The Next morning,
They stood upon the floating isle of Asura's Spine, a broken shard of the Primordial World that hovered where gravity forgot its duty. Here, wind and light danced like old friends, curling in spirals too elegant for mortal physics. Below them, waterfalls spilled from shattered cliffs into the yawning void, only to evaporate into ethereal mist mid-plunge—rivers of raw qi threading into the atmosphere like celestial veins.
Above them, the sky crackled with waiting silence. No thunder. No birds. Just a pause that stretched eternity thin. The heavens themselves seemed to hold their breath—not in fear, but reverence.
Parashurama rolled his shoulder. Each crack of his bones echoed like thunder over oceans, sending tremors down the Spine.
"Well then, boy," he said, voice rumbling with laughter and danger. "Let's see what your titles are worth."
Devavrata stepped forward. The smile on his lips was both respectful and hungry.
He unslung his spear-sword, a singular weapon birthed in impossible fire. It shimmered—half glaive, half blade, forged under celestial pressure where dying stars wept their final breath. Mantras from his mother flowed across the metal in the living script, changing with his breath. It had tasted Phoenix flame, and had been blessed by Shiva's silence.
At his back, his quiver of ashta-vidya arrows pulsed like restrained thunderclouds. Each arrow housed a doctrine, a realization carved from spirit and trial.
The world stilled.
And then—motion.
Their first clash shattered the sound barrier. Wind reversed. The space between them tore open like parchment, qi exploding into ribbons of silver flame. The impact resonated through all three realms.
In the mortal world, clouds parted violently.
Farmers looked up, eyes widening as their crops rippled.
Birds dropped mid-flight, stunned into reverence.
Mountains leaned to listen.
Only cultivators above Void Ascension could truly feel the duel—those who had glimpsed eternity and walked the line of madness. They halted their meditations.
And in a cave beyond the stars, Ganga opened her eyes and smiled. "Good," she whispered. "He listened."
Parashurama surged forward, a blur of wrath and elegance, wielding his axe like it was born of his spine. His every step inscribed laws of war onto the earth.
"Lesson One," he barked, "Dominance is not power. It's timing."
He struck low, then high—his axe blooming like a lotus of destruction. Devavrata parried with the haft of his spear-sword, twisting midair, his feet skating along a disc of compressed qi.
"Understood," Devavrata said, voice calm amid the storm.
He retaliated, slashing downward with his chakra-sundara form—a style that allowed his weapon to bend mid-strike, curving around defense.
Parashurama grunted, impressed.
"Lesson Two. Don't speak unless you're ready to back it up."
He stomped, and the isle cracked—a seismic wave of divine will coursing up through Devavrata's legs. The young warrior flipped, landing mid-spin, his hand already reaching for an arrow.
The first arrow: Vajra-Nāga.
Carved from a thunder serpent's fang. It struck with force enough to bend dimensions. Parashurama batted it aside—but it exploded mid-air into chains of binding lightning.
"Smart."
Devavrata was already in motion.
The second arrow: Kāla-Drishti.
It carried a moment of prophetic stillness. When it flew, time hesitated. Parashurama froze for a half-breath—and that was all Devavrata needed to close the gap.
Spear-sword and axe met again. Sparks became suns.
Meanwhile, in the world below, absurd things began to happen.
A monk reciting sutras at the peak of Mount Mandara found his voice echoing across oceans.
A king about to execute a traitor paused, overcome by a strange, righteous sorrow.
A baby was born with a lotus sigil on her brow.
The tides stopped for eight heartbeats.
This duel was not just battle—it was doctrine in motion, a war-script between soul-forged titans.
Parashurama chuckled between blows.
"You're fast. But what happens when the past strikes faster than the future?"
He snapped his fingers. Ashes of fallen ages spun around him, coalescing into memory strikes—phantom blows from past versions of himself. Devavrata was suddenly fending off a dozen Parashuramas, each wielding slightly different interpretations of the same style.
