The glowing wheel Krishna had conjured in the air still spun between them, but now it began to change. Arjuna watched as the images inside it shifted, dissolved, and reformed into something grander.

He saw a mountain — not Meru, not Kailasa, but something older than both. A mountain so tall its peak vanished into a light that was not sunlight or moonlight but something that had no name. The mountain was not made of rock. It was made of silence — the kind of silence that holds every sound inside it, the way the ocean holds every wave.

From the peak, rivers flowed. Not water — words. Arjuna could hear them, faintly, like a song carried on the wind from a distant village. The Rig Veda tumbled down the eastern slope in a rush of hymns. The Sama Veda flowed south, singing. The Yajur Veda moved west in steady, measured currents, carrying instructions for every ritual humanity would ever perform. And the Atharva Veda crept north, quiet and deep, holding secrets about healing and stars and the hidden names of things.

"The Vedas," Arjuna whispered.

"Yes," Krishna said. "And watch."

The rivers reached the plains below and spread into a thousand smaller streams. Where the streams touched the earth, people appeared. Arjuna saw a priest lighting a fire using words from the Yajur Veda. He saw a farmer planting by the rhythms of the Rig Veda's calendar. He saw a healer mixing herbs according to the Atharva Veda's ancient recipes. Every action — from building a house to singing a child to sleep — was fed by one of these streams.

"But look higher," Krishna said.

Arjuna raised his eyes. Beyond the peak, beyond the nameless light, he saw — or rather, felt — something he could not describe. It was not a thing. It was not a place. It was the source. The Imperishable. The syllable that was spoken before all other syllables, the ground beneath all grounds. It was everywhere at once, the way space is everywhere — not because it travels but because there is nowhere it is not.

And from this source, the mountain rose. From the mountain, the rivers of knowledge flowed. From the rivers, action was born. From action, sacrifice. From sacrifice, rain and food and life. And from life — gratitude, which rose like mist back towards the peak, completing the circle.

"Do you see now?" Krishna asked. "Every time a person offers something without selfishness — a prayer, a meal, an honest day's work — that offering travels all the way back up to the source. The Imperishable is not far away, Arjuna. It is established in every act of giving. It lives in the wheel."

The vision faded slowly, like embers cooling. But the warmth of it stayed in Arjuna's chest — a steady glow, the knowledge that even the smallest offering was connected to something infinite.