Night in the wastelands was not a gentle fading of light. It was a hostile takeover. The sickly brown sky bruised to a deep, starless purple, and the temperature plummeted. The wind, no longer a low moan, became a razor-sharp howl, carrying with it particles of toxic sand that scoured any exposed surface.
Kalpit didn't feel the cold. He was still kneeling in the same spot, the ghost-sensations of a thousand battles raging in his mind. He smelled the coppery tang of blood from battles fought before his civilization was even a dream. He heard the dying curses of demons whose names were no longer remembered. Parashurama's "lesson" was not a memory; it was an infestation, a psychic wound that refused to close.
"Kalpit," Anasuya's voice was a distant anchor in the storm. She knelt beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, his head snapping up, his eyes wild. For a split second, he didn't see a trusted ally; he saw a shadowy Rakshasa, its claws extended.
He blinked, the illusion fading. He saw the genuine concern on her face, illuminated by the beam of her shoulder-mounted light.
"You need to get up," she said gently but firmly. "We can't stay here. The temperature is dropping below freezing. We need to find shelter."
"Shelter," Kalpit repeated, the word tasting like ash. He had seen armies freeze to death on mountains of ice. He had felt the heat of a dying sun on a forgotten world. The cold of a desert night seemed trivial, an insult. But his body betrayed him. A violent shiver wracked his frame. He was not one of the heroes from the visions. He was just a young man in a world trying to kill him.
"He wants to break you," Anasuya said, helping him to his feet. His legs were numb and uncooperative. "To see if you're worth his time."
"He already has," Kalpit rasped, the ghost of a war-horn echoing in his ears.
With Anasuya practically carrying him, they stumbled towards the canyon, following the faint path left by the immortal warrior. The hauler was a lost cause, a tomb of dead tech that would be stripped by desert scavengers or buried by the shifting sands before long.
The entrance to the canyon was a narrow fissure, barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast. Inside, the wind died, and the air was still and cold. It felt ancient, sacred, and dangerous all at once. There was no light, no path, only Parashurama's massive footprints in the sand to guide them.
As they walked deeper, Kalpit's senses, frayed and raw, picked up something new. It was a feeling, a pressure in the air. A low-level hum of immense, dormant power.
His Muladhara-sight, which had been silent, flickered erratically. He saw the rock walls of the canyon, and beneath their surface, he saw something else. Veins of shimmering, golden energy. A complex, geometric lattice of power that ran through the entire mountain, ancient and potent. It was some kind of warding. A divine security system.
After what felt like an eternity, they saw a light ahead. A simple, flickering fire in the mouth of a large cave. As they approached, the shape of Parashurama became visible, sitting cross-legged before the flames, his colossal axe, Vidyudabhi, resting against the rock beside him. The firelight danced off its polished surface, making it seem alive.
The cave was a monk's cell carved by a giant. It was stark and bare, devoid of any comfort save for the fire. There was a bed of furs in one corner and a scattering of ancient tools and weapons, each one humming with a faint power of its own.
Parashurama didn't acknowledge their arrival. His stormy eyes were fixed on the fire, his expression unreadable.
Anasuya guided Kalpit to the far side of the fire, helping him sit. The warmth was a relief, chasing some of the deep chill from his bones. She pulled out a nutrient paste packet, a standard scavenger's ration, and offered it to him. He stared at it, the memory of feasting in celestial halls and starving on blood-soaked battlefields making the grey paste seem both disgusting and profoundly real. He took it and ate, the synthetic taste grounding him in the here and now.
For hours, they sat in silence, the only sound the crackling of the fire and the distant howl of the wind. Parashurama did not speak. He did not eat. He did not seem to breathe. He was as still and silent as the mountain around them, a monument of focused will.
Slowly, the chaotic storm in Kalpit's mind began to subside. The cacophony of a million battle-cries faded into a dull roar, like the memory of an ocean. He was beginning to compartmentalize the horrifying knowledge, to wall it off. He knew it was still there, a brutal library of violence in the back of his mind, but he could think again.
He looked at the weapon, Vidyudabhi. In his vision-assault, he had felt what it was like to wield it. He remembered its perfect balance, the way it cleaved not just flesh and bone but the very energy that bound matter together. It wasn't a tool; it was an extension of Parashurama's own indomitable will. A vow given physical form.
He looked back at the man himself. Why would a being of such power live in such desolation? Why hadn't he already dealt with Kali? He was an immortal, tasked with cleansing Adharma from the world. And yet, for centuries, he had sat here while the greatest Adharma in history consumed humanity. It didn't make sense.
As if hearing his thoughts, Parashurama finally spoke, his voice a low rumble that didn't disturb the cave's stillness.
"You are wondering why I wait."
Kalpit was startled but didn't deny it. He simply nodded.
"My vow binds me," Parashurama said, his eyes still on the flames. "I am an Astra. A divine weapon of the last resort, to be wielded against the Kshatriya—the kings and warriors who abuse their power. I cannot act against the will of the people. And humanity, boy, has willingly walked into this cage. They have chosen comfort over truth. They have accepted the reign of this... merchant-king."
His hand tightened into a fist, the knuckles white. A flicker of immense, frustrated anger crossed his face before he controlled it.
"For me to act," he continued, "the people must first choose to be free. They must raise the banner of rebellion themselves. It is the law of the Yugas. The Avatar does not come to save those who do not wish to be saved. He comes to lead those who have chosen to fight."
He finally turned his gaze from the fire to Kalpit. It was a look that pierced right through him.
"You are that choice. Your arrival, your awakening, is the first cry of defiance from humanity's sleeping soul. You are the loophole in my vow. I cannot raise an army for you. But if you can raise one yourself, then I can teach you how to make it an army of gods."
The understanding dawned on Kalpit. It was a revelation as brutal and enlightening as the memories. Parashurama wasn't a simple hermit. He was a caged lion, bound by cosmic law, waiting for someone to unlock the door.
Kalpit was the key. His success or failure would not just determine his own fate, but would unleash or silence one of the most powerful beings in existence. The weight of that responsibility was heavier than any vision of war.
He finished his nutrient paste. He looked at Anasuya, who gave him a small, encouraging nod. He looked back at the giant of a man who held the fate of their war in his calloused hands.
The fear was still there. The echoes of a thousand deaths still haunted him. But for the first time since leaving Dharma-Kshetra, a flicker of something new sparked to life within him. Resolve.
"Alright," Kalpit said, his voice no longer raspy, but clear. He got to his feet, standing on his own. "You said my training begins at dawn."
He looked at the giant axe, pulsing with a light that seemed to mirror the fire in his own heart.
"What's the first lesson?"