Long before his soul descended into flesh, the world trembled.
Not from earthquakes or storms, but from fear—fear that sat on a throne and called itself king.
Kamsa of Mathura was not born cruel. He was born afraid.
Afraid of losing power. Afraid of betrayal. Afraid of destiny itself.
As a child, astrologers had praised his sharp mind and ruthless will. As a young man, whispers followed him—whispers that fate did not favor those who clung too tightly to control. By the time he seized the throne of Mathura, Kamsa trusted only one thing:
Violence was certainty.
That night, the palace halls echoed with celebration. Torches burned bright. Music filled the air. Devaki, his cousin, was being married to Vasudeva—a noble man with calm eyes and a quiet strength.
Kamsa himself held the reins of the chariot, laughing loudly as he escorted the newlyweds through the streets.
"Today is a good day!" he declared. "No blood. No rebellion. Just family!"
The crowd cheered.
The skies darkened.
Without warning, the air thickened, pressing down upon the city like an unseen weight. Horses neighed nervously. Flames flickered.
Then the voice came.
Not loud.
Not soft.
Absolute.
"O Kamsa."
The sound did not travel through air—it manifested within existence itself.
Kamsa froze.
Sweat formed instantly along his spine.
"The eighth child of Devaki will be your end."
The city fell silent.
Devaki gasped, clutching Vasudeva's arm. The horses reared. The guards panicked.
Kamsa's laughter died.
For a moment—just a moment—he considered denying it. Laughing it off. Pretending destiny did not exist.
Then fear won.
His grip tightened around his sword.
"If the eighth child is my death," he muttered, eyes darkening, "then there will be no eighth child."
He turned, blade raised, intent clear.
Devaki screamed.
Before the sword could fall, Vasudeva stepped forward, his voice steady despite the terror in his eyes.
"Stop!" he pleaded. "Kill me if you must, but spare her! I swear—every child born to us will be delivered to you."
Kamsa hesitated.
Not out of mercy.
Out of calculation.
Slowly, he lowered the sword.
"Yes," he said coldly. "You will give me every child. And I will decide their fate."
Devaki collapsed in relief that felt dangerously close to despair.
Chains clinked.
The royal guards dragged Devaki and Vasudeva away, throwing them into the deepest prison beneath Mathura.
The celebration ended in screams.
That same moment—
Far beyond Mathura, beyond time measured by mortals, a soul observed everything.
He saw it all.
The prophecy.
The fear.
The choice to kill children before they were born.
Within the womb of Devaki, a presence stirred—not yet flesh, not yet thought, but awareness wrapped in potential.
He knew.
He knew Kamsa's fear would turn into bloodshed.
He knew innocent lives would be taken.
He knew the line of dharma had already been crossed.
Yet—
He did not intervene.
Not yet.
Because balance was not about preventing evil entirely.
It was about allowing it to reveal itself.
Months passed.
The first child was born.
A son.
Kamsa arrived personally, eyes hollow, hands steady with practice. The infant was taken.
A scream echoed through the prison.
Then silence.
The second child followed.
Then the third.
Each time, Devaki's cries grew weaker. Each time, Vasudeva's fists bled from striking stone walls. Each time, Kamsa's fear deepened rather than faded.
"Why won't destiny leave me alone?" he snarled after the sixth child.
Because destiny was patient.
The seventh pregnancy came.
This time, something changed.
Within Devaki's womb, divine interference occurred—not loud, not violent, but precise. The child was transferred, hidden away by cosmic design.
Kamsa never knew.
The eighth pregnancy began.
The moment it did, the universe held its breath.
Within the womb, consciousness awakened fully.
He was not a baby.
He was not a god bound by ignorance.
He was awareness itself, wrapped in forming flesh.
He felt Devaki's fear like a constant tremor. He felt Vasudeva's resolve, quiet but unyielding. He felt Kamsa's gaze on the prison from afar, sharp and obsessive.
And beyond that—
He felt the world.
Villages suffering under heavy taxes.
Women praying silently for safety.
Men choosing cruelty because mercy seemed weak.
He knew every thread.
And he remembered Mahadev's words.
"When dharma is crossed, you will know."
His first thought was not anger.
It was disappointment.
"So this is how imbalance begins," he mused calmly. "Fear breeding fear."
Outside the prison, signs began appearing.
Flowers bloomed out of season.
Rivers slowed, as if listening.
The wind carried a strange calm.
The guards whispered nervously.
"The air feels… wrong."
The night of birth arrived.
Storm clouds gathered above Mathura, lightning flickering without thunder. Rain fell in sheets, drowning torches and silencing patrols.
Devaki screamed as labor began.
The moment the child was born, the chains around her wrists shattered.
The prison doors swung open.
The guards collapsed into deep sleep.
Vasudeva stared in shock at the blue-skinned infant in his arms.
The child opened his eyes.
They were calm.
Too calm.
For a newborn, they held awareness that made Vasudeva's breath hitch.
The infant looked directly at him.
And smiled.
Not a baby's reflex.
A knowing smile.
Vasudeva fell to his knees.
"My lord…" he whispered without understanding why.
The child's consciousness expanded gently.
He assessed the situation instantly.
Kamsa would arrive soon.
This prison was no place for a child.
The balance required patience—not confrontation.
For now.
As rain intensified outside, Vasudeva felt a sudden certainty bloom in his heart.
"I must take him away," he murmured.
The river Yamuna raged beyond the prison walls.
The infant's gaze shifted, sensing it.
The waters would part.
Of course they would.
He allowed it.
Not as a miracle.
As preparation.
As Vasudeva stepped into the storm, carrying the child who was both god and man, awareness and innocence, destiny began to bend.
Kamsa slept uneasily that night.
He did not know that the line he crossed had finally been answered.
Not with wrath.
But with balance.
And somewhere in the rain-soaked darkness, a child who knew the world far too well watched silently—
Waiting.
--chapter 3 ended--