God of War - Karmic Cycle [AU]

[juniorsundar]

Wait, can't they use an AOE attack and kill the entire army? Pretty sure Kratos alone can do it?

Click to shrink...

He could. But Kratos is not emotionally invested enough to do it.

The thing with his character at the current point is that unless it has something to do with him directly he won't interfere.

 

[juniorsundar]

Dude doesnt count ,he is a god already .but his hope power doesnt care about such silly thing as immortality wish

*man it still feel weird to read the the actual version of the character instead of a bastardized version of ramanyana i have been raised with *

Click to shrink...

I think the best media depiction of Ramayana till date is the semi-anime type version they made a long time back. It was in collaboration qith some Japanese company.

Ramayana: The Legend of Prince Rama - Wikipedia

en.wikipedia.org

You can probably get the whole video for free on Youtube

 

[juniorsundar]

On a side note. At a more literary level. The concept of face corresponds to pride in most eastern cultures. (Losing face... saving face... etc.)

It is a recurring motif when relating to the eldest Lankan brother in this fanfic.

Him being called the one with many faces. Him forcefully shedding his face in reverence to Shiva. And ultimately what becomes of him. It all relates to his pride.

Just something deeper for you guys to think about.

Tbh idk if the authors of Ramayana had this in mind when creating his character. I like to think that they did

 

[Hyperionthetitan]

I think the best media depiction of Ramayana till date is the semi-anime type version they made a long time back. It was in collaboration qith some Japanese company.

Ramayana: The Legend of Prince Rama - Wikipedia

en.wikipedia.org

You can probably get the whole video for free on Youtube

Click to shrink...

Yeah ,just that the one i was raised with is an adaptation of the mythos to make it into our own version ,its an entire thing of their own with it own fucking storyline .
The main different is probably length since it start at basically rama grandfather generation and ravanna past life allllll the way till rama kids .
also ravanna immortality inthat version is basically lich phylactery

 

[juniorsundar]

The elderly and the children ran like their lives depended on it. Because it did. Their panicked gasps and the frantic pounding of their feet filled the forest in a symphony of desperation. Yet, for all their terror, they moved with a resolute trajectory. This was the path assigned to them by the ashen warrior. They had just one command to execute: "Run without stopping."

Munni was her name. It meant 'little girl'. It was not the name given to her at birth, but one her parents had used affectionately due to her short and petite stature as a child. As she grew, the name stuck. Even now, at eighty years old, with her back bent and her skin a tapestry of wrinkles, she was still called Munni. The irony was evident, but unintentional.

Munni's bones screamed. Her muscles wailed. Her breath came in ragged, shallow bursts, and her lungs strained at their absolute limits. But she did not stop running. She had to reach the designated spot before their pursuers arrived. She was certain they would be pursued. She had made sure of it, leaving just enough evidence along the way - a broken twig here, a scuffed patch of dirt there - for even a dim-witted scout to track them.

And then she felt it. A faint vibration in the soles of her worn feet. Even through the cacophony of her own overloaded senses, she could feel the gentle tremors in the ground begin to grow in amplitude. They were approaching. And they were approaching quickly.

By the time she could hear the pounding hoofbeats, the strained grunts of the bulls, and the excited, guttural cackles of their pursuers, the group had nearly reached their destination. But they were not fast enough. They would not make it before the enemy was upon them.

At that moment, Munni halted abruptly. Seeing their leader stop, the fleeing group also skidded to a halt, their faces a mixture of confusion and terror.

"GO!" Munni yelled in a raw, commanding bark. She began physically pushing the others forward. "I will slow them down!"

"Munni Ma-" a young teen tried to argue, his voice thick with panic. But he was met with a firm, unyielding glare from the old woman.

"I will only slow us down," Munni explained. "Don't worry about me. You need to save yourselves. Run!"

The children wanted to argue, to plead. But the other elders among them understood Munni's intention immediately. With grim faces, they began to urge the children away, their own hands now pushing the younger generation towards safety. They continued fleeing, leaving Munni alone on the path.

A strange calm settled over her. Lord Kratos had promised her this moment. "You are going to die today," he'd said, his voice devoid of warmth or pity. "It is up to you if you want it to be quick. Or slow and painful." He had a way with words; he didn't use many, but they were enough to state a cold, hard fact.

He was right, of course. In a world where few lived past sixty, she was a relic. Age brought the experience that helped the community thrive, but it was also a weight. When survival was at stake, you could not be held down. A trapped tiger would chew off its own arm to live another day. She was that arm.

The sounds of the approaching horde were deafening now. Munni bent and picked up a heavy, rough stone. A violent tremor shook her, but it was not fear. It was the sudden, shocking release from the weight of eighty years of memories, duties, and being a liability. It all fell away. She was light. She was free. She was ready.

Munni blinked. Her eyes closed for a moment longer than was natural. When they reopened, the horde was standing before her.

Many miles above, Murugan hovered alongside his Guru and the three brothers, riding atop his peacock. His palms rolled into a tight fist that trembled as he watched the elderly woman confront the small war party.

The leading barbarian, a man with a jagged scar for an eye, tilted his head with a leering grin. He gestured lazily for two of his companions to drag the old woman away.

Murugan moved to interject, to leap from his mount, but Kratos' palm landed on his shoulder. An immense force held him down.

"G-Guruji -" Murugan pleaded with his voice choked in outrage.

"This is necessary," Kratos stated with a resolute growl.

He watched as the two bull riders dismounted. They approached the woman with dirty, fatalistic looks, their eyes filled with a cruel amusement. Murugan could see the other mounted barbarians gesturing wildly and pointing at the woman. Their guttural laughs were enough to suggest the type of brutal games they intended to play with her.

Murugan couldn't hold it in any longer. But right as he was about to leap off, he saw something that shocked him to his core.

