"Oh mighty lord of heaven, grant us strength — so we may punish this demon."
Their prayer trembled across the arena like smoke.
Ten thousand Ansh stood in a circular coliseum carved from black stone. Some wore golden masks, some iron, some bone. Nobles, rebels, priests, soldiers, rural ascetics, merchants — every faction of the realm had gathered. Power radiated from them in uneven waves. Fear from some. Rage from others.
At the center stood a throne made of fused flesh and hardened blood.
Upon it sat Dvandva.
No horns. No monstrous form. No burning eyes.
Only a man.
Blood slid from his fingers and dripped from the armrest of the throne. His expression was calm — disturbingly calm — as though this gathering were a lecture hall and not an execution ground.
The world called him demon.
He called it hypocrisy.
They claimed people possessed two sides — virtue and vice, light and shadow. Dvandva had long ago chosen to discard one side entirely. He would not pretend at goodness. He would not kneel behind false morality.
He would be singular.
He would be whole.
His gaze moved through the crowd, reading them. Every breath, every tremor, every hidden calculation behind their masks. Ansh — fragments of divine authority — granted them power in exchange for lifespan. Once awakened, their nature could never change. Only their strength could grow.
They had traded years for power.
Dvandva had traded something else.
A shift in the crowd.
Two figures stepped forward.
His parents.
His father — a common soldier, face hardened by duty. His mother — eyes red not from sorrow, but fury.
No hesitation.
No sympathy.
They raised their swords.
For a moment, silence rippled through the arena. Even the Ansh seemed to hold their breath.
Dvandva looked at them as one might observe strangers across a river.
When his parents saw him — now the enemy of the world — the slightest tear appeared in their eyes, not visible to most. His father was a normal soldier. His captain would disgrace his dignity by forcing him to do labour work. His father didn't have the courage — it was survival of the fittest. The captain humiliated his father, his wife, his mom. All his father could do was laugh — not even behind his back, but in front of him. And he was not alone. Almost everybody suffered the same in this hierarchical system, though it always ended in humiliation.
Once, Dvandva — a child barely 8 years old — was with his father and witnessed the horror of that humiliation. He couldn't stop himself. He lunged forward at the captain and threw a fist that barely touched the captain's uniform. But the captain forced his father to smack him until evening. Year after year, he started to detach himself.
He had calculated this moment years ago.
They lunged.
Steel flashed.
But Dvandva did not raise his blade to defend himself.
Instead, he turned his gaze upward — beyond the arena, beyond the sky — toward the unseen spectator.
"He said I loosened my grip
and the world did not fall.
Voices thinned into wind,
faces blurred into passing light.
What once pulled at my ribs
now drifts like distant smoke.
I am not empty —
only untouched
by the noise of wanting."
The crowd's chill deepened. Every body grew cold. All thought the demon had an ace in his hand because they had all seen his coldness, his ruthlessness.
The God of this realm.
He had always known.
His lifespan stretched before him like a golden chain — one thousand years predetermined. A pawn preserved for future use.
A vessel.
A sacrifice.
He smiled faintly.
Then, before the blades could reach him, Dvandva drove his own sword through his chest.
Gasps tore from the ten thousand.
Blood blossomed across the throne.
The golden chain of fate snapped.
He had ended his own years — willingly.
Dvandva dropped cold. When his eyes closed, he was not in his body. He was nothingness. Neither the demigods could see age or destiny — only the Creator could. He had gone to the Creator. If any god couldn't sense him…
The arena fell silent.
Above the heavens, the demigods saw relief.
They had watched countless wars, countless rebellions, countless betrayals.
They all thought they had seen a man reject destiny itself. But destiny cannot be changed.
The sky darkened. Where Dvandva was now…
Not with clouds — but with presence.
There was no form.
No face.
Only a voice that filled existence.
"You have piqued my interest, child."
Where his body had been before, Dvandva's body knelt in blood, yet his eyes remained steady. No fear. No awe. Only inquiry.
"Are you the god?" he asked.
The voice resonated through creation.
"I am the sacrifice, and I am the oblation offered to the ancestors. I am the medicinal herb and the sacred mantra. I am the fire and the act of offering. I am the Father, the Mother, the Sustainer, and the Grandsire. I am the purifier, the goal of knowledge, and the eternal syllable.
Neither gods nor sages know my origin. From Me, they arise."
The arena trembled.
"Every name is Mine," the voice continued. "You may call Me anything."
Blood pooled beneath Dvandva, yet something within him remained untouched.
He had expected this.
If the god was everything — then even rebellion was part of its design.
Unless…
He had stepped outside the design.
For the first time since his birth, uncertainty entered the heavens.
And Dvandva — dying, detached — felt the faintest shift in the game.