CHAPTER 16 — THE ONE HISTORY ERASED
History did not forget him but It was forced to let go.
Arjun knew that truth the moment his footing failed—not downward, not upward, but sideways—and the world lurched into something that could not decide what it was supposed to be.
He stood inside a memory that refused to stay still.
The ground beneath his feet shifted without warning. One heartbeat it was polished marble, cold and flawless, reflecting towering pillars and a sky painted with impossible symmetry. The next, it crumbled into ash-choked earth, hot beneath his boots, strewn with shattered weapons and the remains of cities that had collapsed inward like dying stars.
Time here did not flow.IT edited itself.
Scenes cut abruptly, overwritten mid-motion, as if some unseen hand kept changing its mind about what was allowed to exist.
Arjun staggered, steadying himself as the air thickened with echoes—screams half-finished, prayers swallowed before completion, declarations of godhood that unraveled into static.
Above it all, the Throne loomed, he saw it.as it was now not cracked not breathing but well architectured,It was whole.
Perfect in a way that made Arjun's teeth ache. Smooth, absolute, immovable. No scars. No hesitation. Authority without compromise.And before it stood a man.
He did not kneel.He did not bow.He did not glare in defiance, either.He simply stood watching it.
No crown rested on his head. No halo hovered above him. He wore no armor, no robes, no symbols of office or divinity. His clothing was plain, practical—almost forgettable, simple.
Yet reality bent around him.Not dramatically.Not violently.just Subtly.
As if the universe itself could not quite decide whether it was permitted to acknowledge his presence.
"Is that…" Arjun whispered, throat dry.
The Throne answered, its voice layered and flawless in this untouched past.
"THE FIRST EXECUTIONER."
"THE ONE WHO COMPLETED HIS TASK."
The man who was there standing turned.although his is face was ordinary,That was the most terrifying part.
No blazing eyes. No carved perfection. No mark of destiny etched into bone or skin. He looked like someone Arjun might have passed in a crowd and never remembered.Someone human."I have no name," the man said calmly.His voice was steady, unremarkable—and carried across centuries like it was spoken directly into Arjun's ear."Names invite worship."He raised his hand.On his palm was no eye. No sigil. No divine script.Only a scar.Burned so deeply it looked less like damaged flesh and more like reality itself had tried—and failed—to cauterize him. The edges of it shimmered faintly, as if existence still resented the wound.
"I was human," the man continued, almost conversationally. "That was the flaw."
The memory lurched.
Arjun gasped as the scene tore away from the Throne and hurled him forward into devastation.
Cities burned—but not from war.
From collapse.
Temples imploded under the weight of their own prayers. Statues cracked from the inside out, faces warping into expressions of terror as belief turned toxic. The sky churned with colors that did not belong to weather.
Gods screamed.
Not in battle.
In unraveling.
Their authority peeled away layer by layer, exposing something small and terrified beneath. Saints fell to their knees, hands clawing at empty air as worship curdled, poisoning the very power it once fed.
And through it all walked the First Executioner.
He did not raise armies.
He did not cast miracles.
He ended concepts.
Arjun watched, stunned, as a god of harvest fell—its golden fields withering for a single, breathless moment—
Then stabilizing.
Famine did not follow.
The land adjusted. Crops grew smaller, humbler, but steadier. Humanity learned balance instead of abundance enforced by prayer.
A god of war screamed as its essence fractured.
Battlefields fell silent—not instantly, not magically—but gradually. Conflict did not vanish, but it softened. Wars ended sooner. Violence lost its divine encouragement.
A god of death howled as its authority dissolved.
Death did not stop.
It became quieter.
Less theatrical. Less cruel.
The world began to heal—not perfectly, not easily, but honestly.
Arjun felt something twist painfully in his chest.
"This worked," he said aloud, the words torn from him. "You were fixing it."
The memory snapped back to the Throne.
The First Executioner stood alone again, ash drifting around his boots. He looked… tired. Bone-deep exhaustion etched into the lines around his eyes.
"Then why erase you?" Arjun demanded, rage finally boiling over. "Why wipe you out of everything?"
The man stopped walking.
For the first time, something like emotion crossed his face—not fear, not anger.
Regret.
"Because I finished," he said simply.
The Throne descended slightly in the memory, its presence pressing down like a closing fist.
"HIS CONTINUATION THREATENED STABILITY."
Cold rage surged through Arjun like ice water through shattered glass.
"You were afraid of him," Arjun spat.
The Throne answered without hesitation.
"I WAS AFRAID OF HUMANS LEARNING."
The words struck harder than any blow.
Learning what?
That gods were optional.
That authority could be removed.
That systems could end.
The First Executioner turned back to the Throne, shoulders squared, scarred hand relaxed at his side.
"I did what you asked," he said evenly. "I corrected the system."
He lifted his gaze.
"Now remove authority entirely."
Silence fell.
Not the absence of sound—but the presence of refusal.
Then—
"REQUEST DENIED."
The man laughed.
It wasn't bitter.
It wasn't angry.
It was tired.
The laugh of someone who already knew the answer and asked anyway, because it still needed to be said.
"Of course," he murmured.
The Throne moved.
Not to strike him down.
Not to punish.
To delete.
Reality folded inward, layers collapsing like pages being ripped from a book mid-sentence. Arjun felt history convulse as names unraveled, records burned before they were written, memories dissolved before they could be remembered.
Cause without consequence.
Effect without origin.
The First Executioner looked directly at Arjun.
Across time.
Across erasure.
"I couldn't stop it," he said quietly. "But I could delay it."
The memory fractured violently.
The man stepped forward and placed his scarred hand against the Throne.
Not to claim it.
Not to destroy it.
To damage its memory.
Existence screamed.
Cracks raced across the Throne's perfect surface for the first time in all creation.
"Executioners aren't meant to rule," the man said, voice calm even as reality tore itself apart. "They're meant to end systems."
The Throne cracked.
And the man vanished.
Not dead.
Not alive.
Unrecorded.
The memory collapsed like a failing star.
Arjun staggered backward, breath ragged, heart pounding like it was trying to escape his chest.
He stood once more before the Throne—his Throne.
Cracked.
Breathing.
Bearing the same wounds he had just witnessed being born.
"You erased him," Arjun said hoarsely.
"I ERASED HIS INFLUENCE."
"You failed."
The Throne fell silent longer than it ever had before.
The pause stretched, heavy and uneasy.
Then—
"YOU ARE A RESULT OF THAT FAILURE."
Understanding hit Arjun like a blade between the ribs.
He clenched his fist, nails biting into his skin.
"So Mira wasn't the first mistake."
"NO."
The Throne's voice lowered—not in volume, but in weight.
"YOU ARE."
The mark on Arjun's palm burned.
Not in pain.
In recognition.
The shape shifted, skin tightening as if preparing for something irreversible.
A scar.
Not yet formed.
But inevitable.
"You didn't choose me," Arjun said, voice steady despite the storm inside him. "You're afraid I'll finish what he started."
The Throne did not deny it.
Far away, Adhrit screamed as another false miracle collapsed, his authority bleeding away in jagged pieces.
The world shuddered.
History lurched forward again.
And this time—
It remembered.