The old woman pulled a knife. In a flash of movement that defied her age, she slashed the throat of the man approaching from her right. As he gargled and choked on his own blood, she spun and stuck the weapon deep into the other's eye socket.

She took the rock in her grasp and tossed it, with impeccable accuracy, into the eye of the bull of the scar-eyed barbarian. The beast keeled over to the side and caused the mounted man to fall off.

Then, with an impossible burst of energy, she ran up to the collapsed barbarian. She leapt, using the beast's surprised face as leverage, and collided with the war party's leader. Like a rabid animal, she clenched her jaw around his thick neck and tore out a chunk of flesh.

Blood gushed like a fountain. The two tumbled near the bull. The enraged animal, now blind with pain and terror, began to buck and stomp, trampling the grappling duo into a mush of blood and gore.

Murugan couldn't process what he had just witnessed. Evidently, neither could the barbarians. There was a long, stunned pause as all eyes followed the bull as it charged blindly into the forest. They then looked down at the pool of mush on the ground.

"She did better than expected," Kratos expressed with a snort that somehow sounded impressed.

Murugan looked to Kratos to expound, but he did not get an explanation. Instead, it was Faceless who spoke calmly, analysing the instance. "She has agitated the enemy. It will make them callous."

Murugan still looked confused. Faceless explained, "There is a saying from the far north that describes this situation rather aptly: the mantis stalks the cicada, unaware of the oriole behind. The elderly and children are the cicadas. The barbarians are the mantises." He then placed a palm on his own chest and said, "Orioles."

The group followed the charging barbarians. Once again, the eldest of the retreating group, a frail-looking man, stayed back to distract the opponents. Their enemies did not make the same mistake twice. They simply charged the man and trampled over him. It was a gruesome display for Murugan, though he was once again shocked to see that the man, in his final moments, had managed to slice away the testicles of the bull trampling him. The creature jerked up with a high-pitched squeal and dislodged its rider, who was also turned to mush by the bucking animal. The bull later collapsed and died from blood loss.

"This is disgusting!" Murugan exclaimed with a yelp.

"They are fighters," Vibhishana affirmed. "I'll give you that."

The pattern persisted. Once an elder fell, another would halt to delay the enemy. Though it was effective at first, the attackers grew more cautious and gave the "distractions" a wider berth, opting to dispatch them with their spears over a longer distance. They did not even desecrate the corpses by running them over. It was as if they were afraid the dead bodies would come to life and take them down as well.

Once the last elder fell, all that remained were the children. The gaze of the eldest boy solidified with resolve as he realised it was his turn. He was not like his elders; he was terrified. His body shivered with a fear so profound it felt like a physical illness. His hands shook, slick with a cold sweat. But he knew there was no other way. Munni Ma had bought them time. The others had bought them more. Now, it was his responsibility to buy a few more precious seconds.

He stopped running. His lungs burned, and his legs felt like lead, but he forced himself to stand straight.

The other children, seeing him stop, also stumbled to a halt behind him. A young girl, no older than seven, grabbed the back of his tunic. "Brother, what are you doing?" she whimpered.

"Go," he urged them, his voice cracking. He did not turn to face them, afraid that if he saw their terrified faces, his own resolve would crumble. "Keep running. Don't look back."

But they did not listen. They huddled behind him, like a small, frightened flock of sheep seeking shelter behind a trembling shepherd against a pack of wolves. He could hear their ragged breaths, their quiet sobs. There was no time left.

Within moments, the children were surrounded. The horde of barbarians raised a dust storm as the enraged bulls formed a circular formation, trapping them inside. Unlike with the elderly, they did not immediately move to dispatch them. Their eyes twinkled with lecherous thoughts as they leered at the little girls of the group. Even the young boys who still had not grown enough and carried a petite appearance were targets.

The de facto leader of the horde, a hulking man whose stench of stale sweat and blood reached the boy even from a distance, leapt off his bull. He approached with the slow and deliberate swagger of a satiated predator, evidently enjoying the terror of his cornered prey. The boy, summoning his last shred of courage, tossed the rock in his hand. The large man dodged it with an almost lazy contempt. He walked up to the boy and, without a word, slapped him hard across the face.

A loud crack echoed in the forest. The world spun, and a flash of white light exploded behind the boy's eyes. He doubled over, and the coppery taste of blood instantly filled his mouth. He spat a thick glob onto the dirt. Before he could even straighten, the barbarian's massive hands enveloped his head. The man's thumbs pressed into his temples, and he began to squeeze.

A strained, high-pitched cry tore from the boy's throat as an unimaginable pressure built around his skull. He could feel his own bones groaning, threatening to splinter. The barbarian revealed an evil grin and pressed on, savouring the sound of the boy's pain. The other children screamed, though their cries of horror were muffled by their own small hands.

In an instant, the boy's cry stopped. A gruesome, wet crack echoed amidst the woods. A body fell to the ground with a dull thud. The lingering silence was shattered by another deep wail, this one of pure shock and horror.

The boy looked at his hands as his mind struggled to process what had just happened. He was shocked to see a severed hand clutched in each of his palms. He looked up and saw the barbarian who had been squeezing his skull shouting, horrified, with two exposed, bleeding stumps where his arms had been. To his left, the boy saw an axe embedded deep into the earth.

A loud boom shook the ground behind him. He turned around and saw a dust cloud emanating from a crater. Before the dust could settle, a bull's head, detached forcefully from its body, soared out and impaled the leader, killing him instantly. A body followed, arcing above him and wrecking the formation in front. From the cloud, a large man ascended - the giant who followed Lord Murugan.

For the children, it was as if a mountain had come to life. The giant, Kumbhakarna, was a force of pure, unrestrained nature. He let out a primal roar that did not sound human at all. His guttural bellow shook the trees and sent the barbarians' bulls into a frenzy. He charged into their ranks like a devastating natural disaster. He grabbed a bull by its horns, and with a sickening twist that sent bone fragments flying, he cracked its neck. He then plucked the bull's head from its socket as easily as a child picks a wildflower, and hurled it with enough force to kill another barbarian instantly. He did not stop. He grabbed the bull's massive, headless corpse and used it as a club, pummelling its rider into a mess of gore and shattered bone.

