God of War - Karmic Cycle [AU]

[juniorsundar]

A/N: Apologies for the delay. I keep a 4 Chapter buffer as I write. And in the current chapter, Kratos has already finished his journey alongside the river. Without spoiling, I have to now introduce 4 new characters that are quintessential in the Hindu Mythos. Doing so without being disrespectful took quite a bit of time as it involved a lot of research.

---

The priest lost his footing and collapsed onto the ground as the earth beneath him rumbled with incessant fury. He'd never seen destruction of this proportion before in his entire life. The ground itself started to crack, emitting a flurry of molten rock.

And it did not stop. The fissure that originated with the warrior at its epicentre, extended outwards in all directions, swallowing most of the smaller version of the Rakshasa in its wake.

The priest's elation at the turn of events was short-lived, though, because the fissure did not cease its rapid approach in their general direction.

"W-Watch out!" He yelled towards his disciple. But he knew that his calls were wasted. There was no escape, for either of them. With open eyes, he awaited the gaping maws of Bhumi Devi - the Earth Goddess - as she was about to swallow them.

But then something amazing happened.

The fissure snaking towards them collided with the pyre first. And the construct exploded into a mist of soot and embers before a line of fire extended in a perpendicular vector to the fissure, in both directions. His eyes traced the rapidly extending line of blue flames as they circumnavigated the village, forming a type of boundary. And to his surprise, he saw that the approaching fissure had halted. The world outside the boundary was overturned in fury, but within their safe haven surrounded by the sacred fire, they were safe.

At that moment, the priest heard the hoarse shrieks of the monster as the closest clone beelined towards them. It jumped over the cracks and oozing lava, and leapt with its claws extended towards his disciple, who sat closest to the boundary.

The priest's exclamation halted in his throat as the creature disintegrated instantaneously as soon as its body crossed the boundary. From a mass of flesh, it was turned to grey ash.

"Amazing!" He exclaimed.

The destruction did not cease and the rampant ejection of molten rock from below grew more violent, blanketing everything in a new sea of red - a sea of red that consumed everything!

Right then, a metaphysical wave of pressure washed over them. A pressure so great that the priest was forced to kneel. He feared for his disciple's condition and worried that he wouldn't be able to bear it. Yet to his surprise, he saw the boy seated in the same cross-legged position. Through sheer force of will, the boy fought through the pressure, only collapsing after losing consciousness once the pressure had lifted itself.

As the priest cradled the boy's head to ensure that he didn't accidentally swallow his tongue, he observed the battle raging behind the boundary of fire. It wouldn't be incorrect to say that the tables had turned. The warrior was decimating the Rakshasas faster than the lava could. He harvested their lives like a farmer harvesting common crops - the chains that tethered the jagged blades to his forearms burned with righteous fury as they cleaved through the beasts with gruesome efficiency. Due to the heat emitted by these weapons, the bodies cauterised themselves automatically before even a drop of blood could escape. And the blood that did spurt out unhindered was burned into ash before it could even reach the ground.

The man had thoroughly trounced the beast's power and singular advantage.

This was it. They were saved!

---

Rakhtabhija did not anticipate a turnabout so swift and decisive to present itself, that too so unexpectedly.

It was akin to a mighty fortress, thought impregnable, crumbling unexpectedly from a single, rogue shot from a slingshot.

As all of his many forms were cleaved and burned, his mind started to shut down under the overwhelming pressure of the agony and the fear of rapidly encroaching death.

In his final moments, he could only chuckle wryly at the irony of dying to a veritable nobody. He thought he could overturn the three realms, and bring them to their knees. But he could barely defeat an unknown immortal from nowhere.

Maybe if he had disengaged earlier and hadn't let his pride get to his head, he could have lived to see another day.

Well, what use was dwelling in hindsight?

---

Kratos remained in a limbo state for an immeasurable duration. His mind was first to gain clarity, and because of that, he was thrust into the never-ending cycle of nightmares gifted by the cursed axe almost immediately. He was adrift in a sea of agony, unsure how long he had been submerged.

Eventually, though, his eyes snapped open and a searing flash of light momentarily blinded him. He winced as he cleared the gritty sand caking his eyelids.

"He's waking up!" a voice exclaimed, tinged with both excitement and relief. This was instantly followed by a raspy, "Shush! Let them rest!"

A tired groan rumbled in Kratos's chest as his hearing sharpened, and gradually, the world around him began to take shape.

He lay on a coarse, wooden mattress within a dimly lit thatched hut. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and wood smoke. A figure stirred in the shadows, and a small group of children with curious eyes peeked in from the entrance.

At that moment, a wet cloth, smelling faintly of herbs, brushed against his shoulder and trailed down his arm causing a surge of warmth to course up his skin - he was being cleaned.

His vision cleared, and he finally saw a teenage boy tending to him. The boy was thin and wiry, his eyes wide with awe.

"W-Who are you?" Kratos rasped a dry voice that came out as a brittle whisper. He was parched, incredibly so.

The boy didn't answer; instead, he dipped a clay cup into an earthenware jug and brought it to Kratos's lips. The water, infused with herbs and spices, left a bitter aftertaste, but it soothed his throat as he drank.

Ignoring the boy's anxious urging to rest, Kratos sat up while contending against every muscle in his body that protested with a dull ache. He studied the teenager, his gaze lingering on the boy's trembling hands.

The boy fell to his knees, prostrating himself before Kratos. Kratos sensed no fear in the boy's trembling; it was not the cowering of prey before a predator, but pure, unadulterated reverence. The intensity of it was unsettling and evoked a suffocating weight that Kratos instinctively recoiled from. He disliked the feeling of being revered; he didn't deserve it.

"What are you doing!" Kratos roared, his voice rough with irritation.

"This one apologizes for his failings," the boy stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. "This one tried his best to feed the Great Warrior, but he was in a coma and couldn't swallow. This one saw the Great Warrior succumb to malnourishment, only to be reborn without any ailment."

"How long?" Kratos grunted, cutting through the boy's rambling.

"Hm?" the boy said, startled. Understanding Kratos's question, he quickly replied, "Three lunar cycles."

"Three lunar cycles," Kratos echoed—three months.

"What happened?" Kratos demanded, his brow furrowed in concentration. His memories of the fight were a fragmented and chaotic jumble of blood and fury.

"The Great Warrior defeated the ruthless demon Rakhtabhija," the boy recounted, his eyes wide with awe, "drowning its many mimics in a raging torrent of molten rock and soil." The boy's admiration was palpable and turbulent like a suffocating wave. It washed over Kratos and left him feeling nauseous.

