God of War - Karmic Cycle [AU]

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

___

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

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

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

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

But then something amazing happened.

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

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

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

"Amazing!" He exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

This was it. They were saved!

___

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

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

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

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

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

Well, what use was dwelling in hindsight?

___

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kratos shoved past them. He had to get away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The thought was both unsettling and strangely comforting.

___

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"This- This is perfect!"

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

___

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was it!

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

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

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

___

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

___

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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