The barbarians, who seconds ago were confident predators, broke from their trance. Their lecherous grins had been replaced with masks of panicked rage. They charged the giant like a wave of fury battering against a mountain. But a mountain is just that - immovable.

Just as they were about to crash against him, another sound cut through the chaos - a high-pitched, whistling shriek. Something fell from the sky, crushing a bull and its rider into a flat, bloody ruin. From the dust of the impact, two spinning, ethereal mandalas of intricate, glowing geometry shot out like chakrams. They moved with impeccable grace, slicing through the air and through the necks of a dozen bulls and their riders. The barbarians fell, their heads tumbled from their shoulders before their bodies even knew they were dead. The chakrams then rebounded, returning to the dust cloud, which dissipated to reveal a faceless man.

The ethereal weapons whirred around Faceless's palms as he charged the remaining enemy. If the giant was a landslide, Faceless was a whirlwind. He moved with a deadly grace; his chakrams were a blur of light and death that sliced through the barbarians and their mounts like a hot knife through butter.

The sudden silence that followed was deafening. All that remained after the brothers' onslaught were corpses steaming in the cool forest air, and a pond of blood that soaked into the earth.

Kumbhakarna picked up a still-living man and clasped his head between his palms. As he started to apply pressure, the man's skull began to groan, though he lacked the energy to vocalise his pain.

Just as the giant was about to finish the job, Faceless approached and placed a calming hand on his shoulder. He then gestured upwards. A third figure descended from the sky, floating down as gently as a falling leaf. It was the scholar, Vibhishana. He approached the unconscious barbarian, ignited his palms with a warm, yellow glow, and placed them on the man's chest. The barbarian was healed instantly and woke up screaming in pure terror.

Faceless grabbed the man by his jaw and looked deep into his eyes. He saw fear, but beneath it, a hint of defiance. This was good.

He lifted the barbarian and placed him on the last surviving bull. With a sharp slap to the creature's hindquarters, he sent it fleeing into the forest.

The giant approached, his rage subsiding into confusion. "W-W-Why did you l-l-l-let him go, b-b-b-brother?"

Faceless bent down and picked up a rock. He tossed it lightly in his hand, gauging its weight. He watched the fleeing barbarian regain control of his mount and adjust his trajectory. Then, with a smooth, powerful motion, he threw the rock in a high arc.

The children, still huddled together, watched the rock disappear into the distance. A moment later, they saw the head of the disappearing barbarian suddenly explode like an overinflated leather sack.

"The barbarians will ride to investigate the loss of one of their war parties," Faceless explained, though the giant simply nodded without fully understanding its meaning. "This will provide a greater motivation for them."

---

Another party was dispatched from the main horde. This group was larger, more heavily armed, and led by another grim-faced lieutenant who rode at the front. They did not rely on scouts alone. They unleashed a pack of gaunt, vicious hunting dogs, whose slobbering jaws and bloodshot eyes promised a savage end to any prey they cornered. The dogs immediately caught the scent and led the bull-riders on the trail. They arrived first at the place where the scar-eyed lieutenant, the chieftain's right-hand man, had fallen. The lieutenant dismounted and let his eyes scan the scene. There was not much left. The cloying smell of old blood hung in the air, but wild animals had already dragged away the remains, leaving only dark stains on the earth and a few splintered bones.

The trail of death led them ever deeper into the forest. As the dogs pulled eagerly at their leashes, the lieutenant's initial confidence began to curdle into confusion. They found the body of the second elder, then the third, each acting as some sort of gruesome signpost. Clearly, this was not the work of mere fleeing villagers; this was a calculated retreat. Something was wrong. His unease solidified into cold rage when they found a lone bull wandering haphazardly through the trees. Atop it was the body of one of the scouts from the earlier batch. Just the body, as his head, or what remained of it, was a hideous, exploded ruin.

The lieutenant let out a furious roar and commanded his men to retrace the bull's path, his mind now set on vengeance.

They arrived at the massacre site. The pools of blood, the scattered flesh, and the sheer number of their dead brethren told a story of a swift and brutal slaughter. There was no one there. His men let the dogs inspect the area. Their noses twitched as they sniffed at the carnage.

Suddenly, a sharp whistling sound cut through the air. It was followed immediately by a symphony of wet, choking gasps and the heavy thud of bodies hitting the ground. The lieutenant spun around. A dozen of his men were on the ground, clutching at the arrows that had pierced their necks, as their lives gurgled away in a froth of red. Before he could even shout a command, a second volley sprang from the woods, killing another dozen in one fell swoop.

From the corner of his eye, he saw movement - a flicker of motion deep within the trees. "There!" he roared, pointing with his axe. "After them!"

He spurred his bull, and his remaining men galloped into the woods. The forest grew narrower here; the trees closed in and forced them to orient themselves into a thinner line as they rounded the tight turns. The lieutenant saw her then - a young girl scrambling to climb a tree with a bow tied around her back. She looked down at him with her eyes wide and an expression of pure, panicked terror. Without a second thought, he commanded his men to charge. This was the prey. This was the one they would make an example of.

Right as they were about to reach her, he felt the ride beneath him buckle. The world tilted violently. The last thing he saw from his peripheral vision was a taut rope, hidden beneath vines and leaves, stretched between two trees. The riders behind him crashed into each other in a chaotic pile-up of splintering bone and panicked animal screams. His own bull collapsed as its legs broke, and he was thrown to the ground with the immense weight of the beast rolling onto him.

He awoke some time later; he did not know how long. A universe of pain assaulted him. He could not feel his lower body anymore, and his vision was a blurry, swimming mess. When it finally cleared, he saw the girl looking down at him. The panicked look was gone.

