The winds of Sambhala whispered secrets that day—ancient, trembling secrets. It was dawn, but the skies refused to warm.
The sun peeked over the mountains with caution, as if even it feared what the newborn child's presence would unleash upon the world.
Kalki, now a day old, lay in the lap of his mother Sumati, his tiny fingers curled gently, but his presence already far beyond mortal comprehension.
As his breath rose and fell in divine rhythm, the elders of the hidden land gathered around the sacred Tree of Agniveda,
where fate was read not from stars, but from the fire-lit leaves of the ancient tree. The leaves shimmered with a glow unseen for thousands of years.
High Priest Ananta Rishi, draped in ochre robes and dusted in celestial ash, raised his staff.
"He bears the mark," he said solemnly, "of the Sword Soul."
The words fell like thunder.
Few among them truly understood what it meant—to be born not with a sword, but as a sword.
His soul and weapon were not separate. The blade would not be crafted. It would awaken from within.
The Prophecy Recalled
Parashurama stepped into the light, leaning slightly on his ancient axe, though none knew why—for he was deathless, ageless, and still carried the fire of Vishnu's rage.
His eyes stared into the distance, as though he were looking through time itself.
"I was there," he began, "when the heavens themselves trembled before Bhrahmāndak. A being not born of time, nor space, but ego.
When Brahma, once serene and pure, doubted the balance of his creations, a dark aspect of him split from his mind—like a shadow from flame.
That shadow devoured its maker's reflection. Brahma now weeps in silence, imprisoned in the Plane of Echoes."
Gasps rippled through the circle of elders. It had long been feared that the Creator was absent, but none had dared say it aloud.
"And now," Parashurama continued, "the Yugas bleed. The righteous forget themselves.
Time is a serpent devouring its own tail. Kalki is not born to win a war. He is born to end a reality and begin anew."
The Calling of Shveta-Ashwa
Far across the valley, where the white horse known only as Shveta-Ashwa grazed in silence, the earth shifted.
No one had ever mounted this celestial steed. Rishis had tried and failed. Kings had offered temples and armies, but the horse accepted no command.
Now, Shveta-Ashwa raised its head. Its eyes turned toward the hut where Kalki lay. The horse neighed—deep, resonant, almost holy.
In that instant, a shaft of celestial light touched the horse's forehead. A symbol blazed in silver fire: a flame crossed by a sword.
The horse began its slow walk, unbidden, toward its master.
The First Manifestation of Nistram
At twilight on the second day, Sumati carried her son to the Sanctum of Narayana, a temple of crystal hidden behind a roaring waterfall.
As they stepped inside, the sanctum pulsed.
The baby stirred.
His right palm ignited—not with fire, but glowing runes in ancient Sanskrit. The High Priest Ananta knelt. "It begins."
Kalki opened his eyes and locked gazes with his mother. For a brief instant, she saw visions:
Burning cities. Gods imprisoned. Time unraveling. A lone warrior of light.
Then a sound filled the air—not heard by ears but by the soul. A sword unsheathed itself from reality.
Light shimmered, condensed, and extended from the child's hand into the shape of a blade.
The sword Nistram, soul-bound and divine, flickered into form—not crafted, but remembered.
And in the blink of an eye, it vanished—returning into his being.
A World Corrupted
Far beyond the hidden valleys of Sambhala, the world twisted in pain.
In the desecrated ruins of Ayodhyaka, Bhrahmāndak's chosen rulers enforced new laws written in shadow.
People aged backwards. Villages forgot they had ever been born. Time had become madness.
Temples stood, but their chants had changed. Mantras had been reversed. Dharma had become a joke. The Yuga Wheel was broken.
And in a palace of golden flame sat the false god Bhrahmāndak, crowned with stars, wrapped in illusion, and drinking from the well of memory.
Behind him, in cages made of echoes and silence, sat the imprisoned Trimurti—Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva—drained, shackled, hushed.
Bhrahmāndak smiled. "Let him be born," he whispered. "He will come. But he will not survive."
Parashurama's Oath
Back in Sambhala, Parashurama stood over the glowing infant, his palm raised in blessing.
"I once cleansed the world of kings. But it was not enough. Dharma returned only to fall again."
He stepped out and raised his axe toward the night sky. "This time, I will not raise armies. I will raise you."
He summoned the Nine Yogis, the Twelve Wheels of Flame, and the silent guardians of Vaikunta's Gate.
A war was coming—not just for Earth, but for the very nature of reality.
The Dream of the Cosmos
That night, the baby Kalki dreamed.
He sat beneath a silver tree that reached into galaxies. A man in yellow silk approached, smiling.
Beside him came a bowman in blue, and then a fierce figure with a lion's face and flaming eyes.
Krishna. Rama. Narasimha.
They said nothing.
Krishna knelt and whispered in Kalki's mind, "You are not our shadow. You are our sum. We live in you."
Kalki reached out. His palm flared again. A sword appeared in the dream—Nistram—floating between stars.
Then a voice thundered: "The Cycle Ends. The Flame Awakens. Be Ready."