranged itself around it.
"I am Samay."
There was no echo. Nothing dared to repeat the name.
"I am the endless Time."
The darkness did not tremble. It did not brighten. It only continued — because continuation was already in motion.
"I am like a wheel that never stops."
If one could see that wheel, it would not be forged of iron or carved from stone. It would not creak. It would not grind. It would turn without friction. Galaxies would spiral in its spokes. Nebulas would drift along its rim. Entire histories would cling to it like dust that believes itself permanent.
"I keep going."
A star ignited.
"I never tire."
That star aged.
"I never rest."
That star collapsed.
There was no shift in tone.
"Because of my movement, the world exists."
On a barren planet, fire cooled into crust. On that crust, rain fell. In those waters, something divided — once, then again, then without count. Time did not instruct it. Time did not design it. Time allowed it.
Moments stacked upon moments. That is all existence requires.
Without duration, there is no growth. Without growth, there is no structure. Without structure, there is no world.
Mountains rise because seconds accumulate into centuries. Rivers carve stone because minutes gather into ages. A child grows because hours refuse to freeze.
Time does not create mountains.
Time permits their rising.
Time does not carve rivers.
Time permits their erosion.
"I do not choose."
The wheel turned.
Empires declared themselves eternal. Kings lifted crowns and called their rule divine. Warriors lifted blades and believed the strike would echo forever.
Stone weathered. Crowns rusted. Blades dulled.
"I continue."
When Brahma begins a kalpa, a new cosmic day unfolding in radiance, Time does not begin with him. It was already flowing before the first syllable of creation was spoken. When Vishnu preserves, when Shiva dissolves — those acts move within duration. Even dissolution requires sequence.
When Odin hung upon Yggdrasil, pierced by his own spear in pursuit of wisdom, the sacrifice unfolded across measured nights. When Ragnarok arrives, it will not be outside Time. It will occur within it.
When Kronos swallowed his own children to resist prophecy, he remained bound to the very current he sought to escape. The devourer of gods could not devour duration.
When Lucifer tried to dethroned the very being that created his existence. When he launched the rebellion that shaped the heavens and hell, it all happened cause it has to happene in time.
Time does not argue with gods.
Time does not obey them either.
It moves.
A flower blooms. It does so because cells divide in order. It withers because order continues. The bloom is not separate from decay. The beginning is not separate from the ending.
"Everything is because I move."
The statement carried no pride.
Without motion, there is no before. Without before, there is no after. Without after, there is no change. And without change, there is no existence.
A heartbeat is only meaningful because it follows another. A word is only understood because it unfolds syllable by syllable. Even thought requires sequence.
Time is not an ornament to creation.
It is its framework.
The universe expands. Galaxies drift farther apart. Stars exhaust their fuel. Particles decay. Heat spreads evenly into quiet uniformity.
None of this is sudden.
It is gradual.
It is permitted.
"It will end."
The voice did not lower. It did not darken. It did not threaten.
It stated.
Just as there was a beginning — a singular ignition, a breath into nothingness — there will be a final silence. Not dramatic. Not theatrical. Complete.
Every beginning carries its ending within it.
The first spark of the cosmos contained its last fading ember. The first sunrise of Earth already leaned toward its final dusk. The first cry of an infant already walked toward its final exhale.
This is not cruelty.
This is structure.
A circle does not apologize for closing.
"There is an end to everything."
Mountains will fall. Oceans will vanish. The sun will dim. The fabric of space itself will stretch thin.
Even memory will dissolve.
The wheel does not crack. It does not shudder. It does not slow.
It turns.
Time is not an executioner. It does not raise a blade. It does not select victims.
It allows the sequence to conclude.
Yet endings do not occur without event.
A forest does not burn without flame. A civilization does not collapse without fracture. A star does not die without exhaustion.
An end is an arrival.
And arrivals are brought.
The voice did not pause for effect.
"This story is not about how the world began Or where it's end begun."
Creation has been sung in hymns. Written in scripture. Painted in temples. Carved into sacred stone.
"This is not a story of myth."
"This is not a story of a God."
A pause — not for drama, but for weight.
"This is a story of two mortals."
Blessed with strength that even gods would measure carefully.
"This is their journey."
Their doubt.
Their defiance.
Their acceptance.
"This is the story of the questions they asked themselves… when no one else could answer."
The darkness slowly shifted.
Far away, at the edge of a quiet horizon, a thin line of gold appeared. Night did not protest. It stepped aside.
The first ray of sun broke across the sky.
Soft. Relentless.
Day does not fight the night.
It replaces it.
"This is the story of a mortal named Arya… destined to become a God."
The sun rose higher.
"And of a mortal named Krish… destined to become something more."
Light spilled across mountains. Across cities. Across sleeping faces unaware of destiny stirring among them.