She revealed a cold, hard smirk before sending her dagger plunging into his right eye.

---

The Chieftain - the Butcher - sat on his throne of bone with a storm of frustration brewing behind his eyes. For the first time since he had set out to lay waste to the world, his progress was halted. The unease was a new and unwelcome feeling. It was like a sour taste in his mouth that even the roasted meat could not wash away. His horde, a force of nature that had shattered disciplined armies and burned fortified cities, was being bled dry. Day by day, his numbers dwindled.

What galled him most was the nature of his enemy. He was not losing to a great king or a well-managed army. He was being dismantled by a handful of forest dwellers. The irony was a bitter pill. He and his people had once been just like them: savages living in the dirt. But he had conquered. He had defeated real soldiers and proud commanders. He had grown proud. Now, to be brought to a standstill by those he considered beneath him, by a reflection of his own past, was an unbearable insult.

He knew their numbers were small. They were barely enough to fill a village. Yet for every one of their fighters they managed to kill, he lost a hundred of his own. His army, which was an impressive fifty thousand strong, had been reduced by half. He was not a strategist, but he was not a fool either. He could do the simple math. The rate at which he was being routed was not sustainable.

This would not do.

He bellowed a command, and his lieutenants scrambled to obey. A new kind of energy filled the camp, not of battle, but of focused ceremony. Slaves were forced to clear a large, circular area at the heart of the encampment. In the centre, they erected a massive, crudely carved stone - a Linga. This was not a stolen prize of war, but a sacred relic from the heart of the forest of his homeland. And it was a conduit to the god he truly revered. As his men struggled to raise the heavy stone, the Butcher approached. For a moment, the brutish warlord vanished and was replaced by a devotee. He ran a hand over the stone's rough surface with a strange reverence and with an expression of intense focus, before he stepped back and resumed his commanding presence. The ritual was not a desperate gambit; it was an appeal to the source of his strength.

His men dragged forth the prisoners they had managed to capture during the skirmishes - a few of the village fighters. They were bound and forced to their knees before the stone. The Butcher dismounted from his throne. He grabbed the first prisoner, a man who spat defiance at him, and carried him effortlessly to the top of the Linga. With a ritual knife, he eviscerated the man. His purpose was not just to kill, but to let the sacred stone be showered in blood. It would be a worthy offering to the Great God.

It was at the height of this gruesome ritual that the attack came.

From atop the Linga, the Butcher saw the entire instigation unfold below. A giant of a man burst from the trees like a living avalanche of muscle and rage, and ploughed directly into the main body of the barbarian horde. He was followed by another being, of a lesser stature but equal strength, whose most intriguing feature was his lack of a face. The faceless man wielded ethereal chakrams in each hand, which were already a blur of lethal light. And then came the third. Preceded by an axe that flew with such momentum that it separated the heads clean off the necks of five men and made it over three-quarters of the way through the sixth, an ashen warrior stepped out of the shrubbery and came into focus. The man raised his right palm, and the axe embedded in the corpse separated itself cleanly from its kill and returned to him.

The warrior's entrance went unnoticed, at first. Apart from his unusual appearance, his performance wasn't as attractive as his compatriots'. But as the fight progressed, it became harder and harder to ignore the man. He fought with the ferocity of an animal unafraid of death. He was swift, brutal, and unforgiving. Not even those who surrendered, gripped by raw fear, were precluded from being prey to his violence. He was subjected to innumerable attacks that would have killed any normal person. A spear through the eye, a stab in the liver, a punctured lung. He was littered with injuries, but he just refused to die. Was it his raw will, or was it something more? As the three warriors neared the ritual site, the Butcher was leaning towards the latter hypothesis.

But the Butcher refused to be drawn in. He did not move from his sacred task. He turned back to the prisoners with absolute focus. He had to take the ritual to completion.

---

Murugan grew increasingly disillusioned the longer the skirmish progressed. He had seen the reality of conflict through the visions from his Guru's past, but he had not truly understood how brutal and inhumane the concept of war itself was until he witnessed it firsthand. The treatises written by scholars and sages spoke of righteous wars and codes of conduct, but down here, amidst the screams and the stench of blood, those words were meaningless. All the truths written on war were falsehoods, because the act itself was one without true justification. It was an act of brutality wrought by a sentient creature's inherent need to rule and feel superior. To place bounds on it would mean placing a bound on the ego. And the ego was something that could never be satisfied. In turn, war was absolute, inevitable, and unchanging.

Did this realisation make Murugan want to distance himself from the concept of war? On the contrary, he was weirdly drawn closer to it. He realised that war, in and of itself, was a primal truth and an act of expression. Just like the arts, it was an expression of a primal emotion. However, unlike the arts, there was little justification to prove that the act of war was a display of a positive emotion. One doesn't go to war because they are happy. War is an expression of the darkest emotions of the sentient mind: envy, pride, rage, gluttony, and greed.

But Murugan didn't want his expression of war to be exemplified by these emotions. Because emotions, in general, are instigators; they force retaliation in kind, causing the emotion to grow. Love, when reciprocated, can grow and become something beautiful. Equally, envy can cause decay and ruin the same beauty. He wanted to learn to supersede these negative emotions. To be better. He didn't want violence to be an outlet for these degrading emotions, but a pathway to uplifting ones. A pathway to protect.

And sometimes, to protect something you care about, you had to do unconscionable things. The Chieftain and his barbarians were irredeemable. They had committed acts that warranted no forgiveness, not in this life at least. For that, they had to be erased.

Murugan was tasked with confronting the Chieftain. That was his Guru's edict. All this preparation was to ensure that Murugan could reach the man on the throne of bone. Murugan did not anticipate a challenge here, for he knew that ultimately, his opponent was just a man. He felt nothing for him; no anger, no pity. He was unapathetic.

