The sun had finally begun to feel warm again. The skies, no longer burdened with thunder and divine screams, stretched wide and blue over the city.
Armaan's shoes hit the turf with a sharp rhythm—tap-tap-slide-shoot—the football rocketing past the goalkeeper with a whistle before slamming into the net.
"Again!" he shouted, already setting up another ball.
Samar, sitting on the sidelines sipping coconut water, gave a half-laugh. "You really did forget, didn't you?"
Armaan paused, wiping sweat from his brow. "Forget what?"
Samar raised an eyebrow. "The finals, genius. The inter-school championship? You're captain, left winger and the only guy on the team who can dribble past five defenders without breaking a sweat."
There was a long silence.
And then—
"…Oh crap."
The realization hit harder than any Daitya punch. The football final was in one week. The battle of power had ended, but another battlefield—grass, sweat, and goalposts—was calling.
The days that followed were a whirlwind of muscle memory and relentless fire. Armaan trained like he was fighting fate itself. And in a way… he was. Fighting the fear of losing again. Of letting anyone down.
He weaved through his teammates during practice with a fluid grace—light on his feet, impossible to read. Every touch of the ball seemed enchanted, his body moving on instinct honed from years of dedication.
Free-kick drills: He lined the ball just outside the box, breath steady, eyes locked. One swift curve of his foot—and the ball bent around the wall like a whisper and kissed the top corner of the net.
Dribbling practice: Three defenders closed in. He dropped his shoulder, slid the ball between legs, feinted left, twisted right, and burst forward. They didn't even see it coming.
Long-range shooting: At midfield, without warning, he slammed his foot into the ball. It soared, dipped, and struck the post—inside bar and in.
The team was in awe. Even the coach, silent for most of the week, clapped after one of his curlers found the net from 30 yards out.
"He's back," Samar grinned from the bench.
As the rest of the team cooled down under the shade, Armaan stayed back—still juggling, still focused.
His phone buzzed in his bag.
He walked over, wiped his hands, and pulled it out.
ADVIKA (Calling…)
He blinked, surprised.
He hadn't heard from her since… well, since everything.
Armaan answered, "Hello?"
Armaan held the phone to his ear, the soft crunch of the turf under his cleats the only sound as he walked toward the goalpost.
"Hii..." came Advika's voice. Light. Playful. Like the version of her he hadn't heard in what felt like years.
His chest eased a little. "She's smiling again..." he thought.
"Why are you panting though?" she asked, a teasing lilt in her tone. "Were you… fighting some divine monster again, or did you trip while being cool?"
Armaan chuckled, still catching his breath. "Nah, no monsters today. Just football practice."
"Football?" she asked. "Out of nowhere?"
Armaan nodded, then realized she couldn't see that and added, "Yeah… actually, I'd forgotten something important. Every year, there's this big inter-school football championship—schools from Howrah and Kolkata compete. The team that wins gets this massive trophy—almost the size of the Champions League one—and individual awards too."
Advika let out a soft 'woah'.
He continued, "Our school's been a part of it for years. I'm the captain. Left wing. I was supposed to lead the team this time too, but with everything that happened lately… I completely forgot."
She was silent for a second, then said with a small smirk in her voice, "Oooo… so this is the reason…"
Armaan paused, staring at the goal ahead, the sunset spilling golden across the field.
Then, quietly, sincerely, he asked:
"Will you come watch the final match? Bring Reet and Manvi too… if you're all free."
The wind picked up, rustling the leaves in the trees nearby, the football rolling slightly against his foot.
Her answer waited on the other end of the line.
"Heh? Really? We can come?" Advika's voice perked up, a mix of surprise and curiosity.
Armaan smiled, toeing the football gently as he leaned against the goalpost. "Yeah, why not? Family and friends are allowed. And the stadium they booked for the final is a big one—like, really big. Whole stands and everything."
"Hmm…" she replied thoughtfully, "I'll have to talk to Reet and Manvi about that."
"Of course," Armaan nodded, brushing a bead of sweat off his temple. "Just… please try to come. Alya will be really pleased to meet you again."
There was a pause.
On the other end, Advika blinked. Her brows narrowed ever so slightly. Her lips tightened in a way that would go unnoticed by anyone but someone truly observant. And her voice, when it came, was laced with a strange tension—a tight smile hidden behind calm words.
"Alya, huh?" she muttered, forcing a light laugh. "I… totally forgot about her."
But her tone betrayed her.
It wasn't venomous—but there was a clear shift. The usual softness in her voice dipped slightly, laced with something unspoken. Her cheeks puffed in the smallest pout, and her fingers curled around the bedsheet beside her as she sat on her bed.
"Yeah… I'll be there. For sure," she added, her voice suddenly perkier—too perky. "I'll cheer you on."
Armaan tilted his head, confused. "Y-Yeah?" he said, a sheepish laugh escaping. "Wait, what was that change in tone just now?"
"Nothing," she said quickly. "Never mind."
An awkward beat passed between them, filled only by the distant sounds of the football team packing up behind Armaan.
"Alright then," he said. "Talk to you later?"
"Yeah. Bye, Armaan."
"Bye."
The call ended with a soft click, but the odd tone lingered in Armaan's ears.
He stared at the phone, puzzled, then shook his head with a smile. "Girls are weird sometimes…" he mumbled, grabbing the ball again and heading back to the center circle—unaware of the light storm brewing on the other side of the line.
On the other side of the call, in her cozy room lit dimly by the evening glow, Advika was anything but calm.
She had flung herself onto the bed the moment the call ended, clutching her pillow like it held the secrets of the universe. Her cheeks were burning a deep crimson as she screamed into the pillow, muffled, frustrated, flustered.
Then, without warning, she began kicking the bed like a five-year-old denied chocolate.
"Huhhh, that Alya..." she growled under her breath, muffled by the pillow. "So she is my love rival now, huh?"
She rolled over, tossed the pillow aside, and sat up dramatically—her hair tousled, one eye twitching slightly. Then her lips curved into a mischievous grin… a dangerous, devilish grin—the kind Armaan would give when he really started to enjoy a fight.
"I won't let you win, little Alya…" she whispered, cracking her knuckles theatrically.
Her heart thumped like a war drum, but her pride burned brighter.
Meanwhile…
In a much quieter, gentler room—painted with soft pastels and lit by a tiny reading lamp—Alya sat peacefully cross-legged on her bed, a thick novel in hand. Her long hair flowed down her back as she turned a page with a delicate smile.
Suddenly—
"Achooo!"
She sneezed, adorably and unexpectedly.
She blinked.
Then rubbed her nose with a confused pout. "Hmm… did someone recall me just now?" she murmured with an innocent smile, looking around as if expecting someone to answer.
She shrugged, went back to her book…
…completely unaware that a quiet, unspoken war of hearts had just begun.
The gentle hum of music echoed through Armaan's room, his body relaxed as he leaned back on his bed, hands behind his head. His headphones muffled the world, eyes half-closed, the rhythm syncing with his heartbeat. It was one of those rare nights where peace had finally settled—until…
He felt it.
A ripple.
A distortion in the silence.
Armaan's brows furrowed slightly, his music fading into the background as a heavy aura crept through the air—a sinister prana.
He slowly sat up, removed the headphones, and muttered with a knowing smirk,
"Hero time, huh…?"
His gaze turned sharp.
"…It's a Shaitaan."
Standing up, he rolled his neck side to side with a quiet crack and stretched lazily, almost like a cat warming up before a hunt. He closed his eyes…
And when he opened them again—
He had transformed.
His Rakshak uniform shimmered into place:
A sharp white V-neck T-shirt clung to his frame, revealing the defined lines of his chest.
Over it, a long, black jacket flowed down to his ankles, the flame and shield insignia glowing faintly on the left side. The word "रक्षक" was boldly embroidered across the back in Hindi—but hidden beneath the hood that draped low over his head.
He wore black joggers, sleek and ready for action, paired with dark formal shoes—polished, but silent.
At his hip, his black blade rested quietly in its sheath, waiting.
In a blink—he vanished.
A narrow alleyway not far from the city's quieter outskirts.
A lone boy had fallen to his knees, trembling in fear as the shadow of a towering Shaitaan loomed over him. Its claws gleamed under the moonlight, eyes glowing with murderous hunger.
Just as the beast raised its arm to strike—
SWOOSH!
A blade spun through the air with terrifying speed—
THWACK!
The Shaitaan screamed in agony, reeling back as the sword lodged itself deep into its left eye.
Both the boy and the demon turned their gaze in the direction from which the blade had flown.
From the darkness, a voice drifted in, calm and laced with swagger—
"Yare yare… what's going on here?"
From the shadows, Armaan stepped into the dim moonlight.
His hood shifted back slightly, revealing a sharp gaze burning with resolve.
And in the next instant—he vanished again.
FLASH—
He appeared right beside the screaming Shaitaan, grabbing the hilt of his blade still stuck in its eye.
With a smooth pull and a single, fluid motion, he slashed diagonally across the demon's chest, the steel glowing faintly from the accumulated prana.
The Shaitaan roared, stumbling backward, stunned by the sheer speed and precision.
Armaan stood firm, blade in hand, its edge flickering with energy.
He looked over his shoulder at the terrified boy and gave a faint smirk.
"Go home," he said.
"This one's mine."
The real battle had just begun.