The moment Kratos stepped out of the portal, he was assaulted by a sight that was all too familiar. A sea of people was prostrated on the ground, their foreheads pressed to the dirt in reverence. For a fleeting instant, a ghost of an old feeling stirred within him—the arrogant satisfaction of a god receiving his due. He crushed it immediately. Looking around, he saw the villagers' worship was not directed at him. It was aimed at the boy standing beside him. He brushed away the sharp discomfort and walked up to Murugan. He grabbed the boy by the arm and pulled him back towards the shimmering, open portal.
Murugan resisted, digging his heels into the dirt.
"Come, boy. We are leaving," Kratos said, his voice a low command.
"I-I can't," Murugan stuttered, his eyes darting towards a young woman who knelt beside an older couple. "Valli refuses to leave."
Kratos followed his gaze. The reason for the girl's apprehension was evident in the protective way she stayed near her parents. "That is her decision, then," he declared. "We are leaving."
"I can't leave her, Guruji," Murugan protested, his voice cracking. "They'll... they'll—"
"So you will stay and protect them? Fight for them?" Kratos interrogated, his voice laced with anger. "How? Do you even know the strength of the army you will be facing?" He tightened his grip on Murugan's shoulder and gave him a sharp jolt. "Think, boy!"
Murugan understood the logic, but his heart was set. The wavering, defiant expression on his face was enough for Kratos to realise that there was no rescuing this situation. The boy had committed. And so, Kratos was committed.
At that moment, Vibhishana and Kumbhakarna stepped out of the portal. The sight of two more figures emerging from the divine gateway sent a ripple of excitement through the crowd.
"The Lord has brought forth Divine Warriors from Kailasha!" one of the villagers proclaimed, his voice filled with renewed hope. "We are saved!"
"T-They aren't Divine Warriors," Murugan quickly corrected them, gesturing with both hands towards Kratos. "This is my Guru." Before he could introduce the other two, he was interrupted.
"Lord Murugan's Guru!" the villagers proclaimed as one, and prostrated themselves again.
Then, a single voice rose from the crowd, a man chanting in Sanskrit. "Oṃ Bhasmato Jīvasraṣṭre Namaḥ." "Oṃ Bhūmikvathanakrodhāya Namaḥ_."
The strange prayer caused others to look at the chanter in confusion. "The Lord's Guru is the Gramadevata of Bhasmodbhavapur," the villager quickly explained.
"You mean the One Who Vanquished Raktabhija?" another villager inquired, his eyes widening in shock. He scanned Kratos more carefully, and a look of dawning recognition spread across his face.
"The One that Births Life from the Ashes!"
"The One with Rage that Boils the Earth!"
"I thought he had two additional blades with chains—" a child muttered before a sharp smack was followed by a pained wail.
Kratos stood frozen, shocked by the recognition. The reverence.
"They seem to recognise you, Guruji," Murugan commented with evident confusion. "No, that's not it. They are worshipping you. I thought you weren't from these lands?"
A low growl, born of discomfort and irritation, rumbled in Kratos' chest.
"There is a town a few days south of here," Vibhishana explained. He spoke with the quiet authority of a scholar, "It is a beautiful place, surrounded by lush greenery. It wasn't always so. It used to be a nameless village, until the day it fell into the path of Raktabhija's carnage. The Rakshasa who could not be killed - for every drop of his blood birthed a new iteration of himself - would have destroyed everything, if not for the intervention of a brave warrior." Vibhishana's eyes widened as the final piece of the puzzle clicked into place. "I knew I recognised Guruji from somewhere. To think that I was standing in the presence of such a valiant and powerful individual… it fills me with great honour."
Murugan tried to pry the full story from the brothers, but Kratos stopped him, pulling him aside. "What is your plan?"
Murugan bit his lip. "I cannot overuse my divine weapons," he admitted. "I asked my mount to scout ahead. The approaching army's strength is quite formidable. With our powers combined, do you think we could defeat them?"
Kratos snorted. "Do not think like a warrior. Think like a general."