But as he saw the man climb atop the large stone - a sacred symbol of his father - as he saw him place a still-breathing villager upon it; as he saw him tear open the man's abdomen in a blasphemous mockery of a holy rite; as he saw him desecrate his father... an unquenchable rage began to boil over from within.

He was supposed to wait. The plan was for his Guru and the brothers to engage the Chieftain's lieutenants, to draw the horde's attention before he made his move. But he could no longer contain the fury that now consumed him.

A shower of divine spears rained down from the sky, skewering every barbarian who stood within the ritual circle. A beat later, the spears exploded, coating the ground in blood, gore, and bone fragments. Before the last piece of shrapnel had hit the dirt, Murugan landed in front of the ritual site with eyes burning with a cold fire.

The Chieftain returned a smirk as he slid down the blood-slicked surface of the Linga. He landed in the pool of the villager's blood that surrounded its base. He then cupped his hands and took a long, deep sip from the pool.

To Murugan's shock, the blood in the pool began to move. It climbed up the Chieftain's skin like a living shroud, turning his tanned-dark flesh into a dark and pulsating maroon.

Once all the blood was gone, the Chief picked up his mace and, with a roar, hit himself hard across the chest. There was no damage. Not a single mark.

Murugan was stunned.

His father had answered the man's grotesque prayers!

 

[namar13766]

Is the Chief blessed with invulnerability to all threats, physical or magical?

 

[juniorsundar]

Is the Chief blessed with invulnerability to all threats, physical or magical?

Click to shrink...

Murugan will test the breadth of the blessing in the next chapter. Its more fun and inclusive to read the character figuring it out methodically than me explaining it as a narrative.

 

[juniorsundar]

Spoiler: Author's Note

Sorry about the delay. Bunch of work and personal responsibilities started piling up.

---

It took a moment for Murugan to digest the reality of what had just transpired. In that brief window of shock, the Chieftain was already upon him. The mace swung in a crude arc, but with great momentum. It appeared fearsome to the uninitiated. In fact, based on the way the man was handling his weapon and bulk, it immediately became clear that he had only ever reigned through brute strength and this divine gift; underneath it all, he was a tactless monkey. Murugan did not need to think. His instincts took over, and he dodged the clumsy attack with ease.

Once he had shaken off his surprise, Murugan parried the next swing and returned with a measured punch to the Butcher's gut. The punch landed squarely, but Murugan felt the entire momentum dissipate into the man's flesh as if he had struck a pile of wet sand. The Butcher revealed a sly grin before swinging his mace again. Murugan tested the attack again, this time with a sideways strike of his spear. The weapon hit skin but did not bounce; it was simply absorbed. A direct stab yielded the same result. The skin seemed to exhibit some sort of cushioning effect.

Murugan continued to test the waters, trying a myriad of attack types. He tried heavy to light hits, stabs, strikes, and slashes. Each time, the attack would dissipate as soon as it touched the Butcher's skin. Ultimately, he realised that the man's power could dissipate any attack that made skin contact. This was irksome, but it did not dismay him. The frustration was a familiar feeling, one that often brought his Guru's blunt lessons to the forefront of his mind. He could almost hear the man's gravelly voice now, cutting through the chaos of the battle. The fundamental of any confrontation is realising that nothing that is living is truly unkillable.

"Everything that breathes can be killed," his Guru had declared. "If it appears impossible, it is only because you have not found the right opportunity."

And so, Murugan believed that given time, the opportunity would present itself. And it did not take long to do so. Unlike Murugan, the Butcher's endurance was finite. As time progressed, the man started to breathe heavily. His swings started to grow wider and more desperate as he tried to keep up with Murugan's evasive movements. Murugan saw his opening. He went for a high jab, but the Butcher dodged it just in time. The tip of the spear, however, swiped past the Butcher's jutting tongue as he gasped for air through his open mouth. The man growled and spat out a dollop of blood. Murugan observed this, and things started to click into place.

A slow chuckle escaped Murugan's lips. He pulled his spear close and, from its centre, slid his cupped palms over the shaft. In doing so, the solid metal rod started to sway as if it were made of a particularly elastic kind of wood. He jiggled the spear, gauging its new behaviour, and snorted in satisfaction.

He attacked again. The elastic spear shaft made his strikes unpredictable. The attacks did not follow the expected trajectory, whipping around the Butcher's clumsy guard. These disarming attacks were impossible for the man to properly compute, and he started to grow agitated. After three consecutive strikes passed dangerously close to his eyes, the leader jumped back to create distance, raised his mace, and bellowed angrily.

In that instant, Murugan used his foot to kick up a fist-sized rock. With the blunt end of his shaft, he whacked the rock, sending it straight towards the leader's agape mouth. The rock lodged itself deep in his throat, the momentum causing his jaw to lock up.

The leader's eyes widened in panic. As he released his mace to pull out the rock, Murugan had already sent his spear hurtling his way. The velocity was low, and the Butcher caught it easily. But that was the cue. Murugan triggered the spear's explosion. The detonation, right next to his mouth, caused the rock to shatter, sending sharp fragments tearing through the soft tissue of his throat.

The leader bellowed in pain. It was another mistake. Murugan twisted his elastic spear and sent it whipping into the man's open, bleeding mouth. Before the Butcher realised what had happened, the spear detonated again.

A hard snap followed by a squelching explosion resounded as brain matter and skull fragments erupted from the back of the Butcher's head. The body stood for a moment like a grotesque statue, before collapsing as the rest of its systems realised the brain had been turned to mush.

The explosion, though localised, echoed across the battlefield, causing a sudden, profound silence to descend. The barbarians, in the middle of their fight, turned to see their leader's gruesomely decapitated body. This was enough to shatter their morale. A fearful frenzy took hold, and their chaotic charge devolved into a panicked, disorganised retreat. This uncoordination was all the opening Kratos, the brothers, and the villagers needed. They fell upon the routing army and annihilated it.

