Silence.
The only sound in the wasteland was the hiss of their crippled vehicle's ruptured tire and the low, ever-present wind. The sky was empty. The threat was gone, not just defeated, but erased from existence.
The giant figure of Parashurama stood at the mouth of the canyon, unmoving, his immense axe, Vidyudabhi, resting on his shoulder. The weapon pulsed with a soft, white light, a stark contrast to the grimy browns and greys of the world around them.
Anasuya, a seasoned soldier who had faced Kali's elite, simply stared, her kinetic rifle held loosely in her hands, forgotten. She had just witnessed an act of power that defied every known law of physics and warfare.
"We should... go to him," Kalpit said, his voice quiet. He unlatched the heavy, dented door of the hauler and dropped to the ashen ground. His legs felt weak, not just from the crash, but from the sheer presence of the man across the sand.
As they approached, the scale of him became even more apparent. He was not just tall; he was immense, carved from granite and ancient fury. His skin was tanned and leathery from millennia under a hostile sun. Scars, some ancient and faded, others seemingly fresh, crisscrossed his arms and face. His eyes, however, were the most striking. They were the color of a stormy sea, and they held an ancient, sorrowful weight, the weariness of a being who had seen civilizations rise and crumble like sandcastles before the tide.
He did not move as they drew near, his gaze sweeping over them, assessing. It was the look of a master weaponsmith examining a flawed blade. He looked at Anasuya's rifle, his lip curling in a faint, dismissive sneer. He looked at Kalpit, and his gaze lingered on the young man's chest, as if seeing the dormant Chakras within.
"A warrior priestess of the new order," Parashurama's voice rumbled, gesturing to Anasuya. "Carrying a child's noisemaker." He then pointed a thick, calloused finger at Kalpit. "And a boy who reeks of destiny, but carries the stench of the cage-city on his skin."
His eyes narrowed. "Vashistha sent you. Only he would be foolish enough to disturb my solitude. Speak. Why have you brought your war to my doorstep?"
Kalpit found his voice, surprised by its steadiness. "Kali has-"
"I know of the machine-king," Parashurama interrupted, his voice like stones grinding together. "I have watched his steel and glass empire fester for centuries. He has enslaved the soul of humanity in a web of whispers and dreams. He is an old story in a new vessel. I have killed beings like him before."
"We need your help to fight him," Kalpit said, getting straight to the point. "Vashistha said you could teach me."
Parashurama let out a short, harsh bark of a laugh that seemed to shake the very ground. "Teach you? Boy, you stand before me, battered and broken from a single skirmish. You leak Prana like a sieve. Your power is a wild, untamed thing that bursts forth in moments of panic. You are not a warrior. you are a survivor. And survival is not victory."
He took a step forward, the sheer force of his personality pushing Kalpit back. "Vashistha teaches balance. Philosophy. The mind. He sees power as a tool for enlightenment. I see power as a tool for cleansing. To defeat Kali, you do not need balance. You need a flood. You do not need a scalpel. You need an axe."
He hefted Vidyudabhi, the massive weapon moving as if it were weightless in his hands. "This is not an axe of metal. It is forged from a vow. It is an instrument of Dharma. In my hands, it can sunder mountains and cut the threads of time. In yours," he scoffed, "you would not be able to lift it from the sand."
The words were dismissive, brutal, but they weren't entirely cruel. They were a statement of fact. A harsh, unflinching assessment.
"Then teach me to lift it," Kalpit said, his own defiance surprising him. The Sump had taught him one thing: when faced with a predator, you don't show weakness.
Parashurama's stormy eyes flickered with a spark of something—not approval, but perhaps, interest. "Words. The cage-city has made you soft. You believe declaration is the same as action. Your will is a flickering candle in a hurricane."
He planted the haft of his axe in the sand with a solid thump. The air around them grew heavy. The light seemed to dim.
"Your first lesson, then," Parashurama growled. "Kali assaulted your mind with pleasure. I will assault it with truth."
Without warning, the warrior-sage reached out and placed his hand on Kalpit's forehead. It was not a gentle touch. It was a brand.
The world dissolved. Not into code or Prana-streams. It dissolved into a tidal wave of pure, undiluted battle-memory.
He saw the plains of Kurukshetra from a sky-chariot, the air thick with the sound of war-horns and the screams of a million dying men. He felt the righteous fury of Rama as he drew his divine bow. He felt the earth-shattering impact of Bhima's mace. He witnessed celestial weapons—Astras—unleashed, energies that burned the sky and boiled the seas.
The memories shifted. He was on a world with a crimson sky, battling Rakshasas with skin of obsidian and claws of living metal. He stood against a legion of Asuras whose vows had warped them into things of shadow and malice. He felt the sorrow of a thousand wars, the weight of a million righteous kills, the unending loneliness of an immortal's promise to cleanse the world of adharmic kings.
This was not a vision. It was an infusion. Parashurama was pouring the smallest fraction of his six thousand years of combat experience directly into Kalpit's soul.
Kalpit screamed. The sheer, brutal volume of it was too much. The agony, the rage, the sorrow—it was a poison that burned through his mind. His nose began to bleed. He dropped to his knees, his hands clawing at his head as he tried to reject the impossible influx of information.
"This is war, boy!" Parashurama's voice roared, not in the real world, but inside the vortex of memory. "It is not clean. It is not noble. It is a necessary, bloody act of cosmic surgery! To fight a demon, you must be willing to become a fury!"
The vision ended as abruptly as it began. Kalpit was left kneeling in the sand, gasping and trembling, the ghost-smell of blood and ozone in his nostrils. The memories were a scar on his mind, a brutal, horrifying education.
"What you have is potential. Raw power," Parashurama said, his voice now a low growl. He withdrew his hand. "What you lack is a foundation. A furnace to temper your will into a weapon."
Anasuya, who had watched in horrified silence, finally spoke. "You'll kill him."
"Perhaps," Parashurama admitted without a hint of remorse. "The Yugas do not have time for a savior who shatters at the first trial. Kali is consolidating his power. He has tasted the boy's energy. He will not be so careless a second time. We have very little time to forge this piece of raw iron into a sword."
He turned and began to walk back toward the canyon. "If he survives the night and the echoes of what I have shown him, he will find my Ashram. If he lives, his training will begin at dawn."
He paused and looked back over his shoulder, his stormy eyes locking onto Kalpit's.
"Your next lesson will be simple," the immortal warrior declared, his voice a promise and a threat. "You will learn to bleed. And then, you will learn to make the mountains themselves bleed for you."