The night smothered everything beneath its weight. No stars. No moon. Just an ocean of black, broken only by the distant growl of thunder. The sound rumbled low at first, then swelled, shaking the sky like something old and vengeful had stirred from its slumber.
A light tore through the darkness, streaking across the sky—not a falling star, nor the flash of lightning. But a man—worn, bloodied, and yet, still standing.
In his arms lay a frail infant, breathing so faintly it seemed as if the very fragments of a delicate world were slipping away with each shallow breath. Innocent, unmarked by war.
Crimson stains marred the soft fabric of the baby's clothes—thin lines of blood trailing down to his tiny hands. With lips stained red, the man whispered, "Even now… fate refuses to let us go?"
Darkness loomed on all sides. Then, far in the distance, specks of light shimmered in the sky. Figures cloaked in black surged toward them with relentless speed. Those who hunted them had found their trail.
Letting out a breath heavy with despair, he looked down at the child.
"No matter how far I carry you—to the ends of this world—they will find you. Your soul is a beacon to them."
His hands trembled—not from pain, but from a feeling far more unbearable than any wound. He had been entrusted with the child's protection. But now…
Steeling his heart, he made a hard decision. Time was running out. There was no other way.
With a slow, deliberate motion, he raised his other hand. A dagger materialized instantly—its hilt carved with the figure of a prowling tiger, as fierce and foreboding as the moment itself.
At his silent command, the dagger hovered just above the child's chest. His hands still shook, breath syncing with the slow, heavy rhythm of his heart.
"I was meant to protect you from all harm. But…. There's no other way."
For a moment, despair consumed him. He had known this would be difficult. But now, as he stood on the precipice of action, it felt like dying a hundred deaths at once.
"…Forgive me."
His gaze softened—an apology, a silent plea—as he lowered the dagger. Not to harm the child. Not to end his life. But to save him from a fate far crueller than death.
With a deep breath, he made the downward motion. The dagger advanced, soundless—almost as if asking forgiveness for the act it was about to commit.
As the dagger descended a blinding light erupted from the child's body, striking the man with relentless force. Before the radiance could spread further, the man gathered every last shred of strength he had left, launching an attack on the approaching figures. The brilliance of the assault cloaking the light bursting from the child.
But the soul's energy did not relent—it struck the man's chest, leaving a wound so deep that bone gleamed beneath torn flesh. His breath caught. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment. Yet his task remained unfinished.
He had known there was no way to hide the child's soul. The only choice had been to split its power. But as the soul divided, it felt as though the world itself resisted. A scream echoed—not of pain, but as if destiny itself had broken in sorrow.
Thunder roared. The sky split once more. The dagger, unable to withstand the soul's force, shattered. The ground beneath the man's feet cracked wide open. Shockwaves tore through the air—echoes of the power released from the child. Space warped, reality twisted, and in that fleeting instant—
The child was gone.
His body. Half his soul.
Vanished into the unknown.
Beyond even fate's grasp.
The man staggered, a cough tearing through him, blood dripping from his lips. The dagger had taken more from him than expected. His body screamed, his vision blurred, but he did not fall.
He could not afford to fall.
Footsteps.
Loud. Unforgiving. Drawing closer.
They were here.
At least twenty of them. No—more. Their leader walked at the front, his presence a blade against the storm. A man of iron will, eyes sharp as a hunter's spear. A man who had once called him brother.
The man inhaled slowly, steeling himself, muscles coiled, instincts honed. The child was safe. Beyond reach.
Now, there was only one thing left to do.
He lifted his gaze, meeting the storm head-on, and let the blade fall from his grip.
Then, he turned to face the end.
His roar split the air as he hurled a sphere of searing light which transformed in to a large tiger. It lunged forward. Desperate. Unyielding. It streaked forward—only to shatter mid-flight. Boom! Golden fragments splintered, dissolving into the abyss.
A retaliatory force tore through him before he could react. Blades of unseen power carved through his defences. He was weightless for a moment—then slammed against jagged stone. His body crumpled on impact.
Agony. Deep. Unrelenting.
Then—silence.
He lay broken, his blood pooling, staining the ground beneath him. Through the haze of pain, a figure emerged. Dark silhouette against a storm-torn sky. A man he once trusted.
Kundan.
"Brother," he said as he stood astride the broken Sampoorna beneath him. The word carried something unreadable. A mockery? Regret? Or something even darker? "You should've known. It was always going to end like this."
Sampoorna let out a weak, bitter chuckle. Blood dripped from the corner of his lips. "You once called me your greatest rival." His voice wavered, raw but sharp. "Now I'm just a fool?"
Kundan's expression flickered. A crack in his cold façade—there and gone in an instant. "You forced my hand, Sampoorna. You always did."