And with that, the tide of barbarians had been completely squashed. The villagers, or at least those who remained, were saved.

---

Murugan had walked this path before. Many times. He had grown used to the eerie, spectral calls that echoed from the deep woods. But today, the walk felt heavier. Each step was a conscious effort, as his feet dragged through the soil that felt like thick mud. His mind was not in Kailasha. It was stuck back on the blood-soaked battlefield, replaying the moment the Butcher had drunk the sacrificial blood and been granted invulnerability. His father had answered that man's prayer. Murugan had to know why.

But as he approached the forest at the centre of Kailasha, Murugan found himself hesitating. His feet, which had carried him with such purpose, started to slow at the edge of the treeline. Why was he hesitating? Was it fear? Did Murugan fear his father?

It was a tough pill to swallow. But as it turned out, he was.

To Murugan, his father was a lot different from what most people across the realms knew him to be. He was different from the god his own brother, Ganesh, knew him to be. His father never raised his voice, nor did he ever raise his hand, yet he was firm. His father seldom frowned and would joke often, but he wasn't nonchalant or callous. His father cared for him and often expressed his affection towards him. In many ways, Murugan felt loved and fulfilled.

Yet, this was not the image the rest of existence envisioned when his father's name was brought up.

The world knew his father as a god of extremes. Mortals saw him as quick to please and equally quick to enrage - as a being of intense, unpredictable passions. His favour could be won with a simple act of devotion, leading to legendary boons. But his displeasure, once provoked, was absolute. They whispered tales of his third eye that carried a searing gaze that could turn gods to ash. And they spoke of the Tandava - a cosmic dance that would unravel creation itself. To them, his rage was a force of nature of divine proportions.

Perhaps it was the dissociation between the myth and the man that induced a kind of fear in Murugan. He knew that hidden within that amicable persona was a volcano - a destructive power that could very easily unmake existence itself. It was a horrifying thought. And Murugan did not want to be the cause of that eruption.

Or maybe it was just respect. In his heart, Murugan knew that what his father did was wrong. His father shouldn't have entertained the heinous Butcher and granted him the boon. But he didn't want to question his father's decision as he was his elder, and had aeons of experience on top of his own.

However, right now, be it fear or respect, Murugan's resolve superseded them both. This confrontation was not about questioning his father's judgment or dressing him down. It was about understanding. It was about getting the answer to just one simple, agonising question: why?

He arrived just as his father had finished his performance meant to alleviate the souls out of the mortal realm. At this moment, his father was cleansing himself in the pool that was the very source of the Ganga.

"Was your quest successful?" His father asked without turning as he remained submerged up to his waist in the sacred water.

"It was," Murugan replied in a voice that was nearing a murmur. Yet in the silence that was weakly accentuated by the faint babbling of Ganga's stream, it was loud enough to hear.

His father laughed, causing a gentle ripple to dance across the still water. He ascended from the pool, with water cascading from his dark skin. He picked up his trident and walked over to his son. He rubbed Murugan's head affectionately and commended, "Good lad."

"Come, it is time for lunch," he added as he began to walk away.

But Murugan remained rooted to the spot. As his father was about to leave, Murugan spoke. His voice was lower, and at this point it was almost inaudible. But, once again, amidst the serenity of the plateau, it seemed to echo from all around him.

"F-Father," Murugan started. He wanted to continue, but the words caught in his throat. At this moment, his fear - or respect - had overtaken his resolve.

"Empty your gut, son," his father said with a chuckle, turning back to face him. "You need to make space for food, or else your mother will be very, very disappointed."

That was the straw. The casual, fatherly affection, so at odds with the divine injustice he had just witnessed, broke the dam of his restraint.

"Why did you grant that horrible, horrible man the boon, father?" Murugan's words tumbled out in a torrent as his confusion and rage finally broke free. His eyes were now bloodshot. His expression alternated rapidly between anger and a deep fear. Because at this instant, as his father's smile faltered, Murugan thought he saw the glimpse of the god the world knew his father to be.

There was a tense silence as his father crossed his arms and looked deep into Murugan's eyes. As it progressed, a sense of awkwardness started to creep in.

"H-He was a bad man, father," Murugan said hesitantly. "He hurt a lot of people. He was cruel! And yet, when he prayed to you and asked you for power, you granted it to him. Why would you do that?"

"I did that," his father said while approaching him, "because he was sincere. In his heart, I could feel his devotion. He was worshipping me in the truest sense of the word."

"But he was using the powers you granted him for evil!" Murugan argued. "You can't tell me that you didn't know what kind of man he was!"

His father shook his head slowly. But this wasn't a gesture of dismissal. It was a disagreement of principle. "It doesn't matter to me what kind of person he is. The who or what matters little. What matters, Murugan, is that when someone asks for my help, they do so with an open heart and complete honesty. If there is even a shred of falsehood or ulterior motive, then it is not a plea. It is a transaction. And I will not be reduced to a means to an end."

The cold logic of the statement stunned Murugan. "Even if the person is evil at heart? That can't be right! The cruellest of monsters could ask for your help with utmost sincerity, then simply turn around and exploit your gift to hurt others."

"And then," his father continued, his gaze unwavering, "among the people affected by that man, another will rise. Someone who will ask for my help with a sincerity that rivals his, and they, in turn, will receive the strength they seek. Son, you must understand. People look for help when they feel they can't overcome a challenge on their own. How you respond to that plea is a choice. You can be selective and help only those you think are worthy. Or you can be consistent and help anyone who asks with a true heart."

His father took a step closer and wore a serious expression. "Ultimately, judgment is a matter of perspective. It is never truly fair, because the way you judge another is bound by your own experiences. From where you stand, it is easy to label people as 'good' or 'evil' and think no more of it. But you forget that this judgment only holds true from your vantage point."