"This…"
The wheel turned.
"…is Krish."
A breath of warmth crossed the world.
"The First Hero."
Nainital, Kausani, Uttarakhand
1980
In the forest near Kausani, a group of kids pushed through the tall grass.
"Rohit! … Rohiiit! Where are you?"
Three boys. Four girls. All shouting into trees that didn't answer back.
"Rohit! Come home! Your mom is waiting!"
"Rohit, stop playing and come out!"
A chubby boy wiped sweat from his forehead.
"Maybe… maybe we should go back."
Nisha spun around. "Shut up, Raj. If you're scared, go. Don't slow us down."
The boy next to Raj snorted, and said in dissatisfaction . "That idiot's trouble anyway. Probably got eaten by a wolf."
Nisha shot him a look sharp enough to cut wood. "Say that again."
Silence, no one dare to say anything.
"We shouldn't have come this deep," Tina whispered.
"Maybe we should call Ranger Uncle," another girl said..
"And tell him we climbed in through the broken fence?" someone muttered.
Nisha crossed her arms. "Whose idea was that, huh?"
No one spoke.
A little deeper in the forest, missing boy Rohit walked alone.
Fifteen. Glasses slipping down his nose. Torch in hand. Knees shaking.
"Where am I…" he whispered.
"Nisha? Monty? Tina?" The forest answered with wind.
"Maa said kids alone in forests get bitten by werewolves…" he muttered. "I don't wanna get bitten by werewolves." His foot slipped.
He tumbled into a shallow ditch. Hit his head. Scraped his knees.
For a second, he just lay there. Then he looked at his palm. Blood. Tears came fast.
His torch had rolled away. He crawled, grabbed it, shook it. It flickered. Than Died.
"Come on… come on…"
He stood up, sniffling, trying to act older than he felt.
He looked at his hand and whispered the words his mother always used.
"Pain, Mr. Pain… go away. Pain, Mr. Pain, go away… chhu."
Nothing.
He blinked. "Maa's magic always works…"
Something moved in the bushes.
He froze.
"W-who's there? Don't come close. I have a magical torch."
A low grunt answered.
He swallowed and stepped closer.
The moonlight spilled through the trees. And then he saw it.
A figure on the ground.
Blue skin.
Bald head.
Eyes too large, for any human.
On top of his head, a golden shell-like structure glowed faint yellow.
Rohit stared.
"Are… are you okay, Mister?" The blue figure turned slowly. His stomach was pierced with a wooden splinter. Dark red blood stained his suit yellow suit.
Rohit stepped closer without thinking.
"Mr. Blue… your stomach is bleeding like my head."
The alien's six-fingered hand twitched.
"Cra… shed… here…" he rasped in an alien language.
Rohit blinked. "I don't understand."
The alien's eyes met his.
"Find… them. Save… them." The alien continued.
"I don't know what you're saying," Rohit said quickly. "But don't worry. I'll call Ranger Uncle. He'll help."
The alien studied him, trying to read what he was saying, with his tired eyes.
"Understand," he whispered in broken English. The only word that Rohit understand.
Then he lifted his hand and touched Rohit's head.
The golden shell glowed brighter.
Rohit's wound burned — then cooled.
His head began to glow the same yellow.
He closed his eyes.
His bleeding stopped..
Something inside him shifted. Opened.
Changed.
Forty-two years later.
Himalayas, Nepal – 2022
A man stood at the edge of a snowy cliff.
Turquoise eyes. Shoulder-length hair moving in the cold wind. The rising sun painted his face gold.
He closed his eyes and let the warmth of the sun settle on his skin.
"Krishnaaa!" His name echoed in the valley.
He sighed.
"I'm coming, Dadi!" he shouted back.
His voice echoing back across valley.
He looked at the sun and smirked.
"Wanna race?"He bent slightly.
Snow cracked under his feet.
And then he moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
Trees blurred. Snow sprayed behind him. He leaped over a stream, ran down a slope, dashed through forest like a streak of light. The forest felt too short for his speed, the mountain small. Be kept on racing, he could see the sunlight, just few inches away from him.
He was almost ahead of the sunlight.
Then—
A small passenger plane crossed the sky.
He glanced up.
Lost focus.
His feet slipped.
Rolled down a grassy slope.
Grass flew everywhere. His body rolled several time, and stopped in a clearing.
He lay there for a second.
"You won again," he muttered to the sun.
"Pure luck."
He stood up, brushing himself off, ready to leave when his eyes caught a figure standing on nearby stone.
A small boy in Kashmiri clothes stood nearby, arms crossed.
Krishna raised an eyebrow. "What did you see?"
The boy grinned. "Nothing, like always. Heard nothing, like always. Saw nothing, like always."
Krishna narrowed his eyes.
