The night the child fell from the heavens, the mountains did not sleep.
Far above the silent peaks of the Himalayas, a streak of golden light tore through the sky like a divine arrow. It did not flicker like an ordinary meteor. It moved with purpose — steady and silent — as if guided by an unseen will.
The villagers of Rudra-Prayag looked up in fear and wonder.
Some fell to their knees.
Some whispered prayers to Lord Shiva.
And some simply watched, unable to understand what their eyes were seeing.
The golden light descended toward the ancient temple standing at the edge of the village — a shrine older than memory, where countless generations had offered prayers.
The moment the light touched the earth, the wind stopped.
Silence swallowed the valley.
No explosion followed.
No fire spread.
It was as if the heavens had gently placed something upon the soil.
At dawn, the village priest Kashyap walked toward the temple as he did every morning.
For forty years, he had followed the same path.
For forty years, nothing had changed.
But today felt different.
The air felt heavy.
Strange.
As if the mountains themselves were holding their breath.
As he approached the shrine of Lord Shiva, Kashyap stopped.
His walking stick slipped from his hand.
Before him, the frozen ground had transformed.
Where there should have been stone and dirt, a circle of glowing white lotuses had bloomed.
Perfect.
Untouched.
Impossible.
Lotuses did not grow in frozen soil.
Yet here they stood, swaying gently without wind.
At the center of the circle lay a child.
An infant.
Silent.
Still.
Wrapped in nothing but soft light.
Kashyap's hands trembled.
"Mahadev..." he whispered.
He slowly stepped forward.
The moment he lifted the child, the golden glow vanished like mist under sunlight.
The infant's skin became ordinary.
Warm.
Human.
Yet the priest could feel something strange beneath that warmth — a deep stillness that felt older than the mountains.
The child opened his eyes.
Kashyap froze.
The eyes were not normal.
Violet and silver swirled together like distant galaxies.
For a moment, Kashyap felt as though he were falling into an endless sky.
He quickly looked away.
"This child..." he murmured, "...is not ordinary."
By midday, the village elders had gathered.
The infant rested on a folded cloth inside the temple.
Men and women whispered among themselves.
Some said the child was blessed.
Others said he was dangerous.
The village headman spoke at last.
"A child without a name has no destiny," he said. "What shall we call him?"
Silence followed.
Even the wind outside seemed to pause.
Then something strange happened.
The thick clouds covering the sky slowly parted.
A single beam of moonlight fell through the temple roof.
It landed directly on the child's forehead.
A faint symbol appeared on his skin.
Ancient.
Unknown.
Yet somehow familiar.
Kashyap felt his breath stop.
The symbol resembled an old celestial mark spoken of in forgotten scriptures.
"Nava," he whispered.
The elders turned toward him.
"What did you say?"
Kashyap straightened his back.
"This child is a beginning."
"A new path."
"A new destiny."
"He shall be called Navin."
"The New One."
The moment the name was spoken, a cold wind rushed through the temple.
The oil lamps flickered violently.
As if the world itself had accepted the name.
That night, Kashyap sat alone inside the temple.
Navin slept beside the altar.
The priest lit a small brass oil lamp and closed his eyes in meditation.
Slowly, he began to gather spiritual energy from the mountains.
This was a practice he had done thousands of times.
But tonight—
Something was wrong.
The energy felt thin.
Weak.
As if the air itself had been drained.
Kashyap frowned and opened his eyes.
Then he saw it.
The flame of the lamp was bending.
Not from wind.
But toward the child.
The tiny flame stretched unnaturally, pulled by an invisible force.
The warmth in the room began to fade.
The light dimmed.
Even the sacred presence of the temple felt weaker.
Kashyap's heartbeat quickened.
The spiritual energy of the temple was flowing toward the sleeping infant.
Not violently.
Not uncontrollably.
But steadily.
Inevitably.
As if drawn into a bottomless abyss.
Navin was not breathing air.
He was absorbing existence itself.
Kashyap's voice shook.
"This child..."
"...is a void."
Navin slept peacefully.
Unaware.
Above the silent mountains, the stars watched.
The anomaly had begun its journey.
It would not learn cultivation.
It would not seek power.
The world itself would nourish it.
Because the Void does not ask.
The Void takes.