Chapter 3: The Birth of Yagya

The sun had barely risen over the desolate village, its rays casting a pale, sickly light over the dry earth and crumbling huts. This was a place where life struggled to thrive, where the soil was as barren as the villagers' hopes. It was here, in this forgotten corner of the mortal realm, that the former Dark Lord of Heaven had been reborn—a place far removed from the splendor of the celestial heavens he once commanded.

The villagers were a hardy lot, their lives shaped by the harsh realities of their environment. They awoke each day with the sun, working tirelessly to scrape together enough to survive. The arrival of the frail, mysterious boy had stirred something within them—pity, curiosity, and for some, a vague sense of dread.

In a small hut at the edge of the village, an elderly woman named Dhania knelt by the boy's side. Dhania was one of the village's oldest inhabitants, known for her wisdom and kindness. Her face was lined with the marks of time, but her eyes still sparkled with a sharpness that belied her years.

The boy, Yagya, lay motionless on a thin mat, his breaths shallow and labored. His emaciated frame spoke of a life spent in suffering. Dhania had found him a week before, collapsed on the outskirts of the village, and had taken him in. She was no stranger to hardship—she had lost her own family to famine and disease—but something about this boy had compelled her to help, despite her own meager resources.

Today, due to his weak body Yagya fainted again and not able to do anything so Dhania prepared a thin gruel of rice and water, she glanced at Yagya, wondering about the life he had led before finding himself in this dire state. There were no signs of his origins, no family searching for him. It was as if he had appeared out of nowhere, like a wisp of smoke carried on the wind.

"Child, wake up," Dhania called softly, her voice barely a whisper. She placed a hand on his forehead, feeling the faint warmth of life within him.

Slowly, Yagya's eyes fluttered open. They were dark, almost black, but there was a flicker of something deep within them—an echo of a forgotten power. His gaze was unfocused, as if he were seeing the world for the first time. He tried to speak, but his throat was too dry, his body too weak.

"Here, drink this," Dhania said, lifting his head gently and bringing a small cup of water to his lips. Yagya sipped slowly, his body desperate for sustenance. The water felt like fire as it slid down his parched throat, but it also brought a clarity to his mind.

"Who… who am I?" he managed to rasp, his voice barely audible.

Dhania looked at him with a mixture of sadness and concern. "You don't remember anything, do you?"

Yagya shook his head, a sense of dread washing over him. His memories were like fragments of a shattered mirror—disjointed images of darkness, power, and a deep, suffocating sorrow. He could not piece them together, nor could he understand their meaning.

"You are Yagya," Dhania said, her voice firm yet gentle. "That is the name I have given you, for you must have a name to anchor you in this world."

"Yagya…" the boy repeated, the name feeling foreign on his tongue. It was a new identity, one that seemed both alien and yet oddly fitting.

For a moment, there was silence between them, broken only by the distant sounds of the village waking up. Yagya stared at his frail hands, trying to reconcile the power he felt within with the weakness of his body.

"Why… why did you help me?" Yagya asked, his voice trembling with the weight of his confusion.

Dhania smiled, her wrinkles deepening with the expression. "Because, child, in this world, we must look out for one another. Life is hard enough without kindness. And besides," she added, her tone turning mysterious, "there is something about you, something that tells me you are meant for more than just this."

Yagya's heart stirred at her words, a faint memory of his divine past flickering in his mind. But it was fleeting, like a dream slipping away upon waking. He could not grasp it, could not hold on to it.

"I… I don't know what I'm supposed to do," Yagya admitted, his voice small.

"None of us do, at first," Dhania replied. "But you will find your way, Yagya. You will grow stronger, and you will remember who you are. Until then, you must survive. You must fight to live."

Yagya nodded, determination slowly kindling in his chest. Though he was weak and lost, something inside him refused to give up. He didn't know what lay ahead, but the fire of survival had been lit, and it would drive him forward.

As the days passed, Yagya began to regain his strength, nourished by the care and kindness of Dhania. The village remained indifferent to him, seeing only a sickly boy with no past and no future. But within Yagya, the remnants of a once-great power simmered, waiting to be awakened.

And so, in a small, forgotten village, the birth of Yagya, the mortal form of the cursed deity Yama, began. His path was uncertain, his memories lost, but destiny had not forgotten him. The trials of the mortal world would test him, mold him, and slowly, piece by piece, the Dark Lord would rise again—not as Yama, the feared ruler of the shadows, but as Yagya, a boy who would reclaim his divine destiny through struggle and perseverance.

The story of Yagya had only just begun, and the echoes of his past life would soon return to guide him on a path fraught with challenges, revelations, and the pursuit of a forgotten glory.