CHAPTER 157: THE WAIGHT OF CREATION

The rains had ended, but the sky still looked wounded — painted in shades of grey and purple like a bruise that refused to fade.

The ground was still wet, soft mud sticking to Zorawar’s boots as he knelt beside the riverbank. In his hands, he held a tiny bird, soaked and shivering. Its feathers were covered in mud. Its small beak opened and closed weakly.

Vyuk stood behind him, arms crossed, watching.

"It’s not dying," he said quietly. "It’s waiting. Waiting for you to decide if it should live."

Zorawar didn’t reply. He stared at the bird silently, feeling something stir in his chest — not anger, not fear, but a strange kind of... purpose.

Two beast cores hovered in his palm.

One glowed faintly blue — a Glimmerfin, a harmless river beast known for cleaning dirty water.

The other shimmered with soft white light — a Wind-Wisp Wren, a bird famous for its speed and flight control.

Zorawar breathed in... and fused them.

There was no bright flash, no rumble in the air.

Only a soft hum, like a breath taken between two heartbeats.

The bird changed in his hands. It grew smaller, with silver-blue feathers and glowing eyes. It chirped softly and took off into the air, wings cutting smoothly through the wind.

It flew over the river... then dipped down, letting its claws touch the muddy water.

Where it touched, the river slowly began to clear.

The murky brown water turned transparent, like glass.

Vyuk’s mouth opened a little.

"...That’s new."

People from the nearby village came out carefully, watching from a distance. But when they saw the water turn clean, they rushed forward, filling pots, washing faces, even crying.

It was a miracle.

But Zorawar didn’t stay for thanks.

As they walked away from the cheering villagers, Vyuk caught up to Zorawar, looking at the sky like it owed him answers.

"So," Vyuk said, flipping his journal open mid-stride, "what do we call that one? Water-cleaning sky pigeon? River-saver flapper?"

Zorawar gave him a side glance. "You name everything like it’s a street food."

"What? You’d eat something called ’Puddle Purifier’?"

"...That actually doesn’t sound too bad."

Vyuk grinned, scribbled it down.

"Puddle Purifier it is. Entry #38: accidentally created an eco-savior bird. Side effect: cleans rivers. Potential second side effect: makes Vyuk redundant."

Zorawar almost smiled. Almost.

Over the next few weeks, they traveled through broken towns and dying farmlands. Storms had destroyed crops. Rivers were poisoned. The people had no help.

Zorawar responded the only way he could.

With creation.

In one village, he fused a Burrow-Mole with a Terra-Mender Worm. The result was a chubby little creature that moved through dry land, turning it into soft, fertile soil. The children named it Chikki and followed it everywhere like it was a hero.

In another place, he combined Fireflies with a flower beast called Sky Petal. The fusion became a glowing beast that floated above crops at night, keeping away pests using light and a sweet scent. The farmers cheered, calling it a guardian of the fields.

Zorawar never gave names to these beasts.

The people always did.

They started calling him Rakshak — The Protector.

But with admiration came whispers...

"Who is this boy who creates beasts?"

"He doesn’t serve any kingdom..."

"Could he be one of the forbidden-born?"

"Maybe a Heretic?"

Zorawar heard them.

He didn’t care.

He just kept walking.

Later that day, as they passed a group of traders on the road, one woman stared too long at Zorawar.

"That’s the boy," she whispered loudly.

"The one who made the winged lights. I heard he turned a corpse into a forest guardian."

Zorawar kept walking, shoulders tense.

Another trader added, "I heard he talks to the beasts. Like, not commands them — talks. They listen."

Vyuk leaned closer and whispered, "You’re starting to sound like a legend, you know."

Zorawar muttered, "Legends don’t bleed."

"No, but they make good scapegoats."

He said it like a joke, but neither of them laughed.

In a scorched village where the trees were blackened and homes reduced to ash, they found a boy digging with his bare hands.

His fingers were cut. Bleeding. But he kept going.

Zorawar approached. "What are you doing?"

The boy didn’t stop.

"Mom’s under here."

No one else was alive. The fire had taken everyone.

Zorawar knelt beside him, placed a hand on the earth.

He could feel something—memories, pain, echoes of fear—left behind in the burned soil.

He whispered to the dirt. Not with words. With Pran.

Nothing happened at first.

Then a tiny flower bloomed beside the boy’s foot. Just one.

The boy cried. Not because it brought her back. But because someone tried.

Later that night, Zorawar sat silently near the coals of the fire. He didn’t eat.