"Be careful, Great Warrior!" the boy exclaimed, his voice laced with concern as Kratos lurched to his feet and nearly stumbling. The boy rushed out and returned with an intricately carved walking stick. He gently placed it in Kratos's hands. "Guruji anticipated that the Great Warrior might have trouble walking after being unconscious for so long," the boy explained. "This one made this stick from the heartwood of the ancient banyan tree; it's quite sturdy."

Kratos, ignoring the boy's incessant chatter, ducked through the low doorway. The sudden burst of sunlight momentarily blinded him. The vibrant colours of the village – the lush greens, the earthy browns, the bright splashes of flowers – assaulted his senses. As he stepped out, he was greeted by the sound of children's laughter. Suddenly, something small and solid crashed into him, and a high-pitched yelp followed by a muffled thud echoed through the air.

"Rekha!" the boy scolded, rushing to the fallen girl and lifting her to her feet. "Apologize to the Great Warrior!"

"I-I'm sowwy," the girl whimpered, tears welling in her eyes. The boy gave her a gentle swat and shooed her away. "Please forgive her, Great Warrior; she meant no disrespect. Children are often careless."

His patience wearing thin, Kratos pushed past the boy and continued on as an unknown force pulled him forward. One of the few things he remembered from his rage-fueled blackout was the presence of something he thought he'd lost, something dangerous. He hoped he was wrong, but the renewed burn scars on his forearms, throbbing with a dull ache, suggested otherwise.

His feet carried him to the village centre, drawn to a building that towered over the surrounding huts. It was constructed from black stone, with its stark geometry and imposing facade reminiscent of the temple in Kashi, though on a smaller scale.

Kratos hesitantly approached the entrance as a sense of foreboding settled over him. The cloying scent of sandalwood and incense smoke wafted from within, but it did little to calm the growing unease in his gut. He knew what awaited him beyond those heavy wooden doors.

He froze, his breath catching in his throat. The gentle ringing of bells from within the temple echoed in his skull. Each chime was like a hammer's blow against his sanity.

"This one took the liberty of cleaning the Great Warrior's weapons and placing them on the altar inside," the boy's voice piped up from behind, startling Kratos. "Such powerful Shastras deserve to be stored in a place of reverence. Forgive this one's presumption—"

The world swam before Kratos's eyes. He took a shaky breath and forced himself to step through the doorway, his heart pounding like a war drum.

And there they were, bathed in the soft glow of flickering oil lamps, the Blades of Chaos.

The blades were as he'd recollected them before he'd collapsed down Mount Olympus. Their obsidian-black surfaces were etched with intricate patterns that seemed to writhe and shift in the flickering lamplight. They were caked with a rusty sheen, either a result of ageing and poor maintenance or the blood of countless victims seeping into the very metal, staining them with the crimson of death.

The sight of them sent a wave of nausea through Kratos causing bile to rise up his throat like a venomous serpent. What amplified his revulsion was the line of crimson powder adorning the auburn blades, another sign of reverence in these lands. The chains that tethered to the blades' hilts were coiled into a neat pile, and they were smothered in a shower of marigolds, roses, and jasmines.

And the people, the many villagers, they were prostrated before the altar, worshipping it!

The suffocating scent of the flowers, the hushed reverence of the temple, the weight of a thousand eyes upon him - it was all too much. Panic clawed at his throat and constricted his breath. He had to get out and escape the suffocating piety that threatened to drown him.

He stumbled back from the altar. He turned and fled past the teenager, his bare feet pounding against the smooth stone floor. He burst through the temple doors and hobbled through the village. His walking stick was a useless appendage at this point and was lost somewhere along the way. The villagers grew startled by his sudden appearance and frantic demeanour and swarmed around him in concern. But the cacophony of sounds amplified his feeling of claustrophobia.

Kratos shoved past them. He had to get away.

His breathing grew heavy, and so did his footsteps. He did not know how far he'd traversed in this state of panic. But he could recognise the surroundings a bit.

Before him lay a scene of utter devastation. What used to be a fertile expanse of farmland was now a wasteland of jagged igneous rock formations. This was the battlefield, scarred and broken. This was familiar in many ways to Kratos. Most of his life was spent on one battlefield or the other. And all of them were exactly the same; they were filled with desolation and isolation.

Yet, amidst the devastation here, signs of life persisted. The sky above was a clear, vibrant blue, devoid of the oppressive gloom that was usually the case. And amidst the crows - the frequent inhabitants of battlefields - there were the sounds of sparrows and other songbirds. The air, though still heavy with the scent of sulfur and ash, carried the faintest hint of new growth. His senses which had finally escaped the tunnel-vision wrought of panic, picked up the rhythmic clang of metal against stone and the synchronized shouts of men working in unison.

Drawn by the sounds, Kratos stumbled towards their source. He navigated through and around the formations to find a group of villagers toiling away. And to his shock and surprise, their faces were etched with determination and hope rather than despair. The men's bodies glistened with sweat as they swung their picks and hammers against the massive rock formations, breaking them down into manageable chunks. The women and children had their hands stained with ash as they gathered the fragments and scattered them across the ravaged fields.

It wasn't the desolate wasteland he had initially perceived. Amidst the charred earth and shattered rocks, tiny green shoots were emerging.

A voice, clear and resonant, cut through the rhythmic clang of metal and stone. "Great Warrior!"

Kratos turned to find a priest standing on a small rise with his arms outstretched in greeting. His bearing suggested that he was middle-aged, though the youth was faintly peeking through given his ear-to-ear smile. The villagers paused in their labours and bowed their heads in respect as Kratos approached.

The priest descended from his elevated position and clasped Kratos's hands with a surprisingly strong grip. "We are indebted to you, Great Warrior," he said with a voice filled with gratitude. "The Great Warrior has saved our village, annihilated the terrible Rakshasa Rakhtabhija and brought life back to our land."

Amidst the cheers from the crowd, Kratos stared at the priest with confusion clouding his features. The priest, sensing his bewilderment, chuckled softly.

"The Great Warrior is unaware of the gift that they have bestowed upon us," he said, his eyes twinkling.

He gestured towards the fields, where the villagers were now spreading the pulverized rock fragments. "Though the battle with the Rakshasa brought destruction," he explained, "it also unearthed a hidden blessing. The eruption brought forth a wealth of minerals from deep within the earth, enriching our soil beyond measure."

He went on to describe how the ash and smoke from the battle had triggered a week of torrential rain, cleansing the land and nourishing the parched earth. When the farmers returned, they found the soil transformed with a rich, dark hue promising abundant harvests.

