The forest was silent.
Not with peace.
But with dread.
The battle had stopped.
The weapons had fallen.
But the river had not.
She rose.
And she raged.
The Axe Begins to Bleed
Suspended mid-air, Parashurama's axe trembled.
It was no ordinary weapon.
Forged in the fires of penance.
Tempered by celestial storms.
Blessed by Lord Shiva, the destroyer himself.
It had split mountains.
Ended dynasties.
Danced through wars like a storm with a blade.
It had withstood eras.
Faced the worst of kings.
And never bent.
But now—
It began to corrode.
Not from rust.
Not from time.
But from purity.
From the wrath of Ganga Maa.
Her waters, once gentle, now surged with divine fury.
And the axe—once unstoppable—began to bleed.
Its edges dulled.
Its glow faded.
Its spirit cracked.
The weapon that had never known defeat was now facing dissolution.
The Weapon That Could Not Return
Parashurama extended his hand.
Called to it.
The way he always had.
The way it always obeyed.
But the axe did not return.
It did not fly back.
It did not resist.
It simply remained.
Suspended.
Held.
Bound.
Not by disobedience.
But by helplessness.
It could not free itself.
Not from her grip.
Not from her judgment.
The Destroyer Watches
Far above, in the realm beyond realms, Lord Shiva opened his eyes.
He felt it.
The corrosion.
The unraveling.
The undoing of a weapon he had once gifted to a warrior-sage.
He did not speak.
He did not move.
But his gaze darkened.
Because even he knew—
If Ganga Maa continued,
The axe would not survive.
And neither could he stop it.
Not this time.
Not against her.
The Goddesses Stir
In the celestial halls, three goddesses stood still.
Parvati, consort of Shiva, felt her husband's tension ripple through the cosmos.
Lakshmi, goddess of wealth and balance, watched the waters darken and knew the world's rhythm was breaking.
Saraswati, goddess of wisdom and flow, felt the poison seep into the rivers of thought and prayer.
None spoke.
None intervened.
Because this was not a war.
It was a reckoning.
And they, too, were afraid.
The Poison Spreads
Across the lands, the water turned.
Not just in the Ganga.
But in every stream.
Every pond.
Every sacred basin.
The purity was gone.
The flow was bitter.
The touch was toxic.
Priests paused mid-ritual.
Children cried at the taste.
Animals refused to drink.
The world began to thirst.
And the gods began to panic.
The Arrival of Varun Dev
From the depths of the cosmic ocean, Varun Dev emerged.
Lord of water.
Master of tides.
Bearer of the celestial conch.
He stepped onto the riverbank.
His presence calmed the wind.
But not the river.
He bowed low.
To the current.
To the mother.
To the fury.
"Maa," he whispered. "I am the keeper of water. But you… you are its soul."
"I ask not for forgiveness. Only for mercy."
The river surged.
The axe corroded further.
And the sky darkened.
The Gods Begin to Remember
They had built temples beside her.
Bathed in her.
Prayed to her.
But they had never truly feared her.
Until now.
Now they remembered.
And they trembled.
Because water was not just a resource.
It was life.
It was ritual.
It was memory.
And while Varun Dev was the god of water—
It was Ganga who made it pure.
The Divine Tension
In the heavens, Shiva's grip tightened around his trident.
Parvati's eyes shimmered with concern.
Lakshmi's lotus wilted.
Saraswati's veena fell silent.
The gods did not speak.
Because they knew—
If Ganga's fury continued,
The axe would dissolve.
The rivers would poison.
The world would break.
And even they could not stop it.