Vyuk handed him a bowl anyway.

"You can’t save everyone, you know."

"I know."

"But you want to."

"Yeah."

One evening, they set up camp in a quiet hill pass. Trees surrounded them, and the stars peeked through broken clouds.

Vyuk was sitting nearby, scribbling into his journal again.

"Entry #42 of Zorawar’s Madness," he muttered, smiling.

Dren was curled beside one of the mole beasts, snoring softly.

Kairav stood at the edge of camp, silent, eyes scanning the dark treeline.

Without turning, he spoke.

"You’re changing too fast."

Zorawar was tossing a stone in his hand.

"Is that a problem?"

"Yes."

Kairav turned now, his face serious.

"Even beasts take time to grow. But you... your instincts are already sharp. Your powers are growing too quickly. It’s like... you’ve done all this before."

Zorawar didn’t respond.

Kairav stepped closer, his voice softer.

"There’s something inside you. Something building. Something... angry."

This time, Zorawar looked up.

"Can you blame me?"

Kairav’s face didn’t change.

"No. But I worry..."

He paused.

"I worry that one day, you’ll start blaming everything else."

Zorawar tossed the stone higher.

"You say it like it’s my fault."

Kairav didn’t flinch. "I’m saying it like it’s dangerous."

"To who?"

Kairav paused. Then, "Maybe to yourself."

Zorawar looked away.

"When I was a kid, I saw my village fall apart while nobles argued about taxes. My uncle died of fever. We had no healer. No medicine. No Pran-users. Just prayers."

"And?"

"And the gods didn’t answer."

Kairav stared at him. Quiet.

"Maybe they did. Maybe they sent you."

Zorawar scoffed. "I’m not a god."

"No. But you might be becoming something they fear."

That night, Zorawar couldn’t sleep.

He sat alone at the edge of the hill, the wind brushing his hair gently. In his hand was a small knife. In front of him, a piece of wood.

He wasn’t carving a beast this time.

He was making a totem. Simple. Rough-edged. But full of meaning.

Not for war. Not for glory. But as a sign of belief — his belief.

Every stroke of the knife reminded him of something:

The laughter of the children.

The crying farmers.

The abandoned towns.

The kings who sat on golden thrones while the weak suffered below.

As he carved, his fingers trembled slightly.

The wood whispered under the blade.

Each cut made him remember:

A mother offering him dried fruit as thanks, even though her pantry was empty.

A soldier warning him, quietly: "If the wrong lord hears of your gift, boy... you’ll be hunted, not hailed."

A little girl hugging one of his fused farm-beasts and saying, "You made this? Then you’re like a prince... no, better!"

He remembered smiling. But also feeling the weight settle in his chest like iron.

"What if I mess it all up?" he murmured.

Vyuk had joined him silently, sitting a few steps away.

"Then you mess it up," he said. "And we fix it together. That’s the whole point of a path, right? You don’t walk it alone."

Zorawar nodded slowly.

Then whispered, more to himself than anyone:

"Then I won’t just protect people. I’ll build a world where they don’t need protecting."

He stopped carving.

Looked out at the dark valley beyond.

And whispered to no one — yet to everyone:

"If the strong won’t protect the weak...

Then I’ll become strong enough for all of them."

The wind answered.

Not with words.

But it felt alive.

Zorawar’s fingers trembled slightly as he carved the last symbol into the wooden totem. The flickering campfire nearby cast long shadows over his face.

Kairav walked up quietly behind him.

"You’re changing," he said, voice low.

Zorawar didn’t look back.

"Isn’t that what pain does?"

Kairav sighed. "Just... don’t let it turn you into the very thing you want to fight."

Zorawar clenched his jaw.

"I won’t become like them."

There was a pause. Then Vyuk, sitting nearby with his half-written field log, added quietly,

"It’s easy to say that now. But when you have power no one else understands... even the purest heart can start to rot."

Zorawar turned toward them, his eyes reflecting the firelight.

"Then stay beside me. If I lose my way... remind me who I am."

Kairav nodded. "We will."

Vyuk smirked. "We’re not going anywhere. You’re stuck with us."

They shared a faint laugh.

But as the night deepened, and the forest hushed...

Zorawar looked at the beast totem in his hand again.

"I don’t want to just protect," he whispered to himself.

"I want to rebuild this world... one beast at a time."

He placed the totem beside the others.

And as the stars blinked above —

A thought passed through his mind like a shiver:

"If creation is power... then what happens when that power no longer needs me?"