"What does that mean?" Murugan asked, confused.
"A warrior sees a problem and thinks only if he can punch through it," Kratos explained. He then gestured towards the chattering, prostrating crowd and said, "A general knows to leverage all the resources at his disposal."
"There are barely enough fighters amongst them, Guruji," Murugan argued. "And they are not as strong as the seasoned warriors of the approaching army!"
Murugan's response was all the evidence Kratos needed. The boy, in his current state, could not see beyond his own nose. He saw individual fighters, not a cohesive unit; he saw a lack of strength, not an opportunity for unconventional tactics. This was not a simple situation where divine power could overwhelm the enemy. Victory, if it were even possible, would require a cold and brutal strategy. It would demand sacrifices that the boy was not yet mature or experienced enough to comprehend, let alone command.
"You are not ready for this, boy," Kratos said in a tone sharp with irritation. "I advise that you leave. Now."
But Murugan remained unswayed.
After a long, silent internal debate, Kratos let out a short, booming growl. He centred his emotions and walked before the crowd of people. His presence silenced them instantly.
"You have two options," he yelled. As his voice carried across the village, he continued, "Flee and maybe live to see another day. Or stay and fight, and most definitely perish. Choose now!"
The crowd flinched. Children began to whimper. The village leader, Valli's father, walked forward with an expression etched with a firm resolve. "This is our home," he said steadily. "Without it, there is nowhere else for us to go. Our kind are not welcome amongst those 'civilised people'. Even if we leave, this circumstance will repeat itself. So," he looked at his people, who nodded in grim agreement, "we will fight and 'most definitely' perish, my lord. Either the enemy dies, or we all die."
The women of the village nodded, and each of them revealed a sharp dagger. This action emanated a silent promise that they were ready to take their own lives if it came to that.
"Good," Kratos declared as he swept his gaze over the determined faces. "That leaves only one feasible outcome for us. Complete victory. Nothing less is acceptable."
___
The forest bordering the Ganga in Kailasha was dark, but Faceless did not feel fear. His body jittered with an unfamiliar excitement as he walked alongside the riverbank. He kept Lord Ganesh's instructions in mind: follow the river, do not stray, and ignore the forest. He ignored the eerie and inhuman sounds that echoed from the dense woods around him. Sometimes, the voices would call to him, twisting themselves into the familiar sounds of his parents or even Lord Shiva himself, beckoning him to step into the shadows. But his willpower was a fortress. He kept his focus and walked forward.
His purpose today was clear. He would find Mahadev and request the boon he had been offered. He would use it to join his brothers and Lord Murugan in their quest.
But what exactly would he ask for? This question gnawed at his mind. Power? Weapons? An army? Each option felt insufficient, more like a temporary solution to a permanent problem. What boon would truly be worthy of the god who offered it?
Lost in his thoughts, Faceless did not realise he was deviating from the path. His steps that were parallel to the river, now angled closer and closer towards the dark, tangled shrubbery of the forest.
In that moment of distraction, a spectre burst from the trees. It was a formless shape of shadow and malice that collided with him, not with physical force, but with a psychic impact that rattled his soul. It dispersed immediately into a dense, cold mist that enveloped him.
Faceless stumbled back as his mind reeled. When he came out of his stupor, he found himself standing not in the divine forest, but somewhere else entirely. The world around him was a vision, but it also felt vivid and overwhelmingly real.
He stood on a high balcony overlooking his kingdom. Lanka. But it was a Lanka transformed. The gleaming spires of gold and ivory now towered over not just an island, but an entire continent - his empire. From the snowy peaks of the north to the sun-scorched south, all of Bhuloka answered to his rule. Legions marched under his banner, their discipline absolute, their might unquestioned. Cities of impossible scale and beauty dotted the landscape, all built in his name. It was prosperous. It was wondrous. It was absolute.
None could stand against the power of his empire's might. No human, at least. He could feel it in his very bones - he had long transcended humanity. He was a god in all but name; his will was the law of the mortal world.