"Lesson Three. Legacy strikes deeper than talent."
Devavrata grinned, eyes wild. "Then let's test mine."
He spun, drawing his eighth arrow—the Pratyavartana, the Reversal Arrow.
"My mother taught me not all arrows are meant to fly forward."
He loosed it—backwards.
The arrow reversed cause and effect, hitting the first blow Parashurama had landed earlier in the duel and nullifying it retroactively. The old warrior blinked, shoulder suddenly bleeding from a blow that no longer existed.
They hovered midair now, suspended on coiling strands of sword-intent and war-aura.
They were laughing.
Sweating.
Smiling like men who loved the storm more than the stillness.
"One more?" Parashurama asked.
"At least," Devavrata answered.
Devavrata's blade screamed through the air in a downward arc—Garuda's Descent—a strike so fierce it split the clouds below and sent rings of force spiraling down to the mortal realm. Entire forests bent beneath the echo.
Parashurama stepped into it, eyes flashing. Bhargava Vortex.
His axe spun, a whirlpool of brutal gravity. The two weapons collided, creating a vacuum that sucked the air between them into a collapsing sphere of light—then exploded outward in a shockwave that sent stones levitating.
Before the debris even fell, Devavrata vanished. Reappeared behind him mid-spin, spear-point aimed for spine, liver, throat.
Naga's Tongue. Triple-thrust. Instant kill.
CLANG.
Parashurama didn't dodge—he pivoted.
He let the blows hit his aura, grounded through his stance—Mountain Root, a technique that channeled the earth's infinite weight. The air rippled. The isle cracked beneath him—but he didn't move.
"Good speed," he said. "But where's the intent to kill?"
Devavrata's answer was movement.
His spear-sword danced, switching forms mid-strike—now a curved blade, now a slashing arc of divine metal.
Moonless Waltz.
A style passed down by Ganga herself, made of steps that mirrored constellations and strikes that sang like river currents. Every swing drew symbols in the air. Every deflection sparked golden flares.
Parashurama grunted. Sun-Cleaving Form.
His axe answered with raw, unstoppable momentum. One swing. Just one—and it tore through the edge of Devavrata's form, severing an afterimage and carving a line through space itself.
The cut hung there for a breath. Reality bled.
Devavrata ducked, twisted, stepped sideways into a shadow-fold. He sheathed his weapon—and vanished.
Parashurama blinked. A heartbeat later, Devavrata erupted from the sky above him, spearpoint downward, trailing blue fire.
Eight Winds Spiral. A fusion of speed, footwork, and pressure manipulation. The clouds roared as his strike descended.
Parashurama raised his axe just in time. The clash rang like a temple bell hit by a god. A shallow gash opened on his shoulder—golden blood hissed and vaporized.
The god of war bared his teeth. "You drew blood."
The sky caught fire.
Parashurama's aura surged—red-gold and ancient. With one stomp, he summoned Mahakal's Chains. Glyphs burned into the air and erupted from the ground, spectral shackles snaking out to bind Devavrata's limbs.
The prince spun mid-air, twirled his blade once— Kinnara's Requiem.
A song of motion and flame. The blade ignited in blue-white light and slashed down, slicing the bindings like paper. The shockwave flattened peaks on nearby isles.
Then came the counter. Parashurama roared and slammed his axe into the ground.
Yama's Gate.
The air ruptured, and a ring of ghostly weapons rose from the earth—blades from fallen generals, spears from ancient wars. They rotated around him in a halo of death.
Devavrata dropped into the center of the ring. Time slowed.
One blade, then another, then ten came at him from all angles—slashing, piercing, splitting the air.
Devavrata moved like water. Like light. Every motion bled precision.
His blade blurred—blocking, parrying, evading.
His armor tore. Blood blossomed. But still—he stood.
He planted his spear-sword into the ground. Ashwattha Bloom.
From the point of contact, glowing vines of qi shot out, snaking across the battlefield like roots of a sacred tree. They gripped Parashurama's legs with binding force.
