The heavens wept fire upon Vaikra's End, the ancient plateau once hallowed by the promise and coronation of empires. Thunder coiled like wrathful gods in heaven above, and below, the tattered pennons of five fallen kingdoms streamed in the gray dust — the pennons of the people sworn once unto the Conqueror of Avesham.
He stood solo on obsidian rock, his armor broken but still majestic, inscribed in old mantras that glowed gold against the storm. His sword, Dharmajaal, blazed with a scarlet aura—its blade cut from star-serpents' fangs and quenched in tyrants' blood.
Vijay Veer, the nation-unifier, war-saint of the East, breathed deliberately.
Standing before him were the five traitors — his own great vassals — with him surrounded as wolves around a dying fire.
A female warrior floated a foot off the ground, her arms capped with wisps of green mist. Flowers bloomed wherever she set foot—only to wither immediately. Her face was shrouded by a silk blindfold. By her side, a standing giant male in obsidian scale carried a molten blade that hissed whenever it touched the ground.
Another man, gaunt as bone and draped in billowing white robes, chanted in an unremembered language, calling up ghost-hounds crafted of salt and wind. The second woman carried a cloak woven of the night sky itself—each time she blinked, she extinguished a star in the sky above. And the final, a hooded man whose voice never uttered, stood with arms folded, his mouth stitched together with pulsing runes — the stillness about him split reality like glass.
And Vijay Veer smiled.
"I raised you all from mud to thrones," he said, voice like a hymn in iron. "You sat at my table. Swore your swords and souls to the dream of Avesham."
None of them uttered a word. The mute one merely pointed with one finger, and the assault commenced.
The sky erupted.
There was lightning from all directions, blades and curses, ghosts. The green-skinned woman threw thorned vines imbued with spiritfire; the