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“I permit it. You will do what you must. I allow it.”
The words echo with divine finality, ringing not only through the air but deep within the bones of the one who hears them.
They come from the King of the gods himself.
Indra stands with an unnatural stillness, his wild presence tempered by a calm that does not suit the storm-god. His voice, typically rich with thunder and arrogance, is steady—beautiful, yes, but strangely serene. His eyes, bright like lightning, hold a softness they have never shown before.
Even the sharp, regal lines of his face are different now. Relaxed. Gentler. There is a trace of something human there. A smile, faint and fleeting, like sunlight behind passing clouds.
It unsettles Arjuna.
To see that being—the sovereign of the heavens, the lord of storms, a god of endless appetite and whim—wearing the fragile mask of a man.
“Indra. My father.”
And then the god offers himself.
Without resistance. Without anger. Without pride.
He opens his arms, as if welcoming his son home.
Arjuna Alter’s breath catches in his throat. The weight of the moment presses into his chest like a stone. For an instant, all divine reasoning falls away. He steps forward—not as a Kshatriya, not as a weapon of destruction, but simply as a son. Slowly, reverently, his hand reaches toward the open space in his father’s chest. That sacred core, now bared to him completely.
He carries within himself the stolen powers of countless gods. He knows what this act means. What it will do.
And yet—
Those mighty arms, poised wide to accept the strike, move instead—
And wrap around him.
Firm. Unshaking. Warm.
A hug.
The embrace catches Arjuna off guard, grounding him more than any battle ever had. His breath hitches, his fingers curl slightly into the divine fabric of Indra’s mantle. He can’t begin to guess what this unpredictable, godly being is thinking—but somehow, that doesn’t matter.
He knows what has to be done.
His right hand trembles, but he does not stop.
He plunges it deep into the broad chest of the King of gods. The warmth of that body gives way to something brighter, purer. Inside, the divine core shimmers like a storm trapped in crystal. And into it, Arjuna reaches.
***
“…Arjuna?”
The voice snaps him back to the present.
The vision—so vivid, so real—vanishes in an instant.
Arjuna Alter blinks, breathing hard, and finds himself once again standing in the corridor of Chaldea’s Storm Border. The cool light above buzzes softly. The floor beneath his feet is smooth and sterile. And none of it matches the world that was just alive behind his eyes.
Bhima stands before him now, arms folded, concern knitting his brow. He leans in slightly, voice lowered. “Is something wrong… Alter?”
A second voice drifts down the hall, lighter, a little more pointed. Archer Arjuna—his white-clad counterpart—has stopped walking and turned halfway back. “What’s the matter?”
His voice is measured, the expression on his face even calmer than his tone, but the tightness around his eyes gives him away. He’s worried, too.
“…No. It’s nothing,” Arjuna Alter replies at last.
He shakes his head slowly, as if to physically rid himself of the lingering dream. The motion causes his long tail to drift up behind him.
A dream, he thinks. That had to be it.
And yet—
“I permit it. You will do what you must. I allow it.”
The words still echo in his skull. Their weight hasn’t faded.
He remembers the warmth of the god’s chest as he pierced it. The god’s smile, unwavering even as his divinity was stripped away. A father choosing to become the final sacrifice his son needed.
Yes. He was smiling.
That same god— his father —is here now, summoned to Chaldea not long ago. The Master had said it happened on a whim, the god answering Fujimaru’s call.
Archer had witnessed it.
But Arjuna Alter had not.
He hasn’t seen him. Not since then. Not since the day he ended him.
***
What kind of face am I supposed to wear when I see him again?
The thought stalks him like a shadow.
Since arriving in this Chaldea, he’s fought alongside many. The shards of his humanity, long shattered, have started to reform. Bit by bit, the light inside him flickers brighter again.
And because of that, he can’t face the god cloaked in that familiar warmth.
He can’t face his father.
So he avoids him. It’s easy enough aboard the sprawling Storm Border. He picks his moments, changes his paths, schedules his missions carefully. A god is difficult to miss. He simply makes sure he doesn’t cross that path.
Fujimaru says nothing. Bhima says nothing. Archer Arjuna says nothing.
But they all know.
Still—
“Is that my son Arjuna I see over there?”
The voice is unmistakable. Resonant, bright, ringing with joy and smugness both.
Arjuna Alter freezes.
The words were likely meant for Archer, and yet he feels them strike him—like lightning arcing straight through his chest.
He turns slowly, dread thick in his throat.
And there he is.
The King of gods, Indra.
The sight steals the breath from his lungs.
He is every inch as striking as memory dares recall. Tall and composed, with a quiet grandeur that draws the eye without needing to demand it. His form is clad in black, accented by glowing divine sigils and golden patterns like molten lightning frozen mid-flow. Pale hair falls across his forehead in soft, meticulous layers, catching the light with a silver sheen. Against the smooth, deep bronze of his skin, the lightning mark beneath one eye shimmers like thunder made flesh.
