God of War - Karmic Cycle [AU]

A/N: Sorry for the delay in upload.

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Of the many species that roam these lands of the living, five reign supreme: Deva, Asura, Manushya, Rakshasa and Yaksha.

Manushya, or humans are the most widespread of these species. They are defined by their character of exhibiting good and evil. Compassion and apathy. Their lifetimes are short but eventful as a result of their mortality.

Devas are angelic beings, virtually immortal though not unkillable. They are defined as beings of strong virtue and benevolence, said to uphold dharma or righteousness.

On the other end of the spectrum exist the Asuras, or demonic beings. Though they appear similar in form to Devas, they are more driven by ambition, pride and desire for power. Asuras can be benevolent or malevolent, and just like Devas, they are immortal.

Devas and Asuras exist in a higher plane called Svarga, or heaven, and Patala, or the nether, respectively. These planes are separated from Bhuloka, the realm of the living, and can only be crossed by beings that have attained moksha, or liberation from the cycle of birth and death to attain immortality.

Yakshas are spirits of nature often tethered to a region and supported by the collective power of belief of the region's inhabitants. They can be benevolent or mischievous.

Yet all of these species are born. Be it through reproduction, or manifestation through pure belief, they originate in that form. Rakshasas on the other hand are made. These are creatures, or monsters, predilected towards violence, slaughter, death and destruction. They are evil, through and through. Immense concentration of negative emotions or energy, and grudges can warp the minds of those most susceptible to it, turning them into entities with intelligence just above that of a wild animal but with a penchant for veering towards fight rather than flight.

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Rambha and Karambha were two brothers born into a declining dynasty originating from a lineage of powerful Asuras - the Danavas.

In an attempt to revive the dynasty, they decided to perform a powerful act of penance in reverence to both Varuna, the goddess of the ocean and skies, and Agni, the god of fire.

The brothers prayed with great devotion and conviction, so much so that it even caught the attention of Indra, the King of Devas and Svarga. Having witnessed the imbalance inflicted on the three realms by the two brothers' predecessors, Indra took it upon himself to nip the problem in the bud. And by taking the form of a crocodile he dragged Karambha, who stood in deep penance in the middle of a large lake, by his feet into the waters and drowned him.

Indra then turned his attention to Rambha, who'd witnessed his brother's brutal murder. But he wasn't deterred. He fought against his survival instincts and remained unperturbed in his prayers. And right as he was to meet the same end as his brother, the pit of fire he'd been standing amidst quenched itself and from it arose Agni himself.

Impressed with Rambha's devotion, the god saved him by driving Indra away.

Rambha was inconsolable. He was wrought with anger and sorrow, so much so that he vowed to cut off his head so that the person who'd killed his brother would meet a similar end. Agni responded, "To kill oneself is worse than killing another - it is a great sin."

In return, he promised Rambha a wish. "I wish for my brother to return."

But, that was beyond Agni's control as Karambha had already entered the cycle of rebirth, "But I can make it so that he will be reborn as your son."

Rambha prostrated himself with gratitude and added, "I wish for my son to be better than me in every way, with power rivalling that of Vayu, the god of wind - the strongest of them all - and incapable of being defeated by any man, Deva or Asura."

Agni affirmed and said, "So be it, the son you sire with a woman you covet, will be born with these blessings."

Despite the gratitude and fulfilment he felt, Rambha remained consumed by his thirst for vengeance. Determined to leave nothing to chance, he set his sights on Mahishi, a formidable Asura with the strength of a hundred buffaloes and the power to shapeshift into one. Her lineage was renowned for its potent abilities, making her the perfect instrument for his revenge.

Mahishi was immediately smitten by Rambha. He was, after all, a being with an impeccable appearance, and she was often ostracised by other Asuras for her hefty physique and skin that did not conform to societal standards of beauty. And thus the two married.

But Patalaloka wasn't free of conflicts. Another Asura, Durmada, harbored the same desires for Mahishi as Rambha. Driven by ambition and lust, Durmada challenged Rambha to a fierce duel, their demonic energies clashing amidst the dark caverns of the underworld. The battle raged for days, shaking the very foundations of Patalaloka. In the end, Durmada's cunning and ruthlessness proved too much for Rambha. With a final, devastating blow, Durmada engulfed Rambha in the unquenchable flames of the nether.