"But," the boy added, "I want something. Like always."
"You're becoming greedy, Chintu."
"I'm just feeding my stomach." Krishna held out berry chocolates.
Krishna snatched one, and the kid Chintu seeing this, raised his head.
" What's this? This is the third time this week that you raced the sun, and almost win." He crossed his arms.
" I need more." And hearing this, Krishna took back his candys and said to himself.
" Dadi was right, kids are demons." And he pocketed them.
"Let's go. I'll give you Bournvita."
"What's that?"
"You wanna be strong like me?"
"Obviously."
"Then you drink Bournvita."
They walked toward the village.
Krishna's house was small. Two floors. Stone and wood. Backyard with a fireplace.
He entered dramatically. "Dadi! I'm home!"
In the kitchen, he started juggling. Glass in the air. Milk bottle spinning. Bournvita tin flipping. He was doing this fully focused and with ease. When suddenly.
Chintu jumped in.
Krishna lost focus.
Crash.
Glass shattered.
Both froze.
Dadi stepped in with a broom. "What happened?"
Krishna pointed at Chintu instantly. "He did it." Dadi looked at him broom raised.
Chintu gasped. "Oh please. You were juggling like some circus uncle." Dadi shifted looking at Krishna.
" He is lying, it's on his face. You know how naughty kids are. I told him stop but he didn't listen, you know how he is ." Dadi looked back, Chintu didn't take this lightly.
" How am I? How are you? Don't you know."
He started listing everything.
"How he races the sun. How he falls. How he jumps cliffs. And that time he fell from the cliff, I thought he was goner. How he chases wolves. How he tries to catch airplanes—"
"Chintu! Get lost. " Krishna snapped.
Dadi grabbed Krishna's ear.
"Ow—Dadi!"
"What did I tell you about wolves? About mountains? And what's this racing the sun stuff ?"
"I wasn't racing." He twisted, trying to lessen the pain.
" What that about you being a goner?"
" He is lying Dadi!"
She tightened her grip.
" What did I say about going in the mountains and city? What did I told you about it."
"Ahh! Wolves will eat me! Mountains have ghosts! Dadi, please!"
She let go.
He rubbed his ear.
"Why can't I go to the city?" he asked quietly.
Dadi's face changed.
" Are you questioning me?" Krishna instinctively takes a step back, but stoped, and stood firm for moment. Hie eyes resolute.
"All my friends left for the city. I'm stuck here. No phone. No job. No nothing. You told me you'll give me a phone when I'm big enough. How tall you want me to grow? I'm touching the celling. " And his voice soften.
" I don't even have anyone to talk with." And from a corner, chintu interjected.
" I'm hear." And hearing their, Krishna glared at him his voice back.
" You hadn't gone yet." And Chintu hid behind the door, poorly.
"Just tell me why I can't leave."
" You've grown too much. Now you question me?"
She looked away, hiding her tears.
Krishna looked at her, his hand outstretched for comfort, but he stopped himself. He turned. And walked out.
He sat on a rock outside the village, plucking petals from a flower.
"You said too much," Chintu said.
Krishna threw the flower at his face. "It's your fault."
"How?"
"If you hadn't seen me—"
"Bro, you're the one racing the sun."
Krishna groaned. "Now I missed momos. Now who's gonna eat them, werewolves?"
"I can eat them."
Another flower hit Krishna's face.
"Fine. I won't tell you the news."
Krishna turned. "What news?"
"Nothing. I'm useless."
"Hey, genius Chintu. Please." And Chintu turned back.
" Hey dear genius chintu, what's that super news?"
Chintu smirked. "Okay."
They walked down Market Street. Krishna on the road. Chintu balancing on the boundary wall, matching the heights, getting eyes to eyes with Krishna.
"City people came," Chintu said. "They're taking blood. Giving food for free. They gave me chocolate."
"Taking blood? For what?"
"Drinking it, what else?"
Krishna stared at him. "No one drinks blood."
" City people did. My mom said they hunt beautiful kids like me."
"Who else called you beautiful?"
"Only my mom. But that's not the point."
He stopped walking.
"You'll help me get free stuff. Or I tell Dadi about what you did yesterday."
Krishna stopped. "That's why you didn't tell."
" No way, that news worth more than my satisfaction." Chintu said looking proud.
" You know. I can just vanishe you in the woods, no one would find out." Hearing this, Chintu didn't panick, he pulled out a letter.
"If I disappear, it's Krishna's fault."
Krishna tore it.
" Now what?" Chnitu smiled, and took out three more. Krishna didn't waste time, he turned them into waste paper. Chintu didn't panick showed ten more copies.
"Do you print pamphlets?"
"Can't take risks."
He hopped off the wall and started running.
"Come on! Free stuff doesn't wait!"