But it was not enough.
His gaze lifted from the conquered earth and turned towards the heavens and the nether realms. He looked afar, into the shimmering realms of Svarga, home of the Devas, and the shadowy depths of Patala, domain of the Asuras. And in that single glance, he understood a crushing truth. He was not strong enough. He may be beyond-human, a king of mortals, but compared to the true gods - the ancient powers who controlled the very suns and stars - he was still an insect. His vast empire was but a grain of sand on their infinite shore.
To defeat them, to truly conquer, he needed to be... more.
Faceless kept trudging onward, but his mind was still lost in the ambition he had just witnessed. Suddenly, his feet collided against a protruding rock. The sharp, sudden pain brought a rush of clarity. The vision shattered. He looked around and realised he had strayed near the edge of the woods, far from the relative safety of the riverbank. He quickly waved away the lingering wisps of mist and retraced his steps. His heart pounded harder yet. Not with fear, not with anticipation, but with the echo of that all-consuming desire. He returned to the river and continued following it upstream. This time, though, he remained more vigilant. He maintained his absolute focus, ensuring that he remained attached to the river's bank as if it were a lifeline.
After a long while, the dense shrubbery dispersed slightly, revealing a large, moss-covered stone archway through which the river flowed. That was his destination.
But as he took a step towards it, a figure appeared from the shadows of the arch. What he saw first were just two crimson-red, malevolent dots of light that quickly turned clear as a massive bull stepped out. It was much larger than any bull he had seen in his life. Its hide was the colour of a moonless night, and its horns were like sharpened points of pearlescent bone. It radiated a pressure that could make even the proudest and ferocious of lions cower.
Faceless did not need another moment to realise who stood before him.
He immediately averted his gaze and disallowed himself from observing the divine beast any further. With a decisive movement, he collapsed to the ground and prostrated his body in the dirt.
"Oh, great Nandi!" he bellowed with a wavering voice that was thick with reverence. "Vehicle of the Great God, Guardian of Kailasha! Forgive this lowly mortal for trespassing in your sacred domain! I offer my sincerest prostrations!"
The Bull walked forward. Its footsteps were silent, yet the earth trembled with each one. Faceless felt the Bull come to a stop directly in front of him as its hot, steamy breath rolled over the back of his neck. Then, a light tap brushed against the crown of his head. He realised it was a hoof - the beast had blessed him. He could barely contain the overwhelming emotion that surged through him, but he dared not move. He dared not stand.
The Bull walked a slow circle around him. He could feel its silent judgment like a palpable force weighing down on him. Faceless waited and kept his face pressed to the ground until he could no longer feel the hoof-falls. Only then, after a long, respectful pause, did he get up and continue his walk along the river.
Past the archway, the landscape opened into a wide plateau. The river wrapped around its base, but Faceless noticed something strange. White, shimmering particulates floated out of the water, rising like mist and making their way up the plateau. From the top, he could hear the sound of a drum and rhythmic footfalls forming a beat that literally felt like it was altering his heartbeats. He realised immediately that the Lord was up there.
He climbed. When he reached the top, he was awed by the sight. Mahadev was dancing, though it was not a performance for an audience.
The Lord's movements were both chaotic and perfectly controlled. His limbs blurred in motion, and his dreadlocks whipped through the air like black comets. As a learned artist himself, Faceless could truly appreciate the spectacle. He saw the impossible geometry in the Lord's posture and the universe of meaning in a single gesture of his hand.
The longer he looked, the more he saw. The Lord was leaving after-images - each a perfect, frozen moment of the dance, yet each performing a dance of its own. With every blink, Faceless found his focus shifting between them. There were an endless number of these after-images, each telling a different story. He sat through a few in their entirety, without blinking. He saw the story of a person's life, from the first cry of birth to the final rattle of death. Each life was different. Each blink was different. Each experience was unique. Some were filled with laughter and joy, some were mired in tragedy and despair. Each blink brought a new range of emotions - love, hate, peace, rage. It was a transcendental performance. It was a dance that contained every story ever told.
