The Celestial Court had cracked.
Three gods had vanished.
Two had bled.
One had kneeled.
And still… they clung to their thrones.
Because when power is slipping, control becomes doctrine.
Vaikuntharaja stood before the remaining pantheon—his form now sharper, hungrier. No longer swollen with worship, but laced with desperation.
"He has walked through gates. Freed fire. Awakened memory."
"We will not fight him."
"We will replace him."
They unveiled the Final Doctrine—etched into divine metal, forged from stolen will.
A new decree to flood the worlds:
Obedience as virtue.
Breath regulated.
Stillness monitored.
Every soul bound to a god—not by belief, but by default.
It would be broadcast through dreams.
Injected into prayers.
Baked into ritual.
Wired into architecture.
A doctrine so seamless, most would never know they were trapped again.
But Aarav felt it the moment it was cast.
He was training in silence when the air tightened—like an invisible hand pressing down on the world's chest.
The birds stopped.
The wind shifted.
The breath resisted.
He opened his eyes.
"They've stopped pretending."
He didn't gather an army.
He didn't chant.
He simply sent out a signal.
A breath.
Low.
Calm.
Clear.
It reached Meha.
It reached Bhaktarakshaka.
It reached the quiet ones across a hundred cities—
And they exhaled back.
The war had begun.
Not with weapons.
But with refusal.