He placed a hand on Murugan's shoulder, "When you have power, Murugan, it is not your place to foist your judgment upon others. You cannot know the life they have lived or the experiences that have shaped them. To help one person and ignore another based on your own limited view of who is 'right'... that is the greater injustice."

"I..." Murugan stumbled as he found all of his arguments exhausted. Even his conviction faltered under the weight of his father's logic. "I don't know... It just doesn't sit right with me."

A gentle smile touched his father's lips. He then wrapped his arm over Murugan's shoulder and urged him to walk onwards. "Let me tell you a little secret," he said with a conspiratorial tone. "Well, calling it a secret isn't quite right, since it's sort of an unspoken rule. Any power gained through external means is always temporary. It is destined to leave you at some point. Of all the people who have worshipped me with true devotion and gained a boon, none who wished for greater power have lived long enough to reap the fruits of their labour."

"Be that as it may, the process leading up to their downfall is strewn with the lives of many innocents," Murugan muttered, unable to completely let go of his grievance.

"That is the nature of Karma, son," his father expressed with a note of finality. "For there to be a consequence, one needs to act. It is an unfortunate, unavoidable truth."

Murugan looked at his father, and a new question formed in his mind. "Doesn't it affect you? Granting these powers has to accumulate a lot of negativity."

His father revealed a sly smile. "Because I do not judge, and because I am fair, the consequences of my devotees' actions do not carry over to me. And besides," he said, gesturing to the vast, ash-covered plateau behind them, "my duties are punishment enough for whatever negativity I might accumulate."

In that moment, Murugan understood. His father wasn't truly unbound by Karma. To liberate souls from the mortal realms, he had to live through their entire lives - every joy, every triumph, and every sorrow. Every single day, his father drowned in the regrets of those who had passed away.

It all made sense now. The myths, the stories of a rage-filled god, a destructive force of nature - it was all understandable. Considering the sheer weight of the negativity his father had to shoulder, such a psychological response was not just possible, but expected. The fact that his father was so tranquil and light-hearted now was nothing short of admirable. In that instant, Murugan's perception of his father grew tenfold in his heart.

"Come now, let's put all this unpleasant talk to bed," his father said with his voice shifting to a lighter, more cheerful tone. "We don't want to face the cold wrath of your mother by being late."

"Mother never gets angry," Murugan muttered with a faint smile.

"Yes... well," his father muttered back, leaning in slightly, "you aren't the one sleeping in the same bed as her at night."

---

The time had come for Faceless and his brothers to depart. With their few belongings packed and their goodbyes said, they stood ready to leave the eternal peaks of Kailasha and return to the mortal world. Ganesh himself saw to their departure. At his call, his faithful mount swelled in size, its form growing until it was as large as a buffalo, easily able to bear the weight of the three brothers for the journey down.

As they descended from the clouds, the air grew warmer, and the scent of pine and earth replaced the crisp mountain air. At the base of the mountain, the great rat shrank back to its normal size, and the brothers dismounted.

Ganesh turned to Faceless. With a warm smile, he said, "Thank you. You stood by my brother when he needed aid. It was not required of you, and yet you took the initiative to do so. Had I not reminded you of the possibility of losing your boon, you would have sacrificed the opportunity. This shows sincerity."

He then looked at the rugged expanse of exposed muscle where a face should have been. He reached out and placed his palm gently against the man's cheek, resting his thumb in the very centre of his forehead. A soft, pearlescent light bloomed at the point of contact. Faceless's eyes widened as a torrent of pure information was deposited into his mind - it was the knowledge of form, the art of illusion, and the mechanics of appearance.

When Ganesh removed his hand, the light faded. Overwhelmed, Faceless collapsed to his knees and bowed his head. "My lord," he gasped in a voice thick with emotion. "I... I do not know how to thank you for this gift."

As he spoke, a shimmering, translucent sheen flickered over his face. As it solidified, the strong jawline and sharp features of his original face returned and covered the exposed skin..

"It was your choice to slice off your face," Ganesh stated in a kind but firm tone. "For that, you must face the consequences. I cannot give you back what you chose to discard. However, for your assistance, I grant you the ability to alter how you appear to others. You may not have one true face, but you can now outwardly wear many."

Seeing this, Vibhishana chuckled. "Now that you can wear many faces, brother, I believe that your previous name, Dashanana, feels more apt now than ever."

Faceless shook his head with a serene expression. "I have already, voluntarily, cast that name away. I cannot take it back." He looked towards the horizon, his voice filled with a new, steely resolve. "But it matters not what name I give myself. Those with ambition and accomplishments are granted a name by the populace - the name you are known by. That is what I yearn to achieve once again."

Having said that, the three brothers prostrated themselves before Ganesh one last time. Then, without another word, they turned and began their long journey back home.

---

Ganesh held back a chuckle as he observed the anxiousness visibly emanating from Murugan. His younger brother was seated cross-legged in front of him in complete silence. Or at least, it was a version of silence, given how his leg was bobbing up and down with a nervous, rhythmic energy. Ganesh, for his part, was pretending to read a roll of parchment, his eyes scanning the same line of text for the tenth time. Truthfully, he had finished it a while ago. He was just enjoying the spectacle of his brother's unease.

Finally, as Murugan looked about ready to vibrate out of his own skin, Ganesh decided to stop teasing.

"It's hard to focus with you shaking your leg like a woodpecker assaulting a tree trunk," Ganesh said, rolling up the parchment with a snap. "What brings you to my study, brother?"

Murugan let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. "Have you considered marriage?" he blurted out.

Ganesh sputtered, choking on his own saliva. Amidst a coughing fit, he managed to ask, "Where in the world is this question coming from?!"

"Well, it's been quite some time. And you are old enough for it," Murugan reasoned, looking earnest. "Don't you feel lonely?"

Ganesh composed himself and shrugged, a thoughtful look on his face. "Not really. I have my books, my duties...," then, with a chuckle, he added, "my purpose is to remove obstacles, not create them with domestic squabbles. Besides, companionship of the mind is often more fulfilling than any other."

