Faith was a dangerous thing.
Krishna understood this better than anyone.
Dharma thrived on belief, yes—but belief without understanding turned into fear, and fear twisted into blind devotion. That path never ended well. Gods became tyrants. Mortals became tools.
And right now—
Gokul was standing on that line.
It began with small things.
A villager touched Krishna's feet "accidentally."
Another bowed a little too deeply.
Someone whispered a prayer instead of a greeting.
Krishna felt each act ripple through the fabric of belief like pebbles tossed into still water.
This would not do.
He was not here to be worshipped.
Not yet.
Yashoda noticed the change too.
She was no scholar of dharma or fate, but she was a mother—and mothers noticed when the world looked at their child differently.
That morning, she caught an old woman bowing to Krishna.
Yashoda stepped forward immediately.
"Stop that," she said sharply. "He's a child."
The woman trembled. "But Yashoda-ma… after the wind demon, after the cart—"
"He fell because he was careless," Yashoda interrupted firmly. "And the storm ended because storms end. Don't put burdens on my son."
Her voice carried absolute conviction.
The villagers fell silent.
Krishna watched her, awe stirring quietly within him.
Mahadev's fierceness.
Parvati's protectiveness.
All reflected in her.
Within his mind, the system hummed thoughtfully.
«Belief Accumulation Detected.
Rate: Accelerating.
Risk Assessment: Moderate.
Recommended Action: Narrative Redirection.»
Krishna agreed.
That afternoon, he acted.
It began innocently.
Krishna crawled into trouble—deliberately.
He overturned pots.
Tripped over his own feet.
Got caught red-handed stealing butter and blamed it on a calf.
When Yashoda scolded him, he cried.
Loudly.
Convincingly.
The village watched in stunned silence as the "divine child" wailed with butter smeared across his face.
A god didn't cry like that.
A legend didn't hiccup between sobs.
A child did.
And slowly, doubt returned.
Laughter followed.
"See?" Yashoda huffed. "Does that look like a god to you?"
Krishna peeked through his fingers, checking reactions.
Belief stabilized.
Faith suppressed.
Maternal authority: overwhelming.
The system clapped metaphorically.
«Excellent performance.
Emotional Manipulation Skill increased.
Title Unlocked: 'Certified Menace.'»
Krishna mentally bowed.
Later that night, as the village slept, Krishna sat beneath the stars.
His awareness expanded far beyond Gokul now—across rivers, kingdoms, palaces.
Mathura burned with fear.
Kamsa paced his chambers like a caged beast.
"How many?" he demanded.
"Three demons, my king," an advisor whispered. "All dead."
Kamsa's hand trembled.
"This child… this monster… he must be Vishnu himself!"
Krishna felt the hatred spike.
Line crossed.
But not yet actionable.
Dharma had not tipped fully.
Patience.
Above the mortal realm, unseen yet ever-present, two divine gazes rested upon him.
Mahadev stood atop Kailasa, arms folded, eyes blazing with pride.
"He walks the line well," Shiva murmured. "Better than most gods."
Parvati smiled softly. "He learned from us."
Back in Gokul, Krishna lay beside Yashoda, pretending to sleep as she stroked his hair gently.
"You worry me," she whispered. "You always find danger."
Krishna murmured softly, half-asleep. "Danger finds me."
She chuckled tiredly. "That it does."
Within his soul, he made a vow.
Gokul would remain untouched.
Yashoda would never bow.
Faith would come later—earned, not forced.
The system updated quietly.
«Arc 1 Complete: Birth and Childhood.
Status: Successful.
Dharma Balance: Stable.
Upcoming Arc: Butter and Blood.»
Krishna smiled.
This was only the beginning.
The world was vast.
Adharma was patient.
And he—
He had time.
--chapter 10 ended--