Faceless realised that this opportunity was singular. He would not be able to witness such a divine performance again in his lifetime. He did not wish to miss a single moment. Alas, his only regret was that he had only one pair of eyes. If only he had more...
Faceless did not know how long the performance lasted. All he could say was that, however long it was, it was not enough. But it would be selfish and disrespectful of him to expect the Lord to perform for him alone. When the final beat of the drum faded into silence, the Lord had finished. The Lord approached with slow and deliberate movements. His skin was caked completely in white ash, like a stark monochrome canvas with only his lush, pink lips providing a sliver of colour.
Once he was before Faceless, his lips moved. "So. It appears you have decided what it is that you want."
Faceless, still reeling from the Dance, pondered for a moment. He was stumped. "If the Lord could offer some guidance," he began with a hesitant voice. "I am unable to make a decision."
"What's the hurry, then?" the Lord asked back with a casual tone.
"I wish to join Lord Murugan in his quest," Faceless responded. "For that, I would need to leave Kailasha. That would mean the boon the Lord offered would be void."
"Then it seems you have a decision to make," the Lord commented offhandedly. "Not one I can assist you with, though. I cannot tell you what you want. Only you know what you want. What do you want?"
"I want..." Faceless muttered. His mind was a whirlwind of conflicting desires. The vision of his empire, the power he craved, the duty he felt to his brothers - it all warred within him.
"I often find that thinking less and going with one's gut tends to get the answer faster," the Lord advised with a calm and steady voice that offered some solace to his own internal storm.
The words cut through the noise as Faceless allowed his mind to settle. He then spoke the first, truest desire that surfaced. "I want immortality!" he blurted out.
The Lord sucked in a long breath and squinted slightly. "Immortality has many shapes and forms. Your soul could be immortal; your physical vessel would perish, but the soul would not leave Bhuloka and would immediately inhabit another vessel, perpetuating you over generations. Or you, in your current form and soul, could never perish. You would die, but would be resurrected immediately after." He paused, letting the options settle. "When it comes to boons, the more specific you are, the stronger it tends to be. So what kind of immortality is it that you want?"
Faceless pondered this. Immortality was a good start, but it was incomplete. It was a shield, not a sword. The vision he had witnessed replayed in his mind - the unconquered gods, the unconquerable realms. There was a better formulation.
"I wish to be undefeatable and unkillable by the following," he began, his voice now steady and sure. And then he started to list them. Every single creature, species, and race in existence. Devas, Asuras, Yakshas, Rakshasas, Gandharvas, Kinnaras, Nagas, Vanaras, and on and on. His vast knowledge did not miss a single one. Every being ever created by Lord Brahma flew from his mouth without a stutter, a pause, or an ounce of uncertainty.
After a long moment, Faceless had finished. The Lord nodded slowly. But then his brow quirked up as he realised something, "You missed one."
A smile touched the exposed muscles of Faceless's mouth. It was a genuine smile, but an unconscious tinge of pride eked out. "They are no threat to me."
The Lord closed his eyes. He raised his right palm, forming a gesture both as a conclusion and a commencement. This time, Faceless didn't see the Lord's lips move. But his voice echoed all around him. From within and without.
"So be it. Tathastu."
___
Desperation is a powerful drug. It turns cornered prey into a predator. It was a potent motivator, and its effect was evident in the way the villagers now looked at Kratos. The fear was still there, a tremor beneath the surface, but it was overshadowed by a hardened resolve. They had accepted their fate. Now, they wanted to know the price of their victory.
"All who can wield a weapon, stand," Kratos commanded.
Men and women rose. Some held spears, others axes or simple farming sickles. They were not soldiers, but their hands were calloused and their bodies were strong from a life of labour. Kratos walked through their ranks as his eyes assessed each one. He moved the children and the elderly to one side - clearly separating the assets and the liabilities.
No, that was wrong. Only a foolish general looks at human resources like this and shoves them aside as liabilities. Every life has a use on the battlefield. Even these noncombatants.
