Haridwar was calm that morning. Temple bells rang with gentle insistence, echoing across the ghats. Pilgrims bathed in the sacred waters of the Ganga, their chants rising like incense smoke into the sky.
Aarav Sharma walked along the steps, backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder, headphones in. Thoughts of his college classes in Dehradun filled his mind. Another ordinary day. Another ordinary life.
Until the air itself stilled.
The wind stopped completely. Birds froze mid-flight, wings trembling. The river rippled backward as if reality itself hesitated.
Aarav's instincts screamed.
The ground trembled beneath his feet—a low, primal vibration that clawed into his bones.
Then the sky tore apart.
A bolt of lightning streaked down, landing barely ten meters away. People screamed, diving for cover.
Aarav didn't move. He didn't run.
Something inside him surged. His arm lifted instinctively. The bolt bent unnaturally, wrapping around his arm instead of striking. Electricity coursed through him—not as pain, but as overwhelming power.
The world blurred in white-hot light.
When his vision cleared, he was unharmed. Lightning flickered around him like living threads of blue fire.
People stared in awe and fear. Phones dropped, sirens began howling across the city, and the world seemed to hold its breath.
Deep beneath an abandoned temple, a broken Trishul fragment pulsed faintly. Somewhere beyond time, Mahākāla's eyes opened.
"So… the cycle moves again."