Arjuna Alter’s body moves before his mind catches up.
Step after step, he drifts toward the god like a sleepwalker.
His heartbeat thunders in his ears.
He reaches his dad. Close enough to touch.
And he does.
He rises slightly—Indra towers over them all—and places one trembling palm against the center of that broad chest.
The warmth behind the god’s garment hits like a blow.
Alive.
Real.
“H-Hey!” Bhima’s voice cuts through the silence, startled.
“Alter!?” Archer Arjuna, too, reacts. Eyes wide, foot lifting as if ready to dash forward.
But Arjuna Alter doesn’t move. His hand remains pressed to that chest, as if contact alone might confirm the impossible. His fingertips curl slightly, chasing some trace of proof—not of divinity, not of power, but of presence .
He doesn’t need to see a spiritual core or feel a bolt of lightning.
The warmth is enough.
Like… he exists. Here and now.
A fragment, perhaps. An echo from the Throne.
But real all the same.
Alive —if only in the way Servants are allowed to be.
The realization crashes over him, staggering. His breath hitches. His knees wobble.
And then he looks up.
His father is already staring down at him.
For once, the thunder god seems caught off guard—his storm-bright eyes slightly wide.
“I—I didn’t mean to,” Arjuna Alter blurts, yanking his hand away as though burned.
The shame claws at him instantly, raw and wild. What is he doing, touching a god like that? Touching him ?
Neither Bhima nor Archer speaks.
The silence presses in.
And then Indra moves.
He lowers his gaze, slowly, with intention.
His eyes, piercing and impossibly blue, meet his son’s without blinking.
He sees everything. Shame. Fear. Longing. Guilt.
And yet, he judges none of it.
His voice comes low. Careful.
“Yes. I am alive.”
Those words shatter Arjuna Alter. His lips tremble, his breath stutters. He can’t speak. His chest aches too much to allow it.
Indra continues, voice soft as mist.
“It’s fine…You don’t have to say anything. Just listen. The me from the other world—the god of that Lostbelt—he knew everything. He chose to entrust it to you.”
Each word settles gently but surely into the space between them.
“And you saw it through.”
The ache behind Arjuna’s eyes burns sharp and sudden. He can’t hold it back anymore.
“As expected of a son of the King of the gods. Whether it was right or wrong doesn’t matter. Arjuna…you did well.”
The Berserker’s eyes sting.
The tears come suddenly, as if some invisible thread inside him finally snaps. They fall, hot, fast, and utterly soundless. No gasps, no cries. Just silent proof of everything he’s carried.
They strike the floor unnoticed by the world but devastating to him.
Across from him, Indra stiffens.
The thunder god’s expression falters for the briefest second. His mouth parts, as if caught between instinct and hesitation, and for a moment it’s unclear whether he’s about to step back or say nothing at all.
But then, awkwardly, he raises a hand.
And ruffles his son’s hair.
The gesture is clumsy, broad-palmed, almost graceless in how uncertain it is. His fingers sink into dark strands and muss them with the delicacy of someone unused to touching without breaking.
But it’s real. And it’s enough.
Arjuna Alter doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t draw away. He closes his eyes and lets it happen.
He leans into it.
Letting the weight of that hand ground him, anchor him in the present. In this strange, fragile moment between a father and a son.
His shoulders tremble. His breath catches.
And though no sob escapes him, his whole frame quakes with the force of what he won’t say.
Indra exhales. A long, tired breath that shifts between a sigh and something sharper.
Then, in a voice that tries to scold but can’t quite hide the tightness behind it, he murmurs:
“But don’t you ever do something like that again. That kind of suffering…never again.”
The words crack something open further, and Arjuna Alter can only nod in response. Once. Then again. And again.
Indra gives a crooked little smile. Too human for a god.
Still ruffling his son’s hair, he lets his gaze wander… and lands squarely on the original Arjuna.
The Archer stands frozen, still and rigid as a marble statue, hands slack at his sides, eyes wide with the kind of secondhand emotion that he will never admit he feels.
Indra’s smirk stretches with all the casual smugness of a father god who knows exactly what kind of buttons to press.
“What?” he says, voice lilting, teasing. “You want some of this too?”
The Archer jerks back as if slapped by a bolt of lightning.
“I—I absolutely do not, thank you!!” he blurts out, voice cracking just slightly as he hurries to fold his arms and look away.
“You really should’ve just said ‘yes, please’ at that point, other me.”
The words slip out without thinking. Arjuna Alter wipes at his face with the heel of his palm, smearing away the wet heat clinging to his cheeks.
His voice comes out rough, breath still catching, but something inside his chest feels lighter now. Like a weight forged across countless yuga cycles—an endless turning of perfection and destruction—has finally, finally begun to loosen its grip.
And then, before he can stop it, he laughs.