He gathered Murugan and the two brothers. "Facing them head-on is foolish," he stated with a low and intense voice. "We do not have the numbers or the training. We will not meet them in an open field. We will break them before they even see us."
"How?" Murugan asked, his eyes wide.
"We split their force," Kratos explained. "We create a diversion. A target they cannot ignore." He nodded towards the group of elders and children huddled together. "They will be our decoys."
Murugan recoiled as if struck. "No. Guruji, you cannot mean that. They are-"
"They are the slowest," Kratos cut him off, his voice devoid of emotion. "They are the ones who will be caught first if we all flee. This way, their fate has a purpose. They will draw the main host of the army away from the village, leading them on a chase."
"That is a death sentence!" Murugan protested, his voice rising.
"They are already sentenced to death," Kratos retorted with his eyes locking onto his pupil's. "I am merely choosing the executioner. Do you have a better plan? One that does not end with all of them dead, this village burned to the ground, and the women turned into slaves?"
Murugan opened his mouth, then closed it. He had no answer.
Vibhishana, who had been listening intently, stepped forward. "It is a sound strategy, my lord," he said quietly. He did not like it, not one bit. But what better option did they have? "Cruel, but sound. A feigned retreat to lure the enemy into a disadvantageous position is a classic stratagem."
Kratos gave the scholar a nod of acknowledgement before turning his attention back to the plan. "Once the army is diverted, the fighters will use the forest. You," he said, pointing to the village leader, "know these woods better than anyone. You will use guerrilla tactics. Strike from the shadows. Use the trees to your advantage. Set up traps, lace them with poison. Pick them off in small groups. Create chaos. Bleed them."
The village leader nodded, his expression dour but understanding.
With his voice still shaken, Murugan asked, "And us?"
"We perform shock attacks," Kratos answered. "We will use your mount for air superiority. We find their leaders, their commanders, their beasts. We kill them. An army without a head is just a mob."
He left no room for further debate. He walked over to the group of elderly people and children. He looked at the oldest among them: a woman whose face was a roadmap of wrinkles.
"You will lead the enemy away from here," he told her bluntly. "You will make them follow you. You will run until you can run no more. You will create an opportunity for us. You will die."
The old woman did not weep or protest. She looked at Kratos, and he saw her eyes fill with a profound understanding. She nodded once. Then, she turned to the younger, faster members of her group and began handing over the smallest children to them. They could sustain the weight and could at least save the kids. It was a silent, heartbreaking transfer of responsibility, and an acceptance of sacrifice.
Kratos watched for a moment, then turned away. "Go," he commanded the decoy group. "Now!"
They left without a backwards glance.
"To the forest," he ordered the remaining fighters. "Disappear. Wait for my signal."
The villagers melted into the trees. Their forms vanished into the familiar shadows of their home. Soon, only Kratos, Murugan, and the two brothers remained.
"Boy," Kratos said, looking at his pupil. "This will not be a glorious battle. It will be a slaughter. Are you ready?"
Murugan looked at the path the elders had taken, then at Valli, who stood with the fighters with her small dagger clutched tightly in her hand. He took a deep breath, and within a split second, his youthful uncertainty hardened into a cold resolve.
Just as he was about to answer, the air beside them shimmered and tore open. A new portal, identical to the one that had brought them here, swirled into existence. A figure stepped through. It was Faceless.
He looked around. He took in the empty village square, the lingering tension in the air, and the small group of warriors standing ready. He approached them with measured but confident steps.
With a calmness in his voice, he said, "I apologise for the delay, my Lords," and gave a respectful bow.
Kratos's eyes narrowed as he assessed the newcomer. He was another piece on the board, and thus another resource.
He turned to Murugan. "Can your bird carry all of us?"
A smirk touched Murugan's lips. "That will not be a problem."
