By dawn, word had spread through the valley. The man who shaped stone from light had come. Some called him Vishwakarma's son, others whispered he was a deva in human form.Arun walked cautiously among the villagers, their foreheads pressed to the ground. They offered him garlands, milk, and rice. The headman, an old man with silver hair, knelt and said tremblingly, "O messenger of the gods, what message do you bring from the heavens?"Arun struggled to find words. His modern mind rebelled against the worship, but reason reminded him — this was 4th century India. They had no concept of technology or digital matter. Everything miraculous was divine.He smiled nervously. "I bring knowledge," he said, choosing his words carefully. "The gods wish for your people to build, to prosper, and not to fight among themselves."Murmurs of awe circled the crowd. The headman wept in gratitude, bowing deeper. Arun felt a knot form in his chest. It was intoxicating — power mixed with reverence.As days passed, his "miracles" multiplied. He purified water using a simple redstone filter. He built a grain storehouse that never leaked. He carved a temple from sandstone, each block perfectly cut.The village began calling him Prithvi-Doota — the Earthly Messenger.But divinity is never without politics. One evening, a caravan arrived carrying Brahmin scholars and soldiers from the nearby city of Pataliputra. Their leader, a royal scholar named Devarshi, studied Arun's creation, awe and suspicion mixing in his gaze."If you are the messenger," Devarshi said coldly, "then show us signs only the gods can grant."Arun hesitated — the crowd demanded proof. He opened his palm, and with a whispered command, summoned a block of pure gold. Gasps rippled through the assembly.Devarshi's face paled, then hardened. "Gold from air… or trick from demons?" he hissed.Arun realized too late. The line between god and heretic was thin — and he was walking it blind.
