The blazing vision still towered before Arjuna — the form with a thousand faces, a thousand arms, suns for eyes, whole worlds turning inside its body. Krishna had just spoken the most terrible words of all: that he was Time itself, the gatherer of all things. Arjuna's voice had shaken. His hands had trembled.

And then, slowly, something shifted in his chest.

The fear did not leave. But beside the fear, a great wave of wonder rose up — the kind of wonder that has to become words or it will burst the heart. Arjuna folded his hands. He bowed his head before the burning, boundless shape. And he began to sing.

"It is right," he said, and his voice grew steadier as he spoke. "It is only right, Lord of the senses, that the whole world rejoices when it speaks your name. Now I see why."

All around the cosmic form, Arjuna could see creation responding. Far off, where the light spilled into bright and gentle places, he saw beings lift their faces and shine — as though praising Krishna filled them with colour, the way dawn fills a grey field with gold. They were not afraid. They were glad, the way a child is glad to see a parent come home.

But in the dark corners, it was different. The fierce, grasping creatures, the ones who loved only themselves, were bolting in every direction, scattering like shadows when a lamp is carried into a room. They could not bear the light. They fled from it.

And in between, hovering in the radiance, Arjuna saw the perfected ones, the wise old sages who had spent lifetimes searching. They were not running and they were not merely cheering. They were bowing. Quietly, deeply, together, host upon host of them, their hands joined, their heads low.

Arjuna understood. The same light that gladdens the loving and humbles the wise only frightens those who hide. The world was answering Krishna exactly as it should. And so Arjuna, no longer only afraid, lifted his own folded hands to join the bowing of the sages.