"We conducted tests," the priest continued, "and discovered that the igneous formations and ash are laden with nutrients. The aged hands even tasted the soil to confirm its quality. It is a veritable feast for our crops. You have not only vanquished a demon, Great Warrior, but you have also breathed new life into our land."

Kratos listened, his mind reeling. The revulsion and panic that had consumed him moments before began to recede, replaced by a flicker of something akin to wonder. Could it be that his destructive rage had inadvertently brought forth something good?

The thought was both unsettling and strangely comforting.

---

Clearing the igneous rocks from the fields was a terribly slow process, but one that was uplifting with each sector cleared. The villagers could already envision the fields, once barren and grey, now teeming with golden wheat and plump vegetables, promising bounteous harvests in the years to come.

The priest had mapped out a system to optimize the clearing of the region so that they could take advantage of the approaching planting season. Following his plan, the portion of the field closest to the river was already being tilled and sowed and the mineral-rich soil was already promising a fertile bed for the seeds.

"Careful!" he cautioned as the men tried to demolish a particularly tricky igneous formation in the shape of a wave. "Get down from there now, Mohan. Don't break the rock while standing on it. You wouldn't chop off a branch while sitting on it, would you?"

The village simpleton, his face flushed from exertion, revealed a sheepish grin before leaping off the structure.

"Alright, on three! 1! 2! 3!"

With a mighty heave, three men struck the base of the structure with their pickaxe. A webbing crack started to spread across the rock structure before it shattered and collapsed with a resounding crash, sending dust swirling into the air.

"Take turns and crush it," he instructed. But just as they prepared to reduce the shattered rocks into dust, a sharp yell halted them.

"WAIT!" It was his disciple. The boy rushed over to the shattered rock pile and started to sift through them haphazardly. His brow was furrowed in concentration as though he was searching for something precious he'd lost.

"There!" he declared, his voice filled with relief, as he picked up a rock around the same dimension of his torso. It looked like a thick slab with an uneven and rough surface.

His eyes scanned it with ardent interest, his gaze growing increasingly manic as it traced the black and semi-porous surface.

"This- This is perfect!"

"Perfect for what?" the priest asked, but it was a moment too late as the boy was already rushing back towards the village with the rock clutched tightly in his arms.

---

What he was looking for was hidden inside the rock. He could see it clearly, a vision shimmering just beneath the surface.

His fingers gently traced over the flat surface, moving stealthily over every possible edge and curve that remained buried within. All he had to do was to unearth it and reveal his vision to the world.

He picked up the mallet and chisel and carefully placed the sharp bit at the slab's corner. With a gentle tap of the mallet, a chip snapped off and bounced away, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

He let out a long exhale of satisfaction and let the tension leave his shoulders. He was now one step closer to manifesting the design in his vision, the image that burned so brightly in his mind.

He placed the chisel tip once again on the rock surface and gently tapped it with the mallet. And again. And again.

The rhythmic tapping of the mallet and chisel filled the air in a steady and methodical beat that accompanied the boy's focused work. The process continued with each strike bringing him closer to realizing his vision.

Incrementally, the hidden masterpiece within the rock slowly started to emerge from its stony prison.

It took him two continuous days without food, water or sleep. He was used to that now, having sustained an even more rigorous and terrible fast just a few months earlier. Time moved like a breeze, until eventually, he lowered the chisel and mallet and placed them back on his table with a satisfied smile.

This was it!

Before him, stood an idol. An idol of a man - a Great Warrior.

He rushed into his storage and retrieved a large container of holy ash. He took a handful and started to rub it all over the idol until it was completely caked in it. He then took a hefty pinch of crimson and started to draw a diagonal line across the idol's face and body using his thumb.

He took a step back and observed his handiwork- No. This wasn't his handiwork at all. This was there all along, all he did was bring it out of its shell.

---

The sun had just risen above the horizon, and the priest had just finished his Sandhyavandanam. The air was still cool, carrying the fragrance of jasmine and damp earth. It was around this time that the temple would be officially opened for cleaning and preparation.

Every day, he would begin by cleaning the steps leading to the temple entrance, sweeping away fallen leaves and debris. He would then meticulously wash the stone floor inside, ensuring every corner was spotless. Next, he would move to the altar, carefully dusting and polishing the idol. Finally, he would gently bathe the idol of the deity with water and sandalwood paste, adorning it with fresh flowers from the temple garden.

With the sanctuary cleansed and prepared, he anticipated the morning puja - prayers. The farmers would already be toiling in their fields, but this marked the hour when most of the village stirred to life.

Slipping off his wooden sandals, he approached the temple gates, surprised to find them ajar. Someone had preceded him today. A flicker of pride touched his heart – it must be his disciple diligently fulfilling his duties.

A faint smile curved his lips as he ascended the already-swept steps, noting the pristine surroundings, devoid of yesterday's fallen leaves and debris. But his satisfaction was fleeting. Upon entering, he found the Goddess's idol still adorned with yesterday's wilted flowers and offerings.

Suppressing a surge of frustration, he turned towards the hushed whispers emanating from the far corner of the temple. He rounded a pillar, prepared to admonish the boy for his tardiness when his steps faltered.

In the empty corner where they had temporarily placed the Great Warrior's Shastras, a new altar had sprouted, bearing an idol that defied all familiarity. It was the nameless Great Warrior himself. Four arms extended from his powerful torso, two wielding the chained blades, their fiery chains coiling around his wrists. A third hand spawning from his lower torso gripped a formidable axe. The fourth arm, empty and curled into a fist, pulsed with restrained power.

Beneath his feet lay the dismembered form of Rakhtabhija, now forever vanquished. The idol itself was coated in ash, starkly contrasted by the crimson line that bisected its form, mirroring the Great Warrior's birthmark. But it was the lifelike aura emanating from the statue that truly captivated the priest. The eyes, sculpted with chilling precision, seemed to burn with an inner fire, igniting a primal fear and reverence within him.

Involuntarily, the priest found himself getting down on his knees and prostrating before the idol. His lips moved along with his disciple's as the duo rattled out praises and prayers in successive unison.

---

The news of a new idol in the temple, crafted in his likeness, reached Kratos within the day much to his discontent. As the former patron God of Sparta, he was no stranger to worship, but the memories of his past filled with bloodshed and regret made him recoil from such veneration.

Looking back, he really liked the feeling of being revered when he sat on the throne of the God of War. It gave him validation. It made him feel powerful. It made him feel invincible. Power is intoxicating. It tends to poison the mind with hubris. It was the same hubris that led Kratos down the destructive path that ultimately ended with his world becoming savaged and desolate.

