CHAPTER 14 — THE THRONE THAT BREATHES
The Throne was not stone or metal or elements.
Arjun understood that the moment he stepped closer—before his eyes fully registered its shape, before his mind could assign it weight or form.
It breathed.
Slow.
Deep.
Ancient. Divine or Evil.
Each breath rippled through the void like heat shimmering over a desert horizon. Space warped subtly, folding inward and relaxing again in rhythm, as if the universe itself were lungs expanding and collapsing around it.
Arjun stopped.
His chest tightened in unconscious response, his own breathing faltering as though instinct demanded he synchronize with it—or be crushed by the difference.
The chains hanging from the Throne swayed with every breath.
They were massive, thicker than city walls, forged from concepts rather than metal. Some were snapped clean through, jagged ends drifting freely into nothingness. Others were partially embedded into the Throne's surface, fused like old wounds that had never truly healed.
They were not restraints.
They were scars.
Old ones.
Violent ones.
The Throne had been bound once.
And it had torn itself free.
Rudra stood behind Arjun, silent for once. His usual sharp observations failed him here. His hand hovered near his blade but did not touch it, as if steel felt meaningless in this place.
"So this is it," Arjun murmured, his voice sounding thin against the vastness. "The seat of gods."
Rudra exhaled slowly. "No."
Arjun glanced back, surprised by the weight in his tone.
"This is the seat of authority," Rudra continued. "Gods were just… tenants. Temporary occupants who mistook rent for ownership."
The Throne pulsed.
A deep vibration rolled through the void, not aggressive, not gentle—simply present. The Eye in Arjun's palm opened fully, but for the first time, there was no pain. No tearing, no burning.
Only awareness.
Recognition.
Arjun flexed his fingers, watching the vertical pupil adjust, as if focusing.
A voice rose.
Not loud.
Not quiet.
It existed in the space between thought and certainty.
"KEY-BEARER CONFIRMED."
The void shifted violently.
Arjun gasped as visions slammed into his mind without warning—no gradual descent, no preparation.
He saw humans lifted by worship, crowned by belief, celebrated as miracles incarnate. He watched their bodies stiffen, their faces calcify into unchanging expressions as devotion turned them into living idols.
He saw gods kneel.
Screaming.
Begging.
Rejected by the Throne as their belief decayed into fear, as faith curdled into obedience. He felt their power drain away, stripped not as punishment, but as necessity.
And then—
One final image.
A man sitting confidently upon the Throne.
Adhrit.
He looked radiant, composed, perfectly at ease. His posture was relaxed, one arm resting casually on the armrest as if the Throne were nothing more than a lavish chair. He smiled—not triumphantly, but knowingly.
As if he had beaten the system.
The vision cracked.
Like glass under pressure.
Beneath the surface image, Arjun saw the truth—the Throne pushing back, subtly, relentlessly. He saw Adhrit's divinity fraying, flaking away in microscopic fragments. The decay was slow, patient, inevitable.
The Throne was eroding him.
Not out of anger.
Out of correction.
"He's decaying," Arjun whispered, the words falling from him in horror.
"Yes," Rudra said, eyes dark. "Because he forced the seat. He didn't belong there. He made himself fit."
The Throne breathed again.
This time—
It leaned.
The movement was slight, almost imperceptible, yet it felt like a mountain shifting its weight toward Arjun. The void (Space)trembled. The chains rattled, echoing and flashing like distant thunder.
This was not command.
Not threat.
It was—
Invitation.
"YOU DID NOT SEEK ME."
Arjun felt the truth of it settle deep in his chest. He had never prayed to the Throne. Never begged it for power. He had resisted it at every turn.
"YOU DID NOT WORSHIP ME."
The chains stirred, fragments drifting farther apart, as if making room.
"YOU MAY SIT."
Rudra's hand shot out, gripping Arjun's arm hard enough to hurt.
"If you do," Rudra said urgently, voice low and strained, "you don't come back the same."
Arjun didn't pull away.
He stared at the Throne.
At the endless dark beneath it, layered with half-formed realities and abandoned laws. At the countless worlds balanced precariously on a lie so old it had been mistaken for truth.
"And if I don't?" Arjun asked quietly.
The Throne answered before Rudra could speak.
"THEN HE WILL REMAIN."
Adhrit's laughter echoed faintly through the void—distant, distorted, but unmistakable. It carried arrogance, relief, and a lingering confidence that the system would still protect him.
Rudra's grip tightened. "Arjun… don't let it corner you into this."
Arjun closed his eyes.
He thought of the ruined cathedral.
The failed God-Bearer.
The saints screaming as their miracles died.
Rudra vanishing without a trace.
Choice.
Real choice.
He opened his eyes.
"I'm not doing this to rule," Arjun said softly, stepping forward. "And I'm not doing it to save the Throne."
The void screamed.
Reality tore outward as if protesting the motion. The chains recoiled violently, snapping back in alarm. The Eye in Arjun's palm widened to its limit, lightless and absolute.
The Throne—
Stood up. Everything Shook like earth quake.
The movement was colossal.
Endless.
As it rose, entire layers of existence peeled away beneath it, revealing structures older than time and deeper than meaning. Authority itself unfolded, no longer confined to a seat.
Arjun did not stop walking.
And for the first time since it was forged—
The Throne faced someone who did not kneel. Its consequences may be very heavy that he must face.