The stillness before dawn in Sambhala was unlike any other place in the realms of men or gods. Here, time itself hesitated, for even it knew that within these enchanted borders walked a destiny meant to unmake it.
Kalki, now in his seventh year, trained beneath the silver-leafed canopy of the Ashtavriksha Grove. The grove was hidden behind illusions older than the moon and guarded by immortal rishis who no longer spoke in words but in vibrations of truth.
His body, though young, bore no fatigue. He ran through the flowing forms of the ancient Dharma-Kriya—movements meant not just to strengthen limbs but to align spirit with cosmic order. His palm glowed faintly, tracing the memory of the sword that had vanished into his soul at birth. Each motion seemed to summon light from the very air.
Watching silently from afar stood Parashurama, arms folded. The old warrior no longer questioned fate. He simply prepared it.
"Your movements are fast," he said, stepping into the grove with heavy purpose. "But speed is nothing without clarity. The sword does not cut what it sees—it cuts what it knows."
Kalki stopped. Sweat clung to his brow, but his breath remained calm.
"Then teach me to know more," he said.
Parashurama smiled.
In the Shadowed Temple of Shunya
Far away, in the broken land of Aryavaarta, Bhrahmāndak knelt before a mirror that did not reflect. It was made of nothing—crafted from the emptiness that existed before sound, before time. Only a being like him—formed from the doubt of Brahma and fed on the silence of lost prayers—could gaze into it.
He saw visions: kingdoms reversed into sand, languages erased, children aging into ancestors. His laughter echoed like bells rung backward.
"Soon," he muttered. "The Tenth Chakra will snap. When it does, no Yuga will rise again."
Beside him stood Mahadevi Durnima, the twisted echo of Saraswati, her voice a haunting lullaby of reversed mantras. She whispered, "The boy draws power. But not alone. There are still Old Guardians hiding in realms untouched. And the Eighth Flame flickers in the deep."
Bhrahmāndak turned his molten eyes toward her. "Then let them flicker. Light only matters in the presence of darkness."
The Eighth Flame
Back in Sambhala, a new visitor arrived at the gates—her face veiled, her presence cloaked. The guardians, sensing no threat, parted the ethereal mists for her.
She entered the grove just as Kalki completed the final kriya of the Ashtavriksha.
"I seek the boy," she said.
Parashurama narrowed his eyes. "You bring no offering."
"I bring memory," she said, removing her veil.
She was Devi Tara, goddess of transitions and chaos. Unlike the calm serenity of Lakshmi or the fierce blaze of Durga, Tara shimmered with unpredictability—half-light, half-shadow.
"Kalki," she said, kneeling. "I have guarded something for you since before the stars first hummed. The Eighth Flame—Mantragrasa, the flame that devours lies."
She extended her palm, and from it emerged a single spark that pulsed like a heartbeat. "Swallow this flame," she whispered. "Let it burn the falsehoods sown by Bhrahmāndak's magic."
Kalki took it. As it entered him, his eyes blazed with momentary fire, and visions came—not of gods, but of forgotten truths: of Brahma weeping in chains, of Vishnu chanting beneath a waterfall of stars, and of Shiva meditating inside a collapsing supernova.
The Gathering of the Silent Nine
The time had come. Kalki could no longer remain hidden in myth.
Parashurama, Tara, and Ananta Rishi called upon the Silent Nine—celestial beings older than language, each bound to a truth of creation. They arrived one by one, stepping through portals made of dreams.
- Agniveda, Lord of the Fire-Scrolls.
- Kalipati, the Keeper of Ending Songs.
- Vanīya, the Guardian of Memory Waters.
- Ushinara, the Blind Seer of Dust.
- Trikali, the Weaver of Past-Future.
- Mandodari, the Matron of Broken Time.
- Raktabija, the Dream-Eater turned saint.
- Ashvaghosha, the Voice of Beasts.
- Yugaanta, the boundary-walker between one age and the next.
They formed a circle around the boy.
Parashurama spoke, "This is not merely a war of weapons. This is a war for meaning. For every mantra reversed by Bhrahmāndak, Kalki shall birth a new one. For every truth silenced, he shall roar."
A Glimpse into Tomorrow
Later that night, as the stars shifted unnaturally in the heavens, Kalki climbed atop Shveta-Ashwa. The divine white horse did not flinch, for it had been waiting.
As Kalki took hold of the invisible reins, the mount raised its hooves and thundered into the sky, bursting through the illusion of the stars, into the realm between time and space—the corridor of the Kalachakra.
There, suspended in an endless spiral of yugas, Kalki saw worlds undone and remade. He saw versions of himself that had failed, and some that never tried. He saw Rama's tears as he left Sita behind, and Krishna's smile as the chariot burned.
And then, he saw something else.
At the very edge of all that had ever been—Bhrahmāndak stood, awaiting him. Not with fear. Not with anger. But with certainty.
"Come," the false god whispered. "End it all. Begin me."