Pain laced Sampoorna's next laugh. It was raspier now, fainter, yet it carried something weightier than words. "No choice?" He swallowed back the iron taste in his throat. "No, Kundan. You made yours. And you chose power over family."
Kundan's jaw tightened. He didn't deny it.
Sampoorna exhaled, his breath shallow. "You always wanted to surpass me. Tell me… was it worth it?"
For a moment—just a moment—Kundan's eyes wavered. Then, he shut the hesitation away. "It doesn't matter. The boy is nothing but a tool. His Majesty has already decided his fate."
Sampoorna's fingers curled into the dirt. "A tool? He's a child, Kundan. Our family protected him. Our ancestors—"
"Our ancestors died for nothing!" Kundan's voice cracked like a whip. Shadows flickered at his fingertips. "They were fools. You are a fool. And I refuse to let their mistakes dictate my future."
Sampoorna gritted his teeth. His body refused to move. Too much damage. Too much lost. But his voice held firm. "You will never have honour, Kundan. No matter how much power you claim."
Kundan exhaled through his nose, cold and sharp. "Honour is for the dead."
A soldier approached, bowing slightly. "Elder Kundan, the child's energy signature has vanished. It's as if he never existed."
Kundan's fists clenched. "Gone?" His voice remained steady—too steady. Something flickered across his face. Disbelief? Hesitation? Fear? "No. That's not possible." His fingers twitched, grasping at something already slipping away. "Sampoorna, you wouldn't—"
The certainty in Sampoorna's weary gaze made his stomach twist.
The soldier hesitated. "We searched thoroughly, Elder. There is no trace."
A shadow passed through Kundan's eyes. A sliver of doubt. Grief? He smothered it just as quickly.
Sampoorna closed his eyes, his voice a whisper. "The elders say karma is shaped by every action—birth to death. I would never let him fall into your hands. Not to live a life of grief and cruelty. Not to die a traitor's death. I severed his ties to this world." His breath hitched. A single tear slipped down his face. As if a part of him had been lost forever.
Kundan's face darkened. "You… killed him?"
The words hung between them. Heavy. Unshakable.
Then.
A pulse of energy erupted from Sampoorna's broken form.
Kundan screamed. "Stop him!" He lunged. Fingers brushed against Sampoorna's torn robes—
Then, light. Blinding. Consuming. A searing explosion sent Kundan reeling. White-hot brilliance filled his vision, burning away all else.
When the radiance faded, the space where Sampoorna had lain was empty.
As if he had never been there at all.
Kundan's breath came in sharp bursts. His outstretched hand grasped nothing but empty air. A flicker of disbelief crossed his face.
He had him.
Until he didn't.
Jaw clenched; he turned sharply. "Search the area. I want him and the boy found—dead or alive!"
The storm writhed above, twisting in ways it shouldn't. Below, Kundan's forces scattered, unaware of the presence lingering above them.
A lone figure hovered in the sky. Watching. Waiting. His eyes gleamed—unnatural, unblinking. Amusement flickered across his face as he surveyed the wreckage below.
He lifted a hand. From the ruins, something stirred. Small. Faint. A thread of light, trembling as it rose toward him.
A fractured soul. He turned it between his fingers, gaze narrowing. It pulsed weakly, resisting him. Not whole.
"Strange," he murmured. "Why only a fragment?"
The glow flickered, defiant despite its weakness. He exhaled, watching its struggle with mild interest.
"A piece without a home." His voice was a whisper, dissolving into the wind. He tightened his grip. A chill seeped from his palm, curling around the soul's edges. 'If this is only part of you… where does the rest hide? And more importantly—who do you belong to?'
His gaze darkened. A silent pause stretched between him and the wisp of light. Then, as dawn's first glow touched the horizon, his form unravelled into the fading night. The soul fragment trembled once more—then vanished with him.
🔱 — ✵ — 🔱
The storm eased. The world stilled.
And then—space twisted.
A figure stumbled into existence, breathless.
Sampoorna.
His wounds barely sealed, his body weak—and his eyes burned. He didn't stop to breathe. His gaze swept across the battlefield, hands already moving, searching through the ruins.
Nothing.
His pulse pounded in his ears. No. No, no, no.
A chill settled in his gut. Someone else had been here. Someone had taken it.
His jaw clenched. There was no other way to save the child. He had known that. Hiding a soul that strong was impossible, so he had done the next best thing—split it apart, scattered its traces, buried the final piece where no one would think to look.
Kundan wouldn't have found it. He was sure of that.
So who did?
His fists curled tight. He had no answers. Only a single, undeniable truth—
He had to find both pieces. Before they did.
The wind stirred the dust. The battlefield lay still.
But this wasn't over.
Not even close.