you made one... out of the most innocent soul.”

And then judgment began.

Every whip mark the boy once bore?
Krish raised his hand, and the same pain bloomed on his abusers.
Not forever, just enough. Enough to feel.
To never forget.

The fires that burned his cottage?
Now danced around Krish’s fingers like puppets—
He set their homes ablaze, not to kill, but to cleanse.

Their fake shrines?
He shattered them with a stomp, turning altars into dust and ashes.

And when the corrupted priestess screamed, “Mercy!”
Angel Krish turned.
Smiled—gently.

“Mercy is only for those who had it in their hearts once.
You? You sold yours to fear.”

Then silence.

As dawn rose, only three figures stood:
– Angel Krish
– The reborn child
– A small girl who once gave the demon boy a flower, now crying in joy.

Krish handed the child to her.

“Raise him right. Call him by a name. And remember—
No soul is born evil.
It is we who decide what they become.”

And then, he rose.
Into the light, wings folding once more.

But the villagers would always remember—
Not the punishment.

But the beauty of truth.
The power of justice.
And the wrath of an angel who came not to forgive…

…but to fight.

So that gave that sweet, innocent child the life he deserved. The angel couldn’t heal the pain he felt, but could always comfort him and give him a comforting space, always keeping a watch on him from that day and always that sweet soul finally got his sweet life.