As Rambha was burned alive, his wife, Mahishi decided to follow him into the next life by jumping into the flames as well. Though she did not know that she was with child, and as Rambha embraced his wife, he felt the feet of his unborn fetus kicking from within her womb. The rage that consumed Rambha at that moment outstripped the flames that consumed him. With his dying breath, he let out a curse against the heavens and the Devas.

The flames that consumed Rambha and Mahishi became a crucible of rebirth. From the ashes, Rambha emerged, his form imbued with the fury of the netherworld. Beside him rose his son, born prematurely amidst the fiery chaos. But the child bore the mark of the inferno, his form twisted into a buffalo-like semblance.

Rambha, heartbroken but defiant, named his son Mahishasura, in honour of his beloved Mahishi. He looked upon his son, a creature of immense power and a vessel for his burning vengeance. Rambha knew that Mahishasura was destined for greatness, a force that would shake the heavens and fulfil his curse against the Devas. He would raise his son to be a warrior, a king, an unstoppable force of nature. The flames of revenge had been rekindled, and Mahishasura would be the instrument of Rambha's wrath.

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Mahishasura's ascent was swift and relentless. He possessed a cunning mind, inherited from his father, and the brute strength that came from his mother's lineage. As he matured, he became a master of warfare, crafting strategies that few could counter. Under his rule, the once-disparate clans of Patala were united, bound by either allegiance or sheer fear. Mahishasura was not just a ruler but a tyrant - a being driven by a single, all-consuming purpose: to avenge his father's death and claim dominion over the three realms.

Mahishasura's ambition was not limited to the netherworld. His gaze turned upward, toward Bhuloka, the realm of humans, and beyond it, Svarga, the celestial abode of the Devas. To him, these realms represented both conquest and vengeance. For years, he prepared his army, amassing an unprecedented force. He forged alliances with other Asura clans, striking fear into the hearts of even the fiercest demons of Patala. Mahishasura's reputation grew, spreading to Bhuloka and finally reaching the ears of Indra, the king of Svarga.

Indra, ever vigilant, resolved not to await Mahishasura's arrival at the gates of Svarga. Instead, he led the heavenly armies down to intercept the invading forces as they breached Bhuloka's borders.

The confrontation was devastating. Despite their vast numbers, the heavenly forces were no match for Mahishasura's troops. Within hours of first contact, the army of the heavens lay decimated, crushed by the overwhelming force of the Asura king.

The balance of the three realms trembled, shaken by the unimaginable defeat of the Devas and the rise of Mahishasura's unstoppable dominion.

In fact, the invasion into Bhuloka was simply a distraction, Mahishasura had sent a second invading force into the heavens in secret hoping that his presence on the battlefield in Bhuloka would distract the Devas. His ploy had succeeded. With Indra and the vast armies of heaven occupied and defeated in Bhuloka, the invading party in Svarga faced little resistance.

It was an utter defeat on two fronts, as Mahishasura's troops quickly conquered the heavens, granting him dominion over both the immortal realms.

After consolidating his troops, Mahishasura planned to invade Bhuloka and conquer it in one fell swoop.

The Great Preserver was quick to realise the dire implications of this. A being born in the immortal realms couldn't reign in the mortal realms without greatly destabilising the order in Bhuloka. This was also why he had to banish Mahabali many eons back even though he was a benevolent and devout Asura.

But he also realised that because of Agni's boon, his hands were tied. There was nothing he could do to defeat Mahishasura. At least nothing given the immediacy of the situation.

The moment Mahishasura's troops set foot into Bhuloka, the three realms rumbled. An unprecedented feat was about to be achieved. A feat that would shake the world's balance to its core.

Rambha, who stood at the rear of the invading army was ecstatic. As he watched his son decimate a human army with one wave of his mace, a sense of exhilaration consumed him. They were close to achieving their dream of uniting the realms under one banner. They'd defeated the Devas, sending Indra running with his tail between his legs. And there was nothing the great preserver could do to stop them. None could go toe-to-toe with his boy, for he was invincible, undefeatable by any man, Deva or Asura!

Man, Deva, or Asura.

MAN, Deva, or Asura.

___

Rambha had witnessed death before, but watching it claim his blood was different. Twice, he had seen his brother die, each death more savage than the last.

Now, as he beheld the goddess descending on the battlefield, astride a tiger and armed with two glinting talwars, a terrible foreboding knotted in his stomach. This was no ordinary foe. She was fury incarnate, an untamed force against which all of Patala's might seemed small.