He whistled sharply. The great peacock swooped down from the sky and landed beside them with a soft thud. Murugan then began to rotate his arms in a slow, circular motion. A spectral mandala that appeared as a complex wheel of glowing golden light formed between his palms. With a final push, he sent the mandala onto his mount. The light enveloped the peacock, and as it faded, the bird had grown. Its form was now large enough to be a living war chariot.
___
The horde did not march; it oozed across the land like a festering wound. At night, their encampment was not a structured military camp, but a sprawling, chaotic stain upon the earth. Countless campfires dotted the landscape like angry sores, scattered without rhyme or reason. The air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies, blood, and roasting meat. It carried a smell so heavy it felt like a physical weight.
These were the barbarians from the north. They were not a disciplined army, but a collection of tribes bound by a singular, rapacious hunger. Their bodies were painted in crude white patterns of ash and dried blood. Their hair was matted and wild. Their eyes held a feral glint. These were men who had long abandoned civilisation for the simple, brutal calculus of strength.
Among them were their beasts of war - not trained, but broken. There were chained elephants whose hides were cracked with scars from cruel goads, that trumpeted in misery. There were bulls with eyes wild with pain and rage that strained against their tethers. Some cages held other, stranger creatures of the deep woods that snarled and clawed at their bars with a perpetual anger that was ready to be unleashed.
At the heart of this chaotic encampment was a throne of obscene majesty. It was fashioned from the skull of a colossal elephant, with its tusks forming a morbid frame around the seat. The throne itself did not rest on the ground; it was held aloft on the shoulders of a horde of emaciated slaves whose muscles trembled under the immense weight. This was the chieftain's war chariot.
Upon this throne sat their leader, a man whose sheer bulk seemed to strain the bone beneath him. His name was unknown to the civilised world, but his followers called him 'The Butcher'. A thick, braided beard, matted with grease and bits of old meals, covered a chest as broad as a barrel. His weapon was a massive mace that was studded with bone shards and jagged metal spikes, and it rested against his leg.
He tore into a haunch of roasted meat with his bare hands, allowing the grease to drip down his chin. A slave whose body was a frail collection of bones held together by skin approached with a bowl of some steaming gruel. The slave's hands trembled from exhaustion and fear. The bowl slipped and its contents spilt onto the dirt floor.
The Chieftain did not roar. He simply stopped chewing. The raucous laughter and chatter around him died instantly. He looked at the slave, and a slow, bloody smile stretched across his face to reveal teeth filed to sharp points.
His hand shot out with a blur of motion. It closed around the slave's neck. A single, sharp crack echoed in the immediate silence. The Chieftain held the limp body for a moment before tossing it to one of his lieutenants.
The subordinate caught the corpse with ease. Without a word, he drove a heavy iron stake through the man's torso and, with the help of another, mounted him on a large spit over a nearby fire. Other bodies - human and animal - were already turning above the flames. Their skin blistered and blackened in the heat. The Chieftain watched for a moment, then went back to his meal as if nothing had happened.
At that moment, one of his scouts came running, panting heavily as he skidded to a halt before the bone throne. The man was caked in mud, and his breathing came in ragged gasps.
He pointed a trembling finger towards the dark line of the forest. "[Click-grunt]... group... run... forest... that way," he managed to say in their guttural, basic language. He paused to catch his breath. "[Grunt]... Old ones... but... tasty kids... too."
A slow, predatory smile bloomed on the Chieftain's face once again. He raised a meaty fist, extended a single finger, and lazily twirled it in the air.
The signal was all that was needed. A ripple of brutal excitement spread through the nearby warriors. One of his lieutenants, a man with a jagged scar where one of his eyes should have been, let out a sharp bark of a laugh. He grabbed his axe and gestured to a dozen or so others. They rose as one and moved like a pack of wolves that had caught the scent of blood. They scrambled towards the tethered bulls, kicking and shouting at the beasts until they were mounted. With another chorus of guttural yells, the lieutenant led his small war party off into the darkness in the direction the scout had indicated. Their departure was a chaotic surge of hooves and dust, swallowed quickly by the night. The Chieftain watched them go, then took another bite of his meal.