"गाम्भीर्यं न केवलं समुद्रे तिष्ठति, अपितु जीवनस्य भावनासु एव निवसति। स्वजनान् दूरात् पश्यन् सः रक्तस्य अश्रूणि इव शोकं धारयति। यदा सुवर्णशृङ्खलाः तं प्रतिबध्नन्ति, तस्य एकमात्रं स्वप्नं तादृशं जीवनं वर्तते यत्र सः अन्येषां दयां न इच्छति, अपितु केवलं परमात्मनः समीपे स्थित्वा इमं प्रश्नं प्रष्टुम् इच्छति— 'अहं जाने यत् त्वं मम शब्दान् प्रार्थनां च करुणक्रन्दनम् इव अजानाः, किन्तु त्वं उत्तरं न दत्तवान् यतः अहं योद्धा आसम्, योद्धा च परीक्षणीयः भवति। किन्तु त्वं मां तावत् पर्यन्तं कुतः अत्रोटयः, यत्र त्वम् अपि मां न प्रत्यभिजानासि?' इति, यदा प्रतिरात्रिं कोकिलस्य गानं श्रूयते॥"
The deepness never lies only in the ocean but in the very emotion of living. Holding his tears as sorrow of blood from a distance, seeing his own people. While manacles of gold hold him back to manifest his only dream is to dream a life where he don't want a pity of other but wants a yet near to his God to ask one almighty question: "Was I know, you knew my words and prays as cry, but you didn't answer cause I was a warrior and they must be tested. But why did you broke me to a point where even You don't recognize me?" as a nightingale tune could be heard every night.
Eyes fadingly opened as the vision grew larger, opening the doors of divinity and eternity while being rigid, while the rigor mortis felt his victim to meet the end. Karma sat within the mud as steps of the thunder ran behind him.
Holding a bottle of wine as his hand shivered with the beauty of humanity. As his heart raced around while eyeballs were soaked with nerves of blood looked around each other.
A rigid right wing turned from the east of direction in that open field; those weren't steps but a thundere of horse boots as the soldiers charged at him. Holding the flag as their dignity, screaming the chants as Karma looked around as sculpture of elephant stood like a wind with 6 tusk as the river flowed in front of him.
As Karma looked on, his neck cracked—the sound of dry wood snapping—as veins popped around his spinal column and neck muscles. His eyes, wide and bloodshot, reflected the glint of the charging horses and soldiers through the heavy scent of wet mud. Then, the world fractured.
The soldiers' arms cracked; the horses' muscles split open. Their veins popped in a frantic, decaying rhythm, turning their bodies into mud. But the mud itself betrayed them—it liquefied into a thick pectin, binding the iron of their armor to a viscous, suffocating tide of blood. Above, the sun lost its hold on the sky. It fell to the earth, evaporating into the gore as it hit the ground. Every color bled out of existence; every sculpture crumbled into the mire. Karma whispered into the roar of the collapse: "Life is not dissolved, but turned into blood by its own existence."
From the shadows of Karma's back, the hands of the red mascot rose—white and red and smiling. The muscles on the hands popped open, veins pulsing with a scent of ironized blood and the sharp, weak sting of copper. The steam rose, clinging to his shirt and clogging his throat like a physical hand. Then came the voice of the child. The words felt like spears made of teeth—sharp, biting, and ancient. A jolt of absolute coldness surged through Karma's body. It wasn't the wind. It was the realization that the river of blood was no longer a witness—it was touching him, claiming him.
" जीवनेन अहं तव समीपं आनीतः, त्वां मम उत्तराधिकारिरूपेण स्वीकरणं न पर्याप्तं भविष्यति, अपितु मम 'कर्मणः' शब्दानामू उत्तराधिकारिरूपेण तव स्वीकारः एव एकमात्रं मार्गः अस्ति... अहम् अवकाशम् अस्मि॥"
Life has brought me to you; taking you as my successor will not be enough, but taking you as the inheritor of my 'Karma-words' will be the only way... I am Avkasham."