In the land of Uttarakṣetra, where rivers flow sideways during monsoons and mountains sometimes rearrange themselves out of boredom, there stood a temple.
Not just any temple.
The Temple of Overcooked Irony.
Built entirely from melted sarcasm and reinforced with leftover puns, it was a relic from the First Yuga of Satire—when gods laughed so hard, universes collapsed by accident.
Nikāma, Kaśyapī, and the goat (who now insisted on being addressed as Vātraka, Son of Bleats) stood at the base of its stairs.
"These steps…" Vātraka muttered, "they mock you."
He was right. Every tenth step insulted the climber.
Step 10: Nice shoes. Did you buy them from the Blind Monk of Regret?Step 20: Your posture is screaming 'midlife crisis'.Step 30: Only 237 steps to go, Champion of Slight Inconveniences.
Nikāma grunted. "This temple is rude."
Kaśyapī, flapping beside him, smirked. "You're being broken down. It's a test of inner composure."
"Inner composure can go eat a mango," he muttered.
Inside the Temple…
A long hallway stretched ahead.
Each wall was covered in murals. Not of heroes or wars—but of awkward moments.
One painting showed a sage sneezing during a Yajña. Another showed a demon slipping on banana peels mid-villain monologue.
And at the far end… stood a door.
Tall. Carved with ancient glyphs. Guarded by a being wearing bells, slippers shaped like spoons, and a frown that had clearly seen too many dad jokes.
"The first Chrono-Clown," Kaśyapī whispered. "Time-benders trained in the Forgotten Circus of Vedākṣaya."
The clown spoke.
"Who approaches the Ladle of Limitless Laughter?"
"I am Nikāma—accidental bearer of Side Quests. I seek the ladle."
"And the toll?"
Nikāma blinked. "Toll?"
The clown grinned, eyes swirling like cinnamon vortexes. "One terrible joke. One pun. If I laugh, you pass. If not, you relive your most embarrassing moment… in slow motion."
Kaśyapī whispered, "He's not bluffing. It happened to me once. Took seven minutes to finish a sneeze."
Nikāma took a breath.
He looked deep into the soul of the clown… and said:
"Why don't Rishis argue during breakfast?"
A pause.
"Because it leads to karma-toast."
A long silence.
Then—The clown snorted.Then chuckled.Then fell over in convulsions of unholy laughter.
"You… may pass!"
The door creaked open, revealing a chamber of spinning relics, golden laughter echoes, and a pedestal glowing with Mahāvibhrama, the sacred energy of divine humor.
On the pedestal?
A ladle.
Silver. Spiraling handle. Dripping with condensed irony.
Nikāma reached for it.
The moment his fingers touched it, the world hiccupped.
Elsewhere… in the Realm of Script-Thread Weavers…
Narrativikāra burst into the war room.
"She touched the Ladle!"
Quills shattered. A senior deity screamed, "Activate Contingency P!"
"But that'll collapse the Foreshadowing Matrix!"
"DO IT!"
Back in the Temple…
The ground shook.
Runes ignited.
A voice boomed:
"YOU HAVE AWAKENED THE FIRST INSTRUMENT OF COSMIC RIDICULE."
"IN DOING SO, YOU HAVE BEEN INITIATED INTO THE ORDER OF Ṛbhu-Hāsa — WIELDERS OF DIVINE LAUGHTER."
Nikāma blinked. "Wait, what now?"
A second voice spoke:
"YOU WILL NOW BE HUNTED BY THE MINIONS OF DEADLY SERIOUSNESS."
"INCLUDING… THE Accountants of Eternal Dullness."
Kaśyapī shuddered. "Not the accountants…"
Vātraka whispered, "They audit your dreams."
The Road Ahead…
Nikāma stepped out of the temple.
Ladle in hand. Destiny shifted. Humor weaponized.
He didn't feel like a hero.
He felt like a walking punchline.
But he looked toward the east—where a storm of black suits and tax papers loomed.
"Bring it on," he said.
Then the Ladle burped.
It had absorbed too much irony too fast.
And somewhere in the sky, the stars rearranged themselves to spell:
"WELCOME TO THE MAIN QUEST."