Rambha could only watch as Mahishasura faced her alone. Powerless, he watched as the tiger lunged, its claws raking across his son's body, and as the goddess seized Mahishasura by his hair, dragging him through the dust. Horror filled him, yet he could do nothing.

He saw the tiger feasting upon his son, tearing into his flesh while he still lived, and the goddess stood above him, methodically draining his strength and his life.

He could do nothing but watch, helpless as death claimed his son in its brutal, unyielding grip.

Something snapped within Rambha that day.

Barefoot, he journeyed across barren lands toward the towering mountains where He resided.

Rambha prayed for years, forsaking food, water, and sleep. His devotion was unwavering; his purpose singular.

At last, his prayers were answered. The Raven-Skinned One descended from the mountains, his presence dark and foreboding.

Rambha's request was simple yet laced with desperation.

"For as long as a single drop of my blood touches the ground, let another be born from it," he pleaded.

"So be it," the Three-Eyed One replied, his tone as cold as stone. He raised his hand, and from his palm erupted a scorching beam of light. Its searing heat consumed Rambha in seconds, reducing him to a pool of blood.

But from that blood, something began to stir, rising from the crimson depths.

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Rakhtabhija, the blood-seed, that was his name now. It was the name they called him by. It felt fitting. A drop of blood was all it took for him to amass an army - a veritable field ripe for harvest.

"Your rampage ends here, monster!" The Deva's voice thundered across the battlefield. Resplendent in a gilded chestplate encrusted with jewels, he looked almost too pristine for war as he stood atop his chariot. The chariot was drawn by horses with wings, their golden bridles glinting under the sunlight. How absurdly grand. How impractical.

"We shall see," Rakhtabhija responded while letting his tongue slither out with ecstatic anticipation for the looming carnage.

How had it come to this? Why was he alone against the armies of Svarga?

Well, it all started with a simple slaughter of a city in the mortal realm. A slaughter that barrelled out of control and destroyed an entire kingdom.

And it didn't stop there. Like an endless tide of red, he kept reaving from one population centre to the next. Killing, and desecrating holy sites.

See, Rakhtabhija didn't care anymore. The dream of conquering the three realms no longer fancied him. Now, he was driven only by his thirst for devastation and the bittersweetness of vengeance - vengeance against the Goddess that had stolen his brother away from him. But he knew that she was elusive. She wouldn't show until he was deemed enough of a threat.

To do that, he had to make waves.

Eventually, his wanton desecration had sufficiently irked the pride of the Devas above that they'd decided to descend with an army. Though it did irritate him that the size of the party confronting him was less than half the size that Indra brought down to confront his brother.

No matter, they weren't taking him seriously. That would change.

"Nock!" The command rang out as the Deva general lifted his hand, and ranks of archers readied their arrows, points glittering with celestial light.

"Draw!" Rakhtabhija felt a slow grin spread across his face, the thrill of the fight humming through him.

"Loose!"

He raised his arms wide, welcoming the descending storm of arrows. Each arrow was like a dark point blotting out the sun and casting shadows across the battlefield.

This was going to be deliciously chaotic.

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Rakhtabhija didn't particularly enjoy devouring his prey. But it was a messy necessity. His powers were double-edged - he couldn't bleed endlessly. Although exorbitant, there was a limit to the amount of blood she could shed before it became irrecoverable.

To remedy that, he had to consume blood. And sucking the blood out of bodies drop by drop was too inefficient. Might as well pop the whole thing in and let his stomach and intestines handle the rest.

"tsk! You need to try harder," he grumbled. A groan responded. He looked below him and tapped the bruised cheek of the quartered general almost mockingly, before popping the man's severed arm into his gaping maw. Then, without ceremony, he hefted the appendage-less torso over his shoulder and dropped the general into his flying chariot.

"Tell them to bring more next time," he requested as he looked into the empty gaze of the man nearing death, before urging the horses to return the grisly package to Svarga.

"Now, to clean up this mess here."

Rakhtabhija bit his finger and let his blood drip into the soil. The drop sank into the ground like ink into parchment, and dark shapes began to rise from it - a lesser version of himself.

"Round them up!" He commanded his lesser selves, gesturing to the surrounding bodies scattered across the battlefield like broken dolls. Satisfied, he approached the large mound of corpses and settled himself atop it.

