The night before the Great War, the air in the palace of Ohm was heavy, thick with the scent of jasmine and the metallic tang of sharpening steel. Indra, the man who had lived sixteen years without a heartbeat of emotion, sat alone in the sanctuary of the palace temple. The room was pitch black, save for a single flickering oil lamp.
For the first time in his life, Indra was kneeling. He was not praying for the safety of his soldiers or the prosperity of his kingdom. He was worshipping out of a cold, parasitic instinct that had finally taken root in his soul: Fear.
But Indra did not fear death. He did not fear the spear in his back from General Veda or the million-man pincer of the Gamma-Theta alliance. He feared the only thing he understood—Losing. To Indra, defeat was not just an end; it was an ontological erasure. If he lost, the "Revenant" would truly die, and the prophecy that claimed he should have been gone at fifteen would finally be right.
Suddenly, the shadows in the room shifted. A voice, resonant like the tolling of a thousand temple bells, vibrated through the stone floor. It was not a voice heard with ears, but felt in the marrow.
"Thou wishest to rule the heaven, yet thou fearest a mortal?" the voice echoed. "What art thou to achieve or lose if thou winnest this battle?"
Indra's eyes snapped open. The "God" he had been addressing was questioning him—challenging the very foundation of his existence. For a moment, the silence was deafening. Then, a heat started to rise in Indra's chest. It wasn't the warmth of love or the sting of sadness. It was the white-hot fire of Arrogance.
He stood up, his black spear leaning against the altar. He didn't bow. Instead, he stared into the darkness where the voice seemed to originate.
"You speak of fear?" Indra's voice was a low growl, devoid of its usual robotic flatline. "I do not fear the mortals. I fear the stain on my record. And you... you have the audacity to question me? Just because the priests tremble at your name and the people offer you their harvest, you think you can interrogate my purpose?"
He stepped closer to the idol, his shadow looming large against the temple wall.
"I am the man who broke the stars," Indra hissed. "I lived when you said I should die. I ruled when you said I would be a shadow. What am I to achieve? I will achieve the silence of my enemies. What am I to lose? Nothing, for I own everything I see."
The air in the room grew cold, the lamp flickering on the verge of extinction. The divine presence seemed to wait, watching the mortal who dared to defy the heavens.
"You know what?" Indra shouted, his voice cracking the stillness of the palace. "Keep your heaven for now. I am done asking for your favor. I will go out there, and I will conquer EVERY SINGLE SOIL on this earth. I will pave a road of crowns to the horizon. And once the earth is silent under my heel, I will come for your throne. I will rule thy heaven, not as a worshipper, but as its Conqueror!"
He grabbed his spear, the black steel humming in his hand. He turned his back on the altar and walked out of the temple without looking back.
Outside, the commoner army was waiting. General Veda was waiting. The two empires were waiting. Indra stepped into the moonlight, his fear of losing replaced by a singular, god-defying rage. The war wasn't about the Empire of Ohm anymore. It was Indra against the Universe.