He did not want the past to repeat itself. Not this time.

Yet his gentle urgings towards the villagers and priests to take down the idol and cease all worship wasn't met with much success. If anything, it amplified their fanaticism as it was misinterpreted as humility.

"You don't even know who I am," Kratos reasoned.

"It matters not," the priest - the older one - responded. "For beings of the Great Warrior's stature, a name is just a proclamation of their achievements and deeds. The Great Warrior is the Slayer of Rakhtabhija."

"The One that Births Life from the Ashes!" The teen chimed in.

"The One with Rage that Boils the Earth!" The older priest added.

This went on for some time. Kratos was surprised with just how many "Names" the duo could come up with in such a short time span.

"That's not the point!" Kratos interjected as they reached somewhere close to the fiftieth name. "I... I am not someone worth worshipping. You know nothing of my past. You know nothing of the kind of man I am. Yet you revere me."

"While true," the older priest responded. "For an ant, a sparrow that frequently drops its food while nesting is worth revering. Even if the sparrow will eventually eat the ant if it is starving."

"Look," the priest followed up. "We understand the Great Warrior's apprehension. We also ask that the Great Warrior understand our perspective. Our lives were forfeit. Had Rakhtabhija reached our village, our death would have been imminent. Yet the Great Warrior helped us overcome our fate. That is reason enough for us to look up to the Great Warrior. Fortunately, the Great Warrior is not evil - they did not hurt us. They did not disparage us. That is reason enough for us to venerate the Great Warrior."

"Ant," he emphasised while gesturing to himself and the village, "Sparrow," he added while gesturing towards Kratos.

At this point, when rudimentary diplomacy fails, Kratos would resort to violence - if words couldn't convince these people then maybe force would.

But Kratos couldn't bring himself to enter the temple. He couldn't look at the Blades of Chaos without feeling an intense urge to dry heave.

Left with no other choice, Kratos had to resort to the second half of "fight or flight".

He packed what he could and proceeded to leave the village in the dead of the night.

"Great Warrior, wait!" A voice stopped him as he neared the village's boundary. He turned around and noticed a cart approaching him, being driven by buffaloes. Looking past the beasts of burden, he was greeted by the half-asleep village simpleton. And beside him, sat the teenaged priest.

"Great Warrior, you forgot your Shastras!" He said. And as Kratos peeked into the cart behind the buffaloes, he felt a sudden visceral dread gushing from within.

At this point, Kratos realised that he was now saddled with two accursed weapons that just refused to leave him. One that reminded him of his horrific past, and another that constantly thrust him into the sinful history of another.

---

Spoiler: Corrections

[2025-01-20] Corrected Astras -> Shastras
Former are projectile weapons like javelins, arrows, etc. latter are wielded weapons like maces, swords, etc.

 

[Hyperionthetitan]

Does kratos usually get this emo in his internal musing?

 

[juniorsundar]

Does kratos usually get this emo in his internal musing?

Click to shrink...

We don't see much of his internal musings, so I've had to extrapolate from what is available.

We know that he killed himself at the end of GoW3. No normal person would take such a step, to do so implies that he is going through a stage of depression.

In GoW4 when he retrieves the Blades of Chaos, we see a conversation with Athena where she mocks him as a monster. I assume that he's had this conversation many times as this is most likely a spectre of Athena that he is hallucinating. So I extrapolated that he is regretful of his actions in Greece AND hates the kind of person he used to be.

 

[Hyperionthetitan]

We don't see much of his internal musings, so I've had to extrapolate from what is available.

We know that he killed himself at the end of GoW3. No normal person would take such a step, to do so implies that he is going through a stage of depression.

In GoW4 when he retrieves the Blades of Chaos, we see a conversation with Athena where she mocks him as a monster. I assume that he's had this conversation many times as this is most likely a spectre of Athena that he is hallucinating. So I extrapolated that he is regretful of his actions in Greece AND hates the kind of person he used to be.

Click to shrink...

I say its ok for a bit . But no need to repeating it everytime in details like this .
But you do you on this

 

[Saniel]

I'm really liking this story and I like that Kratos has to deal with being worshipped as a protector and not a destroyer. I hope he tells them his name before he goes.

 

[juniorsundar]

This is a "What if...?" chapter. What if, Kratos hadn't shown up to defeat Rakhtabhija? This chapter is not totally standalone, as there will be details in here that will be present in the main storyline in some way.

In this chapter, I will be re-envisioning the original story of Rakhtabhija and Kali in the context of the Alternate/Author's Universe I am building here.

I am interested in writing more of these "What if...?" chapters to present stories from Hindu Mythology as they are introduced in the main plot, especially to show what would have happened if Kratos hadn't interfered. Depending on the reception of this chapter, I will plan out more or fewer of such chapters.

---

The monster rampaged through the village like a grotesque tide of flesh and fury. None could halt its advance; homes became charnel houses, and bodies were ripped open like gruesome offerings. Each spilt drop of blood seemed to shudder and twist, birthing another abomination in the first's wake. Men, women, children - nothing was spared the creature's sadistic hunger. The monster descended on the village like a plague and left a desolate tapestry of blood.

The creature was less a predator than carnage incarnate. Its claws, like rusted butcher's hooks, shredded flesh from bone. Villagers weren't merely killed – they were disassembled. Limbs wrenched from sockets with nauseating pops, torsos cracked open like macabre eggshells. Those who weren't devoured outright became playthings, akin to screaming puppets jerked and twitched by its smaller and frenzied clones. The air hung thick with the coppery stench of blood and the wet, fleshy sound of feasting.

The once vibrant and lively green grass that uplifted the village was now stained a deep red. And the river that fertilised and brought life to these soils ran thick with blood.

"Oh Durga Ma, help us!" The priest begged as he prostrated himself before the idol of his Goddess. The figure in stone looked back, inanimate, unempathetic. "Save us..."

Words in Sanskrit spilt out of his mouth in quick succession and with the same familiarity as a swordsman, trained since birth, would swing his weapon - it was plain muscle memory. He'd done it over a thousand times in this lifetime, each time just as sincerely as the last. Never once had he expected the Goddess to answer. Yet today, he sincerely wished for it. He sincerely wished that the unbending stone would turn soft, and the Goddess would step forth.

After all, all it took was devotion. Unbending, uncompromising devotion. Devotion so deep that even the threat of death couldn't cause your heart to waver. This was how Prahalad managed to get the Great Preserver to descend. Was his devotion to his Goddess any less?

The priest did the only thing he knew to do, pray. It was his calling since his birth, by passion and by caste. Even his first words weren't mother or father, it was 'Durga Ma.'