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The Devas had returned in greater numbers this time. But as Rakhtabhija surveyed the broken bodies sprawled before him, he knew: it still wasn't enough.

He cast a scornful glance at the corpse of the general whose defiant stare had faded to lifelessness. "I'm torn, truly," he sneered, leaning in close. "Should I be flattered that you dared to return, or insulted that you thought it would change a thing?" With a sharp, dismissive stomp, he crushed the man's skull beneath his heel, bone and blood scattering. "Insulted it is."

With a leap, he landed atop the towering mound of bodies that had amassed into a small mountain.

One scoop after another, he tossed bodies into his maw. Each bite was a brutal act, teeth ripping through flesh and sinew, his jaws grinding bones, his throat swallowing blood and entrails as though they were nectar. The more he consumed, the more his hunger grew, and the more his form warped.

His muscles swelled, and his skin deepened into a more savage shade of crimson as rivulets of blood trickled from his mouth, merging into his flesh. His teeth grew longer and sharper, his tongue morphed into a serpent's coil. His fingers extended into talons, each swipe allowing him to tear through the remains with even greater efficiency, each new corpse fueling a monstrous transformation.

At that moment, his sense of smell observed a sharp note against the iron tang of blood. There was someone nearby. His nose twitched, guiding his gaze to a figure standing at a distance beside the river Ganga. The river that flowed clear and blue was now viscous and crimson with blood.

His curiosity and a primal instinct kicked in. And in an instant, Rakhtabhija was on the move as he bolted from his position atop the mound of corpses.

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The Rakshasa thundered forward with each step inducing a seismic event. Its unsteady gait betrayed the creature's lack of control. With its raw and chaotic movement, it lumbered like a child struggling to balance. But despite its ungainly approach, it radiated an invisible menace. The palpable threat prickled against Kratos' instincts.

Kratos held his ground and braced for impact. His eyes narrowed as the creature's form blurred before him. In an instant, it was upon him with its sword-like claws slashing forward with a force that sent a violent gust of wind in their wake. His instinct kicked in and Kratos ducked just in time, as he heard the creature's claws whistle past him while it sliced the air inches above his head, missing him by the narrowest of margins.

He took advantage of the moment by stepping forward to close the distance between them. Having fought titans and monsters far taller than himself, he knew that the creature's size and lack of coordination could be used against it. It was one thing to have a powerful and large frame, and it was another to wield it with precision. This Rakshasa clearly struggled with its new form, as it had yet to perfect the instinctive sense of self that any seasoned warrior possessed. Without that, it was clumsy, vulnerable to misjudging distance and balance, and unable to adapt to the movements of its bulk.

This was often the case with beings that are thrust into a new form suddenly. And in every such situation, the best way to gain the advantage was to close the distance, because it was easy to overshoot an attack but extremely difficult to undershoot it.

The Rakshasa swiped again, but Kratos weaved beneath its arm, feeling the rush of wind as its swing barely missed him. With his movements hones through years of countless battles, he could slip past its strikes with ease. As the creature stumbled with its wild and unmeasured swings, Kratos threw body blows into its exposed sides. The sickening thud of his fists colliding against its flesh reverberated with each strike. Each hit destabilised it further, forcing it into an awkward rhythm that made it even more cumbersome.

Then, just as he anticipated, the Rakshasa faltered as it committed to a movement far beyond its level of control. It was all the opening he needed. Summoning his axe, he felt its weight in his hand as it returned, and he swung it upward in a smooth and deadly arc. The blade embedded itself beneath the creature's jaw, shattering its jawbone with a stomach-turning crunch.

Using the creature's thigh as leverage, he kicked off and drove the axe deeper using the momentum of his knee to thrust the handle's back, forcing the blade through its skull with brutal efficiency. Blood sprayed in a dark arc as the creature dropped to its knees. Kratos wrenched the axe free and brought it down in a final, crushing blow to its cranium, causing the gore and brain matter to fountain out.

It was over. Or so he thought.

Before his eyes, the pool of blood gathering beside the corpse began to move. The dark liquid thickened unnaturally, gaining a gelatinous quality as it twisted and morphed like living clay and reformed itself into smaller versions of the slain Rakshasa. Dozens of them. Each miniature creature glistened with fresh blood and their eyes flashed with a feral, relentless hunger.

Realizing the change in his enemy's approach, Kratos leapt back, adjusting his strategy. These smaller beings were nimbler. Their attacks were tighter and more precise. A close confrontation with them was unfavourable, so Kratos resorted to kiting them. Yet their smaller forms closed in with alarming speed.