"Why are you really asking me this?" Ganesh asked, his brow furrowed in suspicion.

"See, it's like this..." Murugan muttered as his gaze dropped to the floor. "It is considered inauspicious for the younger member of the family to get married if the elders are unmarried."

"Ah, Parivedana," Ganesh summarised as a knowing light entering his eyes. "I am aware of this tradition, yes."

A beat of silence passed, and then the realisation struck Ganesh like a falling anvil. His eyes widened. "You intend to marry that girl, don't you?!"

Seeing Murugan's shy, almost guilty expression was all the confirmation he needed. Ganesh burst into a hearty, rumbling laugh that filled the entire study.

"Oh, little brother!" he boomed, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. "If that's all that is troubling you, then do not worry for a second longer." He stood up, his demeanour all business now. "I will sort things out."

---

The aroma of spiced lentils and ghee filled the dining hall. It was a comforting backdrop to the usual afternoon meal. Murugan and Shiva were quietly eating, and Parvathy was serving. It was a scene of typical domestic peace. At least it was typical enough for their household. Which is what made Ganesh's sudden declaration all the more jarring.

"I have decided to get married," he announced into the relative quiet.

The silence that followed was absolute. Shiva's mouth remained agape with his palm loaded with a ball of rice hovering right in front of it, and his eyes widened in shock. The most dramatic reaction, however, came from Parvathy. The heavy metal bucket of sambar she was holding slipped from her grasp and crashed to the stone floor with a deafening clang. The hot, fragrant stew exploded outwards and pooled around her feet.

"Ganesh," Shiva began with a voice laced with a rare hesitation. "Who... who is the lucky woman?"

Before Ganesh could answer, Parvathy interjected. Her voice gushed out like a torrent of maternal concern. "Who is she? What is she like? Have we met her before? Who are her parents? Are they a good family?"

"Mother," Ganesh said as he raised a hand to gently halt the interrogation. "It is not one, but two." He paused, letting the statement hang in the air before adding, "I will introduce them to you all tomorrow."

Parvathy's mouth opened as a fresh volley of questions accumulated and prepared for launch, but she stopped as she caught a subtle, meaningful glance from Shiva. She closed her mouth and pressed her lips into a thin line of strained patience.

Her mind wouldn't settle. She had always worried about her eldest son. He was immortal, yes - but that didn't protect him from loneliness. In fact, it made it worse. Ganesh was kind, wise, and full of laughter, but she could see it: the part of him he kept hidden. He stayed busy - reading, helping, working - filling his time so he wouldn't have to be still. It broke her heart a little each day.

She had hoped, for so long, that he would find someone. Not just anyone - a person who could understand him, who could sit with him in silence, who could share the weight of forever. Someone who loved not just the god, but the man.

Now, this news, though sudden and surprising, felt like a gift. Maybe, after all this time, he had found that person. And not just one. Two!

For the first time in a long while, Parvathy let herself hope.

The next day, Ganesh led his family across the plains of Kailasha. The mood was thick with unspoken anticipation. He brought them to a quiet, sun-dappled area near the edge of the central forest. There, standing side-by-side, were two lush, vibrant plants with leaves a brilliant shade of green, reaching to about his height.

He gestured to the one on the left. "This is Buddhi," he said simply. Then he pointed to the other. "And this is Siddhi."

The reaction was instantaneous. Shiva brought a hand to his face and covered his eyes with his palm in a gesture of weary resignation. Parvathy's lips began to twitch uncontrollably. Murugan, who had been trying to appear nonchalant, choked on his own saliva.

"Do you think this is a joke?!" Parvathy finally snapped as she admonished Ganesh in anger.

Ganesh shook his head as a sad smile touched his lips. "I could not find anyone who appeals to me, mother-"

"You could have asked!" she cut in, her tone softening with hurt. "We would have found a nice girl from a nice family-"

"While I have complete faith in your abilities, mother," Ganesh said gently, but also firmly, "who would want to live with a man who looks like this?" He chuckled softly with a self-deprecating smile as he gestured to his elephantine head.

The casual remark landed like a stone. Shiva looked down and curled his hands into tight fists. A wave of guilt washed over his face. Parvathy's expression crumpled with distress. "There are many who find you attractive, dear-" she started, but her voice petered out as Ganesh met her gaze with a look that gently questioned the truth of her claim.

"Nonetheless," Ganesh continued with a brighter tone as he gestured to the two plants, "I didn't wish to be alone. So I decided that these two fine specimens would do just fine as my lifelong companions. I have consulted the astrological charts and determined that tomorrow is a most auspicious time for such a wondrous occasion as matrimony. It will be a quaint ceremony - only the immediate family is invited. I hope you all can make it."

A collective, noncommittal hum was the only response.

Ganesh clapped his hands together as if settling the matter. He turned to leave but stopped suddenly. "Oh," he said, turning back. "And Murugan here has a girl he likes and wishes to marry. We can visit her family after my wedding."

Parvathy's head jerked towards her younger son, and her eyes widened with a fresh wave of shock. Beside her, a slow, knowing smile spread across Shiva's face.

 

[Hyperionthetitan]

The blessing comfetti need a bit of brake lol

 

[Crouchinghiddenwriter]

sending sharp fragments tearing through the soft tissue of his throat.

Click to shrink...

Dang. Will kratos have awkward moments during the wedding arc? What gifts would he give?

 

[juniorsundar]

Dang. Will kratos have awkward moments during the wedding arc? What gifts would he give?

Click to shrink...

Can't even imagine Kratos in a wedding

 

[namar13766]

Ganesh clapped his hands together as if settling the matter. He turned to leave but stopped suddenly. "Oh," he said, turning back. "And Murugan here has a girl he likes and wishes to marry. We can visit her family after my wedding."

Click to shrink...

The big brother energy is strong in this one.