The gods called it JapaNetra—an invisible lattice of mantras, rituals, and recitationswoven through devotion.
Every time someone chanted,every whispered hymn,every rote prayer murmured before bed—it fed the grid.
And the grid fed the gods.
But now?
The Breathborn weren't praying.
They were present.
And presence didn't flow into the grid.
It shattered it.
At first, it was glitches:
Rituals that used to calm now made people anxious.
Priests who forgot entire mantras mid-verse.
Hymns that no longer echoed the way they once did.
Then—the cracks began.
Whole temples reported stillness where echoes used to dance.
Golden statues turned dull.Floating scriptures fell.Faithlines blinked offline.
In the Celestial Court, Vaikuntharaja stood surrounded by fraying light.One of his eyes dimmed.He clutched his chest—not in pain.
In loss.
"They're not chanting," he whispered.
"They're just… breathing."
Aarav sat beneath a stormless sky.
He didn't smile.
He didn't speak.
He simply placed his palm on the ground and exhaled.
And across realms—
JapaNetra collapsed.