Boy, did it send his parents over the moon! They'd devoted their lives to Her, just like their parents, and their parents before that. His entire family had devoted their cause and lives to the Goddess.

"Can you not hear your devotees wailing?!" The priest yelled. How could she not? Even he could not hear his voice over the blood-curdling yells of the denizens beyond the hallowed walls of the temple. Overlaid on this cacophony was the demonic cackle of the beast that revelled in this violence.

"They're all dying, my Goddess! PLEASE! SAVE US!"

And all of a sudden, the world turned still. The screams and yells just ceased, as if a heavy blanket was smothered over them all. Were his prayers answered?

"Do you think she can hear you?" A gravelly voice said with a rumbling chuckle. It was a guttural growl layered with mocking amusement. The priest spun around as his heart pounded frantically against his ribs. At the entrance, peeking through the open doorway was the monster. It was far too big to fit into the hallowed altar, as its face spanned half the length of the doorway itself. Its vast bulk and heft strained against the ancient stones, and its thick forearms rippled beneath blood-soaked skin.

"Did she hear the thousands I've killed, drained and guzzled?" It added with a snort, and a spray of crimson speckled the floor by the priest's feet. The monster's face stretched impossibly wide, with its cavernous maw crammed with jagged teeth the size of daggers. Blood and viscera clung to them, likely remnants of its most recent feast. Its maddened eyes, which hid behind narrow, reptilian slits that resembled that of a gharial, blinked twice as it measured him as a predator would prey. A forked tongue, slick and impossibly long, writhed as it tasted the air, savouring the scent of terror that clung to the priest like a shroud.

"S-She won't let you off alive, Rakshasa!" The priest challenged, though his shivering tone did smother the force of his declaration.

"I would like to see her try, human!" The monster's laughter echoed with a grating mockery that made the temple stones seem to shiver. It withdrew from the doorway, yet its voice boomed on, "Fine! I will give you till the count of ten. Bring her here, but if you fail, your death will be most painful."

Five of the smaller creatures (though that was only in comparison to the massive Rakshasa, as his smaller forms matched the priest in height), chittered and snarled as they scuttled into the temple. Their bulbous eyes fixed on the priest with a twisted hunger that mirrored their original. The priest collapsed to his knees, his spirit nearly as broken as his body soon would be.

He clasped his hands and the frantic prayers started forming on his lips even before his mind could process it.

The Asura's voice echoed from outside like a death knell for the priest and the shattered remnants of his hope. "Ten..."

The first creature lunged and positioned itself in the priest's blind spot. The priest, eyes shut while he fought against the growing terror, continued his desperate chant.

"Nine..."

He could smell the creature's foul breath and feel its spittle on his face.

"Eight..."

The Sanskrit verses that were once a source of comfort now felt hollow.

"Seven..." The Asura's voice boomed. The descending number hammered onto his dwindling hope with growing intensity.

Another creature joined the first. It moved forward as its claws rasped against the temple floor. The priest's voice faltered as the screech interjected the underlying tune of his prayers causing the sacred words to snag in his throat.

"Six…" The number seemed to reverberate through the very air.

The creatures closed in, and their gurgling hisses mingled with the priest's ragged gasps. He could see their fetid breath steaming in the dim light, and smell the fresh meat lodged between their teeth.

"Five…" The priest's prayer dissolved into a choked sob. Durga Ma, his beloved Goddess, had she abandoned him?

The creatures crouched, ready to spring. Yellowed fangs glinted in the dark halls, promising not just death, but agonizing dismemberment.

"Four…" Time itself seemed to stretch and each second turned into unbearable torment. Yet, no divine light shattered the gloom. No celestial roar drowned out the creatures' hungry snarls.

"Three…" The priest's final prayer died on his lips. A bitter laugh choked out – was this the reward for a lifetime of devotion?

"Two…" A rough, scaled hand clamped around his ankle, yanking him back. His head struck the stone floor and the world blurred into a swirl of pain and darkness.

"One…" The Asura's voice boomed like a death sentence.

He was dragged as he kicked and screamed like a desperate animal snared by predators. His fingernails clawed gouges in the stone, in a pathetic and futile act of resistance. His eyes, wide with horror, remained fixed on the idol. Durga Ma stared back, silent and unmoved.

The last thing he saw as he was unceremoniously ejected from his temple, the place that was like his second home, wasn't the monstrous glee in the Rakshasa's eyes, but the implacable stone face of his Goddess.

"I don't see here here, human," the Rakshasa mocked as he loomed over the priest. The forked tongue snaked out and started to caress the priest's face as he spoke. Before a response could form on his lips, the legion of monsters around him lunged forward, grabbed his appendages and held him down. In a panic, he looked around and noticed that one of the little Rakshasas was exiting the temple with the stone idol in its grasp.

"I think a fitting end to you lot is in duty to the same gods you pray to. I may be a savage, but there is certainly some beauty in a poetic end," the fanged monster said as it picked the stone idol effortlessly with one hand. "Just as a Kshatriya must meet his end with a sword in his hand, so must a Brahmin with his head against an idol's feet."

The monster raised the idol above its head and brought it down in one swift motion.

Only, he didn't.

That is to say, he couldn't.

His arm froze by his chest, and his entire body began vibrating, starting from the idol grasped firmly in his hands. His expression of malice dispersed, revealing surprise, until it settled in shock. And right as fear started to encroach on his face, the monster exploded into a confetti of blood.

Yet once again, running contrary to natural laws, the blood did not spread. Instead, it started to congress into one spot above the stone idol that was mysteriously levitating.

The priest looked at the gory sight with anxiety, though a tinge of hope started to eke through.

Then, one after the other, each of the monsters holding him down exploded into a fountain of blood. And the blood turned into globules before converging towards the idol, above whom a massive ball of crimson was taking shape.

As the ball grew larger, the sun started to set and the heavens started to bleed red as it turned a horrific crimson shade.

The priest held his breath as the undulating mass of blood and gore slowly descended and completely enveloped the idol, and a blood-curdling symphony of ululation started to resonate across all three realms. Usually, this harmonising sound was a complement to a celebration or festivity - an auspicious act. But as the priest saw the ungodly crimson mass, he couldn't help feeling a foreboding sensation bubbling up from his gut. In his zeal to call forth the Goddess, had he called upon something worse?

The ball shot up into the skies before dispersing into a mist of red that started to envelop the village in its entirety, essentially imprisoning the Rakshasa and all of his lesser forms. The largest, and arguably his true self that matched the height of a small adult elephant looked at this sequence of events with a morose frown. Gone was his earlier psychopathic ecstasy as he rended flesh from bone, and blood from body.

