Night cloaked the ashram, the sky a deep black pierced by stars, the air cool after the day's blistering heat. Devavrata sat by the fire pit, the celestial bow across his lap, its runes glowing faint in the flickering light. The ravine lingered in his mind—Dronaresh's trap, his broken voice spilling grief and hate, the image of his wife's head rolling, his boys crushed by the well. His fingers tightened on the bow, the Ganga's pulse steady but heavy, carrying a weight he couldn't shake. Parashurama's shadow loomed over it all—distant on the ridge, silent, a storm waiting to break.
Kshema slumped nearby, his bandaged arm resting on his knee, poking the fire with a stick. "That wreck's story," he said, his voice gruff, "all tears and no fight. Still want his head."
Aruni sat cross-legged, hugging his short bow, his eyes wide. "No fight? He lost everything—wife, kids, home."
Vikrama leaned against a post, sharpening his knife with slow, steady strokes. "Lost it to Parashurama," he said, his voice low. "That's the piece we're missing."
Devavrata nodded, his gaze drifting to the ashram's edge where Parashurama stood earlier that day, axe in hand, watching Dronaresh flee. "Missing too much," he said, standing up, the bow firm in his grip. "I'm asking him—now."
Kshema smirked, tossing the stick into the flames. "Good luck getting a straight word out of him."
Devavrata ignored him, walking toward the sage's hut, the fire's glow fading behind him. The door was open, torchlight spilling out, and Parashurama sat inside, his broad frame hunched over a whetstone, sharpening the axe with a slow, grating rasp. His eyes flicked up, dark and sharp, as Devavrata stepped in.
"River-son," Parashurama said, his voice a low rumble, not pausing his work. "Got a burr in your boot?"
"Dronaresh," Devavrata said, standing tall, his tone steady but firm. "Caught us today—told us what you did. His family, his home—gone by your axe. I need to know why."
Parashurama's hand stopped, the whetstone still, his gaze locking on Devavrata, heavy as a mountain. "Why?" He set the axe down, its blade glinting wicked in the light, and stood, filling the room with his presence. "Come outside—bring the others. This isn't a tale for one."
Devavrata turned, signaling Kshema, Aruni, and Vikrama over from the fire. They gathered around as Parashurama stepped out, the axe slung over his shoulder, his voice rolling like thunder across the night. "Sit," he said, pointing to the ground by the pit. "You want my why—listen close."
They settled around the fire, the flames crackling high, casting shadows that danced on the ashram walls. Parashurama stood, towering over them, the axe resting easy in his grip, his eyes burning with something ancient, fierce. "I'm no mere man," he began, his voice booming, shaking the air. "Vishnu's blood runs in me—born to end a rot that choked the earth. Kshatriyas—kings, warriors—grew fat with pride, drunk on power, crushing the weak under their heels. My father, Jamadagni, a sage pure and good, fell to their blades—hacked down by a king's sons over a cow, a petty grudge. My mother wailed, beat her chest twenty-one times, and I swore it—twenty-one generations of their kind would bleed for it."
Devavrata felt the weight hit, the Ganga's pulse surging—a fury so vast it dwarfed Dronaresh's pain. Kshema leaned back, arms crossed, his voice dry. "Kings reap what they sow—sounds fair."
Parashurama's grin flashed, sharp and wild, his eyes glinting in the firelight. "Fair? No—just. I took this axe, forged by gods, and carved a storm across the land. Cities fell, blood ran rivers, their golden halls turned to ash under my feet. I was a tide—unstoppable, divine wrath in every swing. One night, I hit Dronaresh's clan—hill rats, small but proud, defying me like they mattered."
He paced, the axe swinging low, his voice dropping to a growl, painting the scene. "Their hold stood on a ridge, stone walls they thought would save them. I came at dusk—sky red, air thick with their fear. My axe sang, splintered their gates like dry wood, and I walked in, fire trailing me, sparked by their own torches dropped in panic. His men rushed me—swords, spears, shouting their little war cries. I cut through them, a whirlwind—heads rolled, chests caved, blood sprayed hot across my arms, my face. The ground shook with every step, their screams drowned by the roar of my rage."
Aruni trembled, his voice small, barely breaking through. "All of them—just like that?"
Parashurama's eyes flicked to him, fierce but steady. "All. Dronaresh stood in his hall, sword out, shouting orders like he could stop me. His wife—Lalita—ran at me, dagger flashing, a mother's desperation in her eyes. I swung once—clean, quick—her head hit the floor before she could scream. His boys darted out, two pups scrambling for the well. I caught them there—one blow, axe down, crushed them together, their skulls cracking loud against the stone, blood pooling in the dirt."
Devavrata's breath caught, the echo of Dronaresh's tale twisting with this—same night, same deaths, but now a god's wrath, not a man's loss. Vikrama nodded slow, his voice quiet. "Heavy work—burden like that sits deep."
Parashurama laughed, a sound that shook the night, bold and unyielding. "Burden? It was glory—divine will, my hands the blade of fate. Dronaresh came at me, sword swinging wild—broke on my arm like a twig. I grabbed him, slammed him down, held him there as his hold burned—roof crashing, flames licking up the walls, his kin's bodies charring in the heat. I wanted him to see it, to feel the end of his line, the cost of their pride."
Kshema shrugged, his voice flat. "He lived—weak ones always do."
Parashurama's gaze snapped to him, sharp as a blade. "Lived because I let him. Spared him—fool's mercy. Thought he'd crawl off, die slow under the weight. Didn't expect him to fester, to claw back like this." He hefted the axe, its edge catching the firelight, a glint of menace. "Twenty-one times I cleansed the earth—kings fell, dynasties shattered, their blood a lake I waded through. Dronaresh was one speck in that flood—a gnat I flicked away."
The fire popped, sparks rising into the dark, his words hanging heavy, mythic, unstoppable. Devavrata felt it crash over him—a fury so grand it swallowed reason, a wrath that carved history in gore and flame. His voice came low, steady, cutting through the silence. "You spared him—left him alive. Does mercy make the foe?"
Parashurama turned, his eyes locking on Devavrata, deep and unreadable, the thunder fading to a growl. "Mercy? Maybe—fool's mercy, like I said. Or maybe it's fuel—lets them rise, gives them teeth. He's yours now, river-son—his hate's on you."
The night stilled, the fire's crackle the only sound, the weight of his tale settling over them. Aruni hugged his knees, trembling still, his voice a whisper. "That's… too big. Too much."
Vikrama sheathed his knife, his nod slow, firm. "Big or not, it's his load—explains the man we met."
Kshema stretched, his smirk faint but real. "Explains nothing—just means he's tough. I'd still take him."
Devavrata stood, the bow warm in his hands, the Ganga's pulse strong—a steady thread against the storm Parashurama painted. The sage's eyes lingered on him, a flicker of something—approval, maybe—before he turned, axe over his shoulder, striding back to his hut without another word.