He lashed out with his axe and struck them, but for everyone he cut down, more seemed to rise from the blood splattering the ground. It was as if each strike only multiplied their number.

Soon, he was surrounded by the smaller Rakshasas swarming him, scratching and biting, their claws slicing into his flesh with haphazard precision. Kratos swung, slashed, kicked, and punched, each movement a desperate attempt to keep them at bay. But their numbers kept growing, the red tide pressing closer, encroaching inch by inch.

He felt his strength ebbing as more of the creatures clambered onto him, tearing into his skin. With each new bite and scratch, his vitality diminished. His vision began to blur, and the cacophony of claws and snarls grew faint. It was now his turn to falter, as his footing slipped on the gelatinous accumulation of blood beneath him. And that was all it took for the horde to descend on him.

Kratos' last sight was a horizon of crimson flesh, descending upon him like a wave until he felt nothing at all.

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Yet he wasn't out for long. A rush of air entered his lungs, which he was certain were deflated and consumed as he still lived.

He looked around and noticed the creatures collecting the body parts of his form that they had just recently butchered. Yet here he was, remade anew. Unscathed. Prepared.

He immediately tossed his axe before confronting the nearest creature. He grabbed it from behind in a choke hold before compressing his muscles and snapping its neck in one swift motion. Before the horde could register, he was upon the next, and then the next.

Even after they officially engaged him, Kratos proceeded with the methodical precision of a seasoned hunter, taking down his enemies with unrelenting efficiency.

He could not use sharp weapons. And he could not let them spill blood. Rather untrivial conditions for victory, but he'd fought against worse odds and come out the victor.

As he finished his thirtieth opponent, Kratos noticed a shift. The creatures no longer moved alone, rather they formed groups of twos or threes with their backs against each other. And they no longer succumbed to his kiting manoeuvres, immediately disengaging when he drew them beyond a certain radius centring at a much larger version of their form that was rapidly growing. They no longer fell for his obvious feints, creating distance if an obvious opening presented itself. Gradually, they stopped falling for his more convoluted chain of moves that would draw them into a compromising state.

He didn't even anticipate it when a pair of arms rose from the ground and held down both his feet. For the second time, he felt himself being devoured alive and disassembled piece by piece. Before he was unceremoniously thrust back into his body that was unscathed like before he'd engaged with these beasts.

___

After his third attempt ended mere moments after resurrection, Kratos understood: that he had grown complacent. The edge he once held that was honed by the urgency of survival and vengeance, had dulled. His hands clenched into tight fists as he swallowed the bitter realisation that without the threat of true death, he had lost something vital - a sharpness, a desperation.

This was not his first encounter with a creature that could multiply itself endlessly. The Hydra's memory flickered through his mind. That was a foe that demanded precision and patience, as each severed head doubled its fury. That was the first time Kratos had to temper his fury and push his methodical thinking to its limits.

But the Rakshasa's power felt different - less predictable, more chaotic. Where the Hydra followed a brutal rhythm, the Rakshasa was pure frenzy. Yet this was also a facade. Because Kratos could see the sharp intelligence that flickered within the eyes of these creatures. Their mind functioned faster than his own, as their ability to adapt was quicker than any seasoned warrior he'd ever fought against - even Ares, who prided himself in being the greatest god of war.

They learned continuously. And their brutality followed with it.

But Kratos did not believe in invulnerability. Anything that breathed, could be killed - even him with his now limitless ability to resurrect. All that was necessary was perspective. And thanks to his limitless resurrections, he was afforded an unlimited amount of that.

With his fourth resurrection, Kratos shifted his method of approach.

There were many ways to kill someone without bloodshed. He'd tried one unsuccessfully. As his attention turned to the babbling stream of red behind him, another strategy presented itself.

He grabbed one of the creatures and leapt with it into the river. He held it down, as it scratched and clawed to escape his death grip. This struggle went on for a while before the creature went limp, and so did Kratos.

But within seconds, he was back, his axe in hand.

He leapt out of the river and found another and repeated the same.

It was a slower method. But it worked. However, he quickly realised that the creature wasn't averse to maiming itself to spawn more of its kind. And it didn't let the bodies of its fallen selves go to waste as another was waiting downstream to catch its own corpses and consume them, adding them back into its body.

Frustrating. But not a complete failure.