For a time, the palace knew a serenity that had long eluded it. Shantanu and Ganga walked its moonlit corridors as though the world had fallen away, their laughter soft as wind chimes strung across heaven's gates. In the sacred gardens where spirit flora bloomed, they meditated beside lotus pools and debated the nature of the Dao, their hands often entwined, their auras mingling like rivers merging into a single stream. Ganga would sing celestial hymns while Shantanu rested his head on her lap, lulled by a harmony deeper than sound. For those brief seasons, they were not king and celestial guardian, but simply man and woman—two souls sharing breath, silence, and the fragile illusion of forever.
Under Ganga's gentle tutelage, Shantanu's soul core pulsed brighter with each passing moon, drawing upon the stillness of her river-imbued aura. Meditation beside her was like sitting within the source of the Dao itself. His breakthroughs came not with force, but surrender—his Core Formation stabilizing until, one quiet night beneath the twin moons, his soul lotus bloomed fully. The barrier shattered like rippling glass, and he stepped into the Nascent Soul realm with calm grace. That night, Ganga smiled—not as a teacher, but as a lover proud of a shared journey. In their union of breath and spirit, cultivation and companionship became indistinguishable, and for a fleeting moment, even the stars seemed to pause and watch.
Seasons passed like the gentle flow of the Ganga River—steady, unyielding, and indifferent to the grief of kings. In the quiet sanctity of the palace, the first child was born beneath the gaze of the twin moons, his cries soft and strange, as if echoing from some celestial realm. His eyes glowed with a light not of this world—pure, radiant, filled with unspoken destiny. Shantanu's heart swelled with hope… only for it to shatter moments later. Before the dawn broke, the infant's form began to waver, dissolving like mist caught in the morning sun. Ganga held him close, eyes glistening, and with a voice that trembled beneath sacred stillness, she whispered the ancient chant—Om Shuddhi Vimochana—a mantra of release, mercy, and return. She stepped into the river, and the waters embraced the boy without a sound.
And so the sorrow began.
Six more sons came to her, each born under the same silver light, each bearing the same brilliance, and each meeting the same end. Shantanu stood aside through it all, bound by the vow he had once offered in trust and desire. He watched in silence—helpless, aching—as Ganga, in her strange mercy, returned every child to the river before they could take their first steps upon the mortal path. And though no chains bound his hands, no curse silenced his tongue, the king could do nothing but endure… for he had sworn never to question her.
Each birth was a bittersweet hope. Shantanu watched, torn between awe and heartbreak, as the light of new life blossomed in his arms only to be extinguished by the cruel decree of fate. The pain settled deep within him—not just sorrow, but a gnawing fury that simmered beneath his calm exterior.
Was this punishment? A cosmic penance for his bloodline's sins? Or a cruel curse cast upon him by some unseen hand? Night after night, Shantanu's dreams were haunted by the faces of the lost children—ghostly reflections that dissolved like water in his grasp.
He confronted Ganga one evening beside the river, his voice a low tremble, "Why must this happen? Why are they taken from me?"
Her eyes, vast and ancient as the ocean, met his with a sorrow that seemed to carry the weight of the cosmos itself. Though she walked the world in mortal form, Ganga's essence hovered at the edges of Celestial Sovereignty—her spirit one with the cosmic tides, her breath resonating with the music of the astral spheres. The river was not merely her home but her body; its currents mirrored her will, and its depths whispered truths even sages dared not seek.
"They are not mortal children," she said softly. "They are the Vasus—celestial star spirits, once free in the heavens, now bound by a grievous curse."
Shantanu frowned, confusion and despair mingling in his chest.
"The Vasus were celestial beings, entrusted with the stewardship of the natural world," Ganga continued, her voice weaving the tapestry of forgotten lore. " The eight celestial spirits, radiant and wild. Once they roamed freely across the stars. But pride led them astray. Long ago, they stole the divine cow Nandini of the sage Vashistha, a being whose cultivation surpassed mortal reckoning, —a cosmic transgression that disrupted the balance of karma and dharma.
"The sage's wrath was swift and terrible. As punishment, the Vasus were cast down from the heavens, condemned to mortal rebirth. But their punishment was complex: to be born as mortals, to live and suffer,"
Ganga's gaze softened with compassion. " I promised to be their mother. Each time one is born, I release them before the burden of mortal suffering deepens. It is a mercy. And I must free them," she said, "even if the world curses me"
Shantanu's heart clenched at the revelation, his mind struggling to grasp the vastness of the cosmic tragedy that unfolded before him. These were no ordinary children. Each one was a fragment of the stars, fallen but not broken, caught in the cruel interplay of celestial justice.
For seven births, the cycle of hope and loss continued, each ending with whispered farewells and the silent sacrifice of a soul.
