The Trial of Ravana

The Trial of Ravana

The temple ruins stood silent, the air heavy with forgotten power. Aryan ran his fingers over the sacred text, its golden inscriptions glowing faintly beneath his touch. He had spent years searching for this—proof that the Mahabali warriors of legend were more than myths.

"The path of the Mahabali is not for the weak," a voice whispered in his mind. "You will face the trials of those who came before. Only then will you be worthy."

The text pulsed. The ground shook beneath him.

Then, without warning, the floor collapsed.

Aryan fell into darkness.

The Demon King's Arrival

When he opened his eyes, he was no longer in the temple.

He stood on the edge of a golden city, its towers reaching beyond the sky. The very ground beneath him was solid gold, shimmering like a dream. But the air was thick—not with peace, but with power.

Then came the laughter.

A deep, resounding laugh that sent shivers down Aryan's spine.

From the shadows, a figure emerged. Towering. Fearsome. Divine.

A man with ten heads, twenty arms, and golden armor that gleamed like fire. Each of his heads had piercing eyes, all focused on Aryan. His presence was so overwhelming that Aryan's knees nearly gave out beneath him.

Ravana.

"You stand in my presence, mortal," his voice was a storm, "and yet you do not bow?"

Aryan swallowed hard. Every instinct screamed at him to kneel, but something deep within kept him standing.

Ravana's many heads grinned.

"You think you know me?" he asked, stepping forward. "You have heard the stories—the villain, the demon, the tyrant."

His golden fingers curled into a fist, and suddenly, the air shifted around them.

"Let me tell you the truth."

The Rise of Ravana

The golden palace faded, and Aryan now found himself in a vast forest, thick with mist. In the center of the clearing sat a lone figure—Ravana, but younger. Meditating. Unmoving.

"I was not born a king," Ravana's voice echoed. "I was born as a seeker. A scholar. A devotee of Shiva."

Aryan watched in horror as Ravana, in the vision, took a dagger and sliced off one of his own heads.

Blood splattered onto the sacred earth.

But before Aryan could react, the severed head grew back—stronger, fiercer.

"One head for each century of meditation," Ravana continued. "Ten heads, ten lifetimes of sacrifice. Until at last, Shiva himself appeared before me."

The vision shifted. Aryan saw Ravana kneeling before Lord Shiva, his hands folded in deep devotion.

"Ask for your boon," Shiva commanded.

"No god, no demon, no celestial being shall ever kill me," Ravana declared.

Shiva's eyes gleamed. "So be it."

Aryan shivered. He had always heard tales of Ravana's arrogance, but now he saw something more—his devotion, his hunger for power, his refusal to accept limits.

The Conqueror of the Gods

The scene shifted again. Aryan now stood at the gates of Indraloka, the kingdom of the gods. Before him, armies of devas stood ready, their divine weapons gleaming.

And against them stood Ravana—alone.

With a single roar, Ravana unleashed a storm of fire. The heavens shook.

Aryan watched in awe as the King of Demons fought the gods themselves—defeating Indra, binding Yama, and sending the celestial armies scattering like dust.

"The heavens fell before me," Ravana said. "Even the gods feared my name."

Then came the final vision—one that made Aryan's blood turn cold.

The Defeat of Fate Itself

The golden battlefield melted away, replaced by a celestial hall, where a powerful figure knelt in chains—Shani Dev, the god of fate and misfortune.

"Even fate tried to stand against me," Ravana mused.

Aryan watched as Ravana stepped forward, towering over the god himself.

"Shani sought to curse me," Ravana said, his voice laced with amusement. "But I did what no man, no god, no demon had ever done."

He raised his foot—and in one swift motion, crushed Shani beneath it.

The god of fate wailed, his celestial power stripped away, his influence shattered.

"Even destiny bowed before me."

The Trial of Fear

The visions vanished.

Aryan found himself back in the golden city, but now the weight of what he had seen pressed down on him like a mountain.

Ravana loomed over him, his ten heads staring straight into his soul.

"You have seen my power," Ravana said. "You have seen what it takes to stand against gods."

His golden eyes burned with a question.

"Now tell me, Aryan—will you become a king? Or will you kneel before those who claim to be gods?"

Aryan's hands trembled. His breath was shallow. Every warrior he had read about—Hanuman, Bhima, Karna—none had conquered the heavens. None had crushed fate beneath their feet.

Ravana stepped closer.

"Will you stand? Or will you break?"

The fear was real. It clawed at Aryan's chest, whispering to him that he was not worthy.

But then…

A voice rose within him—not of arrogance, not of conquest, but of purpose.

He took a slow, shaking breath and met Ravana's gaze.

"I will not seek power for conquest," Aryan said. "I will seek power to protect."

For a long moment, Ravana was silent.

Then, he threw back his heads and laughed.

"Good," he said finally. "Then let your fear become your strength."

The golden city shattered, and Aryan was back in the ruins of the temple. His body trembled, his clothes were soaked in sweat, and his breath came in short gasps.

He had faced Ravana himself—and had not broken.

But as he steadied himself, he felt it.

Another presence stirred within the sacred text.

The first trial was over.

The next was about to begin.