All eyes that were attached to the living looked up into the zenith of the bloody dome and observed a dark mass hurtling towards the ground. The priest saw the object grow larger and larger - it was approaching him! He immediately scuttled and rushed towards the safety of the temple, and barely made it before a loud thud that rumbled the earth caused him to trip and stumble.

He landed unceremoniously on the stone floor and immediately shuffled closer, almost by instinct, towards the idol. But he only belatedly realised that the altar stood empty.

The sound of the door hinges creaking drew his attention and what he saw caused him to nearly loosen the control over his bladder.

A being drenched in viscous blood, with a skin as dark as coal, stood up from a kneeling pose. His eyes took in the nude form of what could only be a woman, but the visuals made him question if she was human. Her bare breasts peeked from behind her matted locks that were caked in dry blood and viscera. She raised her two arms with jagged nails caked with dirt and gore, and parted her hair, revealing eyes that belonged to an apex predator - devoid of empathy, and brimming with violence and unfettered rage. Her crimson lips, which stood out against her ebony skin, parted to reveal yellow teeth painted red with pieces of flesh marring the gums.

Her tongue slithered out and cleaned the blood and flesh, and she swallowed it as an ecstatic moan left her. She trudged ahead before descending on all fours and skittered forward with inhuman speed. With a leap, she bounded the steps leading up to the temple and clung to the entrance, with all her limbs grasping at the frame.

She tilted her head and licked her lips again, causing a deathly shiver to jolt through the priest's spine, as he felt an even more invasive sense of someone measuring him up as food.

He prayed for mercy, but to whom? Was this beast before him his Goddess? Was this her true form? How was she any different from the Rakshasa roaming the streets outside? At least he could be reasoned with, this she-beast was nothing short of an animal.

But his thoughts were halted as the creature leapt from her perch on the door frame, and zipped in his general direction. The priest closed his eyes awaiting demise, but all he felt was a gush of wind rushing past him before another loud bang caused him to flinch.

Contrary to his expectations, the she-beast had one of the human-sized clones of the Asura in a death grip by its neck. She held it up effortlessly, causing its feet to lift off the ground. The asura struggled, waving the rusty talwar in his hand, but the metal bounced effortlessly off of the she-beast's skin.

The woman grabbed the demon by his scalp with her other hand and yanked hard, causing a disgusting pop to echo within the hallowed halls. The asura's blood sprayed out, but the woman opened her mouth wide, with her tongue out, and sucked hard. The blood, like a charmed snake, started to redirect from its downward trajectory and gushed towards her agape mouth.

Not a single drop of blood touched the ground as she greedily devoured it like a person parched with thirst. The Rakshasa's body dried up like a fruit left out in the sun until it was a mere fraction of its original size.

Once the woman was finished, she gazed at the lifeless eyes of the beheaded asura with morbid interest. A squelching sound ensued as the side of the woman's abdomen deformed as if something was trying to escape from it.

The priest held back the contents of his bowel from escaping, as her flesh parted and an additional pair of arms burst out, coated in mucus and blood. The two new arms cut into the asura's belly and stripped it open. She then pulled out the intestines and expertly wove them into a rope. She jabbed a finger through the asura's ear and pushed until it came out the other ear, and then sent the rope through. She then hung the intestine with a 'head-locket' around her neck. With the remaining length of 'intestine-rope', she pulled the demon's arms and legs and started to fashion herself a skirt, to cover her bare lower body.

After revealing a morbid smile of satisfaction, she crouched back on all fours and skittered out of the temple with a maniacal and greedy grunt.

---

The Asura's years of penance and prayer had granted him a special boon. Every drop of blood that left him and touched the earth would spawn a new form - a clone of himself. The clones would grow stronger the longer they lived. They would grow larger, and more intelligent as well. Though the extent of their growth was capped to their original form.

He was proud of this boon. It made him strong, and unbeatable in open battle. Because no army could stand against him, and no human, god, or otherwise could win against him one-on-one. After all, after a few minor gashes, it was never truly a one-on-one. Was it improper, or dishonourable? Who cares? The dead tell no tales. And those that remained living, all feared him.

To the world, he was a force of unthinking brutality. One incapable of stringing together complex thoughts, and one who was driven by a desire to kill everything that stood in his way by unleashing a torrent of bodies. That was fearsome enough, but that wasn't enough of a reason to fear him. The boon owned by the Asura brought with it a hidden ability that came as a pleasant surprise. This power was the ability to assimilate knowledge. Every being that spawned from his blood, was an extension of his self. In a way, they were him, and he was them. What they saw, heard, felt, tasted and experienced would become his once they were killed.

It was through this power that he had managed to beat the armies of Svarga not once, but twice. The first time was through sheer luck and numbers. The devas had underestimated him. He was certain that it wouldn't be the case the second time. And his second victory was more profound. He'd managed to fool the general of the Deva Army not once, but twice in succession, resulting in an embarrassing and brutal defeat.

The Asura was unstoppable, and his prowess had earned him a name: Rakhtabhija - the one whose blood is a seed that spawns a forest of death!

As long as wars were fought with weapons that spilt blood, Rakhtabhija would dominate... or so he thought.

Within seconds, Rakhtabhija could feel a lot of his other selves getting decimated. As he was constantly being flooded with information from his clones, the influx of five or six deaths did not affect him. But then another came, and this was brewing with an emotion he had never felt in years.

Fear.

He let himself immerse in the experience of the deceased clone and was shaken to see another demon. Truthfully, there was never camaraderie amongst his kind. Asuras are usually driven by benefits, and Asuras weren't really ones to be reasoned with. So it wasn't out of the ordinary that another of his kind would interfere in his pursuits. But his assumptions were immediately foiled as he backtracked through the memories and saw where she came from.

"DURGA!" Rakhtabhija yelled, his voice laced with unending rage. Of all the gods and devas out there, the one who he hated the most with unparalleled passion was Durga. She was the one who had killed his brother. She was also the reason he was razing this village to the ground.

This was all part of the plan. He knew that this village and most others nearby worshipped Durga ardently. He knew that given enough bloodshed of her devout followers, she would eventually descend from the heavens.

And alas, she did. But Rakhtabhija was confused. The entity that descended from the idol didn't look anything like Durga from his memories. As loath as was to admit it, Durga was the embodiment of grace and splendour, while also personifying violence in all its forms. But this... being... sacrificed the grace and the splendour and doubled down on violence. Her appearance was animalistic and inhuman; even to the warped aesthetics of an Asura, she elicited an adverse response. It was in the way she walked, her predatory gaze that killed its targets in countless ways. Who was she?

