Chapter 11 - Cosmic Dance [Rudra Tandavam]

At that moment, NOX regained his senses. Instinctively, he examined himself, ensuring his state of being was intact.

He was still in his spirit form.

After confirming there were no abnormalities in his essence, his gaze shifted to the emptiness around him.

Only darkness greeted his vision.

Before him stretched an endless abyss—an expanse of pure nothingness. No light, no time, no space, no reality.

As NOX struggled to grasp the nature of this void, the shadowy figure before him began to move.

The figure was wreathed in darkness, its presence both commanding and unknowable. A white crescent moon gleamed atop his head, its soft glow the only light piercing the absolute void. In one hand, he gripped a trident—the Trishul. His aura was transcendent, His presence serene.

To NOX, he seemed less a being and more a shadow given form, yet its very being exuded an unearthly authority.

Then, without warning, the figure strode forward. NOX felt an irresistible force pulling him along, stripping him of any will to resist.

The Shadowy figure moved with unwavering purpose, its steps steady, relentless. It walked through the void as if following a path unseen, untouched by doubt or hesitation.

Time became meaningless….

For billions of years, the shadow walked. He neither paused nor strayed.

Days bled into years. Years into eras. Eras into epochs. Yet the journey never ceased.

NOX, bound to follow like a specter tethered to its master, endured the solitude of this endless march. Despite his transcendent state, NOX found himself unable to endure the solitude of this endless trek. Nevertheless, he was compelled to follow the shadow, his consciousness devoid of control.

Eventually, the shadow came to a halt, as if it had reached its intended destination.

As NOX's vision become clear, he was overwhelmed by what lay before him—ethereal rivers, or perhaps threads, stretching across the infinite expanse.

Compared to the towering shadowy figure, these rivers seemed minuscule, fragile, as if they were mere strands of silk woven through the void.

Then, in an instant, they froze.

As if fearing his presence, the rivers dared not flow.

The figure stirred. From his form, six arms emerged—each bearing a sacred relic. In one, the Trident, the Trishul. In another, a two-headed drum. A third gripped a conch shell, while a fourth held a skull-topped club.

Though this realm was void—devoid of matter, energy, or even time itself—NOX was suddenly engulfed in sound. The rhythmic beat of the Damaru. reverberated through the emptiness, its pulse a heartbeat in the silence.

Then, Shadowy figure moved.

With the slow, deliberate cadence of the drum, he took his first step. A subtle gesture. A motion so fluid, so profound, that reality itself seemed to respond.

And then, he danced.

His six arms wove intricate patterns through the void, each movement a whisper of divine truth. With every precise gesture, the frozen rivers stirred, pulsing back to life. Each step resonated through the fabric of existence, sending tremors into the depths of eternity.

It was a dance both graceful and terrible, a performance where creation and destruction intertwined.

As the rhythm quickened, so did his movements. The dance became wild, untamed, mirroring the ceaseless cycle of existence itself. He whirled and twisted, his form shifting into a maelstrom of cosmic energy, weaving order and chaos into a single, unbroken flow.

NOX watched, unblinking. At first, he saw only madness in the figure's movements. But the longer he observed, the more he felt—there was something deeper, something beyond mere performance. A pattern. A meaning. A truth.

Yet no matter how he strained, he could not grasp it.

Then, the climax began.

The Tandava surged in intensity, the drumbeats rising in an unstoppable crescendo. He moved with ferocious grace, each motion unleashing torrents of power that rippled across the boundless rivers of Realities.

And then—

With a single sweep of the Trishul, he cleaved through the void.

A shockwave exploded outward. The rivers trembled, then began to collapse—one by one, vanishing into nothingness. Universes, dimensions, entire existences—snuffed out like candle flames.

Until only two remained.

Him. And NOX.

Surrounded by an abyss of infinite emptiness.

Yet still, he danced.

A terrible realization dawned upon NOX, sending a tremor through his very being.

Those were not mere rivers. They were Realities—each containing an endless multitude of Universes.

Some harbored beings more powerful than even NOX and VRITRA. Others contained entities as unfathomable as the three beings who had once toyed with NOX and Lucas like mere playthings.

And yet, he had erased them all. Effortlessly.

With nothing but a dance.

Overwhelmed to his core, NOX felt the crushing weight of his insignificance. He had never deluded himself into believing his power stood at the pinnacle of the cosmic order, but he had hoped—naïvely, perhaps—that he was at least not an ant. Yet once again, reality had stripped away that fragile hope, reducing it to nothing but ashes.

"What am I so depressed about? I was an ant before, and now I'm just a slightly bigger ant. But I'm still alive, and as long as I breathe, there's always hope. Who knows—maybe tomorrow, I'll evolve into a cockroach."

He scoffed at his own dark humor, grasping at whatever solace he could find. But his attempt at comfort was short-lived.

Another symphony began.

As the final moments of the Tandava unfolded, the deep, resonant call of the conch—the Shankha—echoed through existence itself.

The shadow's movements slowed, each motion imbued with purpose, as if sealing the cosmic dance with divine intent. A tranquil glow enveloped him, celestial light cascading over his form as he wove intricate patterns of creation and destruction.

Then, in an instant, the void erupted into color.

A myriad of radiant spectrums burst forth from his being, illuminating the once-empty abyss. The delicate threads of Destruction and Creation unfurled, trailing behind him like an artist's final strokes upon an infinite canvas. With his last step, the very fabric of the void shifted.

Then, with deliberate grace, he drove his Trishul into the emptiness.

As the reverberations faded, he lowered himself into a seated position, crossing his legs. Hands clasped, eyes closed, he exhaled softly—stilling the Shankha's cry, silencing the drum's beat.

The dance had ended. And with it, he descended into profound meditation.

NOX stood motionless, thoughts swirling in a tempest of questions. What had he just witnessed? What was the purpose behind the shadow's actions?

But before he could even begin to grasp an answer, a blinding light consumed his vision. Instinctively, he shut his eyes as the celestial radiance surged, gathering at a single focal point—the very spot where the shadow had taken his final step.

When NOX dared to open his eyes again, his breath hitched.

He wanted—desperately—to believe this was an illusion. A cruel trick. Some elaborate spell cast by VRITRA, warping his mind and perception. That would be easier to accept than the truth unfurling before him.

He could, with great reluctance, accept the existence of a being who could erase Realities as if they were mere threads of silk.

But this—

This was beyond reason.

Before his eyes, the destroyed Realities—the infinite Universes, the boundless existences that had been wiped away—began to return. Not over eons. Not through some grand, arduous process.

But in mere seconds.

It shattered his understanding of what was possible, forcing him to question not only the limits of his own power but the very authenticity of his reality.

And at the heart of it all, where the final step had been taken, something new had emerged.

A tiny sprout, glowing with the brilliance of a newborn star.

NOX needed no explanation. He understood it as instinctively as he understood his own existence.

"The Sprout of Existence."

The name escaped his lips unbidden, as if the very fabric of reality compelled him to speak it.