Shantanu remained silent, his pain growing like cracks across stone.
Each time she stepped into the river with a newborn in her arms, the waters wept with her. Ganga, celestial guardian of countless realms, had destroyed demons and nurtured galaxies—yet never had her divine hands trembled as they did now. She bore the weight of mercy disguised as cruelty. To free the Vasus, she had to shatter a mother's heart eight times over. The cries of the babies echoed in her spirit long after the river silenced them. In each sacrifice, a part of her divine essence unraveled—proof that even immortals are not immune to grief
Then came the eighth child.
Born beneath the twin moons, this boy was different. His eyes burned with storm-grey intensity, and on his chest glowed the faint but unmistakable mark of a lotus—an ancient symbol of purity, rebirth, and the potential for transcendence. When the child opened his eyes and the skies wept thunder—Shantanu stepped forward and took the child in embrace.
"No more," he said. "This one lives."
His voice trembled, yet rang with the force of a king and a father, the very air shifting around him as if acknowledging the breaking of something sacred.
Ganga's face fell—not in anger, but in sorrow, a sorrow vast and ancient.
"You have broken your vow," she whispered, and the river responded—still and solemn, like a temple after prayer.
"I cannot stand by while my child is taken," Shantanu said, stepping forward. His aura pulsed with turmoil, the refined clarity of his Nascent Soul cultivation clouded by mortal ache.
She closed her eyes. "Then I must leave," she said softly, like a tide receding beyond reach. "This was the pact. My time here ends."
The mists curled around her feet, the silver lotuses upon her robe dimming.
"This path was always meant to part, Shantanu. You chose love. I chose duty. And he—he must walk between."
Ganga's hands trembled as she gently lifted the infant from Shantanu's arms. Her voice, usually calm and resolute, softened with fragile tenderness.
"This one," she said, " is Devavrata—the leader of the Vasus. His punishment is unlike the others. He must live and bear the full weight of mortal existence, with all its trials and sorrows."
Shantanu reached out instinctively, desperate to hold his son close.
"I will raise him. He is my blood."
She shook her head slowly, her eyes heavy with a sorrow as deep as the river itself—yet beneath it, a quiet, unshakable resolve.
"No," she said, her voice soft but resolute. "He must walk a path beyond thrones and mortal glory. I will train him myself. He must learn the flow of the Cosmic Dao—the silent current that binds the stars to the soul. He will be shaped not by crowns, but by cultivation. I shall take him to the higher realms, where sages walk in stillness and time bends to spirit. There, he will learn the arts of balance, of sacrifice, of power without attachment. His fate is vast… and it will demand everything."
Her gaze met his—steady, unwavering, timeless.
"Your presence will tether him to mortal attachments and limit his growth," she said. "The path before him is long and perilous."
Shantanu stood frozen, torn between awe and grief. His heart ached with the weight of a father's longing—a longing to raise his son, to hear his first words, to guide him along the path of kingship and dharma. But bound by his sacred vow, and by the immensity of Ganga's truth, he could do nothing. Powerless, he watched as destiny claimed the child he had only just begun to love.
"I must go now," Ganga whispered, stepping toward the river's edge. Her robes billowed like waves around her, merging with the mist and current until she seemed part of the river itself.
"I will watch over Devavrata," she continued, her voice growing quiet, "and guide him through the trials that lie ahead. But know this—our paths shall cross again. In his eyes, you will see both me and the judgment of heaven."
She cradled the child with reverence, her voice a melody older than the sky.
"Cultivation is not the climb to power, Shantanu. It is the remembrance of who we were before names, before thrones, before sorrow. Each realm is not a conquest, but a relinquishment—of pride, of fear, of self. You have reached the Nascent Soul, but you will not pass beyond it until you surrender what binds you."
She looked upon him with infinite mercy. "Your soul cannot bloom further if it clings. Let it ache. Let it empty you. Only through that emptiness can the Dao flow again."
Then, without another word, Ganga stepped into the current with Devavrata in her arms. The river parted for her like a veil of light. She did not look back. But the child—small, wide-eyed, and silent—turned once over her shoulder. Their eyes met.
And in that single gaze, Shantanu saw a lifetime of partings. A destiny sealed in silence.
The river closed behind them, and only ripples remained—soft, endless, and echoing like the heartbeat of a father left behind.
Shantanu stood alone on the riverbank, the weight of loss and dharma pressing heavily upon him. He fell to his knees. Though the light of the Nascent Soul still pulsed within him, it no longer rose—it hovered, dimmed, bound by the burden of love unlet.
Without surrender, he would remain trapped—powerful, but unmoving. A monarch suspended between heaven and earth.
The Age of Dharma's Trial had truly begun—and the price of the river's gift was not merely sacrifice, but stillness, solitude, and a future forged beyond the reach of kings.