Chapter 1: The Sky That No Longer Weeps

Chapter 1: The Sky That No Longer Weeps

The sky had once wept for mortals.

In an age now lost to memory, the heavens would open at the right time, delivering the monsoon's embrace upon the parched lands. The rivers, born from the touch of celestial fingers, would surge with life, offering their bounty to those who toiled the fields with devotion. The wind carried whispers of gods, their presence woven into the fabric of existence, blessing the land with unseen hands.

But that time was gone.

The sky had not wept for many years.

The rivers had forgotten their path, reduced to mere streams gasping for breath. The fields, once golden with grain, lay barren, cracked like the lips of a man dying of thirst. The forests, which once sang with the voices of birds, now stood silent, as though mourning the absence of something they could not name.

And the people—ah, the people.

Once, they had lifted their hands in prayer, seeking the favor of those who dwelled beyond the clouds. Now, their hands grasped at scraps, fighting over dwindling resources. The prayers had turned into curses, and where temples once overflowed with offerings, now they stood abandoned, their sanctums defiled by dust and neglect. The gods, if they still existed, no longer answered.

Perhaps they had simply turned away.

Perhaps they had been slain in the war beyond the stars.

Or perhaps, they had never truly cared.

In the heart of this forsaken world, a boy walked alone.

His feet were bare, caked in the dust of roads long forgotten. His clothes, once simple but whole, were now little more than tattered fabric clinging to a body that had known hunger too often. His hair was unkempt, the strands falling over his eyes, concealing the quiet resolve within them.

He had no name.

Or rather, no name that he claimed as his own.

Names were for those who belonged, those who had a place in the world. A name meant recognition, history, and purpose. But he had none of those things. He was a wanderer, a ghost among the living, drifting through the ruins of what once was.

The town ahead—Surapur—was no different from the dozens he had seen before. A place of broken men and women, where desperation had long since replaced hope. The stench of unwashed bodies and rotting grain hung in the air, mixing with the smoke of makeshift fires where merchants sold half-spoiled food at thrice its worth.

The people barely glanced at him. Strangers were common in Surapur. The town was on a major trade route, though trade itself had dwindled to mere survival. Here, men lied with smiles and stole with open hands. A boy with nothing to offer was of no interest to them.

He moved through the crowded streets, past beggars too weak to lift their hands, past merchants who eyed him with suspicion, past guards who cared only for their own pockets. His stomach ached, but hunger was a familiar companion. He had learned long ago that a full belly was a fleeting luxury.

What he sought was something far more valuable.

Information.

He stopped near a small shrine at the edge of the market. It was once dedicated to Vishnu, the Preserver, but the statue within was defaced—its arms broken, its divine features scratched beyond recognition. At the foot of the shrine sat an old man, wrapped in layers of ragged cloth, his white beard reaching his chest.

"A wandering one, are you?" the old man said without looking up.

The boy remained silent. He had learned that words were often more revealing than silence.

The old man chuckled, a dry sound like leaves crushed beneath foot. "Not much of a talker, eh? Good. Talkers get themselves killed in times like these."

The boy sat down a few paces away, not too close, not too far. Just within reach of conversation, if the old man wished to give it.

The old man smirked. "Ah. A listener. You know, listening is a dangerous thing, lad. You might hear truths you do not want."

The boy shrugged. Truths could not be worse than the emptiness he already carried.

The old man sighed and leaned back. "What is it you seek, then? A warm meal? A place to rest? Or perhaps you are one of those who chase old ghosts, looking for answers where none remain?"

At this, the boy finally spoke. His voice was quiet, rough from disuse. "Rishi Agnivarna."

The old man's fingers twitched.

For a long moment, the only sound between them was the distant shouting of merchants haggling over rotten fruit. Then, the old man laughed. It was not a kind laugh.

"Rishi Agnivarna? You seek a man who does not wish to be found." The old man's gaze turned sharp. "Why?"

The boy hesitated, then shook his head. He did not know why. He had heard the name whispered in the wind, spoken in half-lost prayers, buried within the mutterings of dying men. A name that carried weight even in a world that had forgotten gods.

The old man studied him, then spat to the side. "If you truly seek him, then you must look where men do not tread. The highlands, beyond the forests. Where the mountains still remember the voices of the old world."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But know this, boy—if you find him, you may not like what he has to say."

The boy nodded.

He had no expectations. No hopes, no desires. Only the will to move forward, to follow a thread of fate he did not understand.

Without another word, he stood and walked away.

Behind him, the old man sighed, shaking his head.

"Foolish boy. The sky does not weep anymore… and neither do the gods."

End of Chapter 1