And then it happened, a mountain of emotions collapsed into him, as he was forced to live through the deaths of a hundred versions of himself all in the span of a single second. And the worst part was that they all died in the same gruesome way. The entity first drained him of his blood, until he was left with just enough to have his consciousness online. She would then eviscerate him, pull out his internal organs while licking it clean of every of blood, chopping his limbs and licking his marrow dry, and then finally, as he was drowning in pain and agony, she would puncture through his ear and shred his brains. From a third-person perspective, through the eyes of another of his forms, he would spectate as she added the limbs to her ever-flourishing frock, and added his heads to the garland around her neck.

She would go from one victim to the next in a fraction of a second, and sometimes, when handling a version of himself smaller than her, she would use her additional appendages to slaughter two or three at the same time.

Truth be told, this shouldn't have affected him so deeply, after all, he'd been slaughtered many times before this in fighting against the armies of Svarga. However, there was a difference. In those confrontations, even though he was losing bodies left and right, he wasn't ACTUALLY losing, as more would readily replace him. To put it simply, there was always a net gain of bodies and he was on the side gaining the advantage as time passed. However, what was happening right now was pure slaughter. He was being hunted with deadly efficiency, and with a strategy that was tailor-made to counter him. A sense of foreboding started to gnaw at him as he realised that there was a chance that he could actually die!

The largest version of himself, which was also the one which carried the bulk of his true consciousness, finally caught sight of the being mowing through him like a farmer running his sickle over a field of wheat, and it did little to subdue his growing discomfort. Because she made it look too easy. She was disassembling him like a child playing with a clay doll, and all the while her eyes were locked in on him - she didn't even deign to look at her victims in their eyes.

At that moment, the skies turned a murderous shade of scarlet red, even more so than the hue exuded by the turning of twilight. The being was now a few steps away from him, her body garbed in a skirt of his arms and legs. Her neck was decorated with the eye-less, tongue-less, decapitated heads of his smaller forms. And in her extra appendages, rested two clay bowls filled to the brim with blood, which she expertly manoeuvred disallowing a single drop from falling to the ground. She brought one to her lips and drank it all greedily, and then she down the next.

She looked at him hungrily, with maddened eyes, and Rakhtabhija prepared for an attack, his heart beating up to his neck. But she did not move on him as he anticipated. Instead, she circumvented him and attacked another of his smaller forms. She was relentless. Her neck had rotated a complete hundred-and-eighty degrees, ensuring that eye contact was maintained with him as she ruthlessly culled them.

Two additional arms extended from her sides and picked up two actual sickles from the detached arm of a farmer Rakhtabhija himself had killed. She then moved with the grace of a dancer and the ruthlessness of a tiger.

Rakhtabhija was inoculated to brutality over his participation in many wars. However, the brutality he was witnessing at the moment was sickening. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he was personally seeing himself being reduced to nothing more than weeds!

His passiveness suddenly dawned upon him, as he realised that he hadn't moved or acted in response to this new enemy. A wave of disgust drenched him in shame, and his ego admonished him for his cowardice. In fact, Rakhtabhija never had to personally intervene (at least not with his primary body) in any conflict. His lesser forms often took care of it. It was his first time seeing himself so thoroughly outclassed.

"Demoness!" Rakhtabhija bellowed as he coiled his legs. He bit into his thumb, causing a torrent of blood to gush out. As it landed, it coagulated and swiftly turned into a viscous blob of dark crimson, until arms and legs started to form all around it. Then, within seconds, the blobs turned into tiny versions of himself. A heavy growl from him, caused these smaller forms to cower before they swiftly laid on the ground and held their neighbour's feet, tight.

Rakhtabhija grabbed the largest of his creations and pulled him up. As he did so, the conjoined sequence of his smaller selves snaked and cracked like a grotesque bouquet-like whip. He grabbed this whip with his free hand and pulled through. As he did so, his smaller forms inflated and burst as their bones pierced through their flesh and skin. The result was a urumi made of bone and flesh. The blood that dripped from this impromptu weapon also coagulated as it touched the ground, creating more of him in the process.

With a swift thrust, Rakhtabhija burst towards the sky and barreled towards the entity moving through his lesser selves near the centre of the village.

The demoness had her eyes trained on him at all times, and she returned a welcoming gaze as the separation between them narrowed swiftly. A few moments before impact, Rakthabhija whipped his urumi, and the barbed weapon flung forward faster than the speed of sound, eliciting an ear-shattering boom.

The entity twisted in place, carrying another of his minions beside her and tossed it in his trajectory. The urumi collided with the hurtling body, causing it to explode into a million pieces of viscera. Yet she did not relent, as her mouth split open, tearing apart at her cheeks allowing her jaws to open at an inhuman angle, and all the blood and gore hurtled into it like a whirlpool. Once finished, her whip-like tongue peeked through the torn seams of her cheeks and cleaned up the blood dripping out of it.

Rakhtabhija whipped the urumi at her hoping to inflict some damage. And to an extent, he succeeded, as she let the weapon wrap around her left arm allowing the barbs to dig into her flesh. He then pulled, so that the damage could be heightened, but contrary to his expectations, the woman resisted - she did not budge. In turn, she started to entangle her arms further into the weapon and started to inch closer.

He had barely enough time to register the incredible turnout when she suddenly yanked the whip causing him to fly towards her instead.

Size-wise, Rakhtabhija was at least a few heads taller than her... at first. Because as his ragdolling form hurtled towards her, he realised that she had grown, much, much larger. She grabbed him by his throat and squeezed, causing his eyeballs to reach the cusp of bursting out of their sockets.

Her tongue snaked out of her lips and danced over his face. The sweat forming on his skin was thoroughly cleansed, and so was the blood. She revealed a predatory smile and opened her mouth, causing her cheeks to split once again. And with a single chomp, she consumed his head. The last thing he heard was his own skull cracking and splitting under the pressure before his vision was doused in darkness.

Rakhtabhija's consciousness zapped into his second most powerful form immediately. It took him some time to reorient himself, and right as panic started to set in, he felt himself getting hoisted by his neck. The last thing he saw was the gaping maws of his predator before darkness consumed him.

One after another, he found himself getting transferred from one form to the other, and each barely lasted for a second before his consciousness was ejected.

Death was approaching, and he felt helpless to stop it. This was not supposed to be happening!

And within the fit of panic, Rakhtabhija paradoxically found a moment of clarity. His subdued fight or flight mechanism kicked into action, and his mind started to process his exit strategies because, as evident as day, the fight wasn't really an option. Rakhtabhija had been in far severe circumstances before, to be fair, but at this moment fear had overtaken his rationality rendering his ability to assess the combat instance obsolete.

Rakhtabhija computed the trend hastily and immediately beelined towards the clone at the fringes of his sea of consciousness. This spot was usually where his weakest forms lingered, and due to the extent of their separation from the core of his sea, they tended to behave irrationally, akin to beasts.

A tiny Rakhtabhija, around the size of an adult's thumb, suddenly exited its bloodshed-induced reverie and swivelled its head frantically. Its gaze suddenly met that of the being who had just turned his previous vessel into a desiccated mess. She then got on all eights and skittered towards him with her tongue hanging out thirstily.

He in turn booked it and ran towards the forest at the edge of the village.

The trees towered over him like massive pillars extending into the heavens, and the lowly grass stood tall like large green sword blades. He pushed them aside and rushed through. Right then, the ground beneath him started to rumble. He turned just in time to see the she-beast pouncing towards him. His body froze as he anticipated his impending demise, but the dreaded event did not occur. Seconds passed and Rakhtabhija still remained breathing, in the same body.

He slowly opened his eyes and saw the beast latched onto the trees in front of him like a spider, her eyes measuring him up like a ravenous monster. For a split second, her eyes looked far into the forest, before returning to him. Then, with a disappointed snort, she dismounted from the trees and skittered back into the village to resume her carnage.

Rakhtabhija didn't know if he should feel grateful or enraged. Her blatant disregard for him implied that his current form wasn't enough to satiate her hunger. But given her behaviour, he couldn't fathom the fact that she would just let him go.

But what options was he left with? There was nothing else he could do than retreat into the forest and regroup. And so, he continued his sprint, through grass and shrubs hoping to create as much distance as possible from the predator stalking him.

After an hour of endless sprinting, Rakhtabhija tired himself out and collapsed to the ground. He looked up at the canopy that disallowed Surya's grace from showering the damp soils and felt calmness settling in his mind. He had escaped.

He had survived.

"She must be another of Durga's machinations!" He cursed angrily, his voice sounding more like the mindless chirping of a rodent. "I will have my revenge, and it shall be equally brutal!"

He then picked up a small pebble to his side and rubbed it against a boulder formation to sharpen in. Right as he brought it close to his wrists, his ears picked up a faint sound of grass waving.

He perked his head towards the sound and narrowed his gaze. There was no movement.

But it came again, this time from behind him. His body jerked violently and he entered a crouched stance, staring frantically in all directions in search of the cause. The wind couldn't reach this dense region, so the only explanation was that something was stalking him.

He started to crawl away, making sure to avoid broadcasting his location with wild movements and loud sounds. Minutes passed without the sound recurring, but he didn't let down his guard.

He found a small burrow and leapt towards it.

But at the zenith of his leap, something caught him. Two large daggers pierced into his abdomen, and he felt himself getting shaken aggressively. The dagger sliced through his bowels and he was propelled upwards.

Once again, his trajectory was inhibited, as two large cushion-like pads clapped together and crushed him. He was then slammed unceremoniously into the ground, and a massive weight bore down on him, crushing all his bones. He looked up, through the blood-soaked eyes, and was met with the piercing pupils of a large feline. Or maybe it was an average-sized feline but appeared large in comparison to his current stature. The creature was coloured a brilliant hue of orange, with black lines striping its body - almost like a tiger.

It tilted its head, with mild amusement in its gaze, and licked him. The barbed tongue sliced into his body, removing every drop of blood that was oozing out and about to fall on the ground.

Rakhtabhija was barely able to squeeze out a syllable before the cat tossed him into the air and swallowed him whole.

---

A gutwrenching silence hung in the village, with the unsettling sound of blood dripping, flowing and churning interspersed with the horrific echo of slurps cutting through it. At the centre of the nearly desolate village, where the mighty banyan tree once stood, where the elder folks would congregate, where the panchayat was once held, now stood a stump. Atop the stump, sat the ravenous form of the demoness who quelled the unending tide - Rakhtabhija.

She threw aside the stump of an arm that had been sucked dry of blood. She pulled open her mouth and extended her snaking, red tongue. Then, with one continuous suction, she pulled in all the blood that had pooled all over the village. This wasn't the blood of Rakhtabhija, of course, this was the blood of the denizens that had perished in his warpath. Her suction did not limit itself to fluid, as it also pulled in the strewn body parts.

Within seconds, the village had been cleaned of all signs of bloodshed.

The priest approached the demoness with caution but without fear in his eyes. He was certain of the identity of the entity seated atop the village banyan stump. His fear was to disrespect Her. He kneeled in front of the demoness and prostrated with his forehead hitting the rocky ground. The stones pierced his forehead, releasing a thin strand of blood that once again painted his forehead crimson.

She tilted her head inspecting the offering before her. It was tasty, but forbidden.

With a crude flourish, she pulled apart the many body parts decorating her and tossed them aside like a farmer sowing seeds. Then, a crimson mist started to leave through her many pores, beelining towards the body parts. The mist enriched these seeds, causing them to pulse like an egg being boiled in hot oil. The seeds grew and sprouted appendages and a head. And once the undulation settled, what remained were the villagers that had been decimated.

The priest's eyes bubbled with emotion as he looked towards Her with reverence. As the mist left Her, Her form started to shrivel with her veins popping out.

"Jai Maha Kali!" He yelled, as Her body shrunk rapidly.

Kal. Time. The great vanquisher. The inevitable.

Kala. Black. The colour of her skin, that not even the vibrant crimson of blood could mask.

Kaal. The end. And as he looked around at his resurrected brethren - an auspicious beginning.

Kali had shrivelled up altogether. Her body was comparable to the banyan tree that once stood there. The branches were barren of leaves, though they still breathed with life. At the base of the trunk, where Her stomach was positioned, now stood the same idol that the priest had worshipped his entire life, just like his father, and his forefathers before him.

"JAI MAHA KALI!" He bellowed.

The words echoed into the heavens.

 

[Hyperionthetitan]

A bit late ,but gods aint wizard

 

[Me. Joka-r]

Did the idol change shape too?

 

[juniorsundar]

Did the idol change shape too?

Click to shrink...

I actually considered it but ended up removing that. I felt it would be pretty narcissistic for Kali to leave her idolized form for others to worship .

Like with the Kratos idol, I think it should fall on the worshippers to create idols not the gods themselves.

There is still the weirdly human shaped and dried out tree-like thing with the Durga idol embedded into it if people want to worship a symbolic structure.