Before the god could leap—
Devavrata was already above him.
Vajra Petal Slash.
A final form. One strike. Drawn from all his training, from his pain, from his oath.
He fell like judgment.
Blade met axe. The impact cracked the sky open. Storm clouds were ripped apart. Lightning rained sideways. The floating isle shuddered.
Both figures flew back—blasted apart.
Devavrata landed hard, skidding across the stone, panting, bleeding.
Parashurama rose slower, his vambrace shattered. He looked at the broken piece in his hand, then at the boy standing defiant before him.
A small smile touched his lips. "…Impressive."
Devavrata lifted his spear-sword again, blood streaming down his brow.
"And I'm just getting started."
Above them, the sky opened its eye.
Though the heavens watched, they dared not interrupt.
Even the gods looked down and stayed silent. And somewhere, on a lotus between worlds, Ganga wept—not in sorrow, but pride.
The battle went on for 3 days and 3 Nights
The sky tore open.
Asura's Spine groaned under the strain of power far beyond mortal design. Clouds above had evaporated into rings of stilled time; oceans below surged up as if yearning to witness the end.
Devavrata stood bloodied, bent, his spear-sword vibrating in his trembling hands.
Across the ruined battlefield, Parashurama exhaled—scarred, scraped, his axe cracked, aura flickering with crimson aftershocks.
Silence.
Then—
Parashurama smiled.
A soft, unsettling thing. Almost… disappointed.
"You've done well, boy. Better than any your age has a right to."
He stepped forward. Each footfall left ripples in the air. "But let's not pretend you ever stood a real chance."
Devavrata's eyes narrowed, sweat and blood blurring his vision. His spirit was burning low—barely holding onto the tide form Ganga had given him.
Parashurama rolled his shoulders.
And then—
His wounds vanished.
In an instant.
Bone snapped back. Flesh wove itself anew. Cracks in his weapon sealed with divine metal reknitting itself through sheer will.
His cultivation… surged.
The sky shuddered.
"I fought you with only the strength of my Soul Transformation realm. A courtesy."
He looked up.
"And now I will show you why I am feared even among the Celestial Sovereigns."
The moment he spoke, the world changed.
A second sun bloomed behind him. Not fire. Power.
His qi ignited—no longer crimson but white-gold, streaked with black lightning.
It wasn't aura. It was presence.
The kind that forced mountains to bow. Oceans to part. Gods to hold their breath.
Devavrata staggered backward, his knees buckling under the pressure.
The river aura around him sputtered, then collapsed. His spear-sword dimmed. Even the sacred mantras etched upon its blade hissed as if in fear.
He couldn't move.
Parashurama didn't attack.
He simply stepped forward.
One step.
And the force crushed Devavrata to one knee.
Another step.
His lungs refused to fill. His dantian screamed. Every bone in his body felt like it was about to splinter.
"I wanted to see your resolve," Parashurama said softly. "And you showed me something rare."
He stopped a foot away.
"But talent alone cannot bridge realms. Not when the stars themselves bow to me."
He raised his axe.
Not in anger. Not in rage.
With finality.
A judge, delivering a verdict.
Devavrata met his gaze—one eye bloodshot, one arm limp at his side.
And smiled.
"I'll still stand," he whispered. "Even broken."
Parashurama's gaze narrowed.
The axe fell—
—and stopped an inch from Devavrata's skull.
The space around the blade shattered like glass, forming a suspended storm of halted destruction.
Parashurama's lips thinned.
He pulled back, aura fading slowly.
"I've proven my point."
He turned away.
"You're not ready," he said. "But one day… you might be. If you survive what comes next."
Devavrata collapsed, coughing blood, eyes dazed.
But alive. Barely.
From the heavens, a single tear of rain fell—silver, shimmering. Ganga's blessing.
The battle was over.
And the boy who would become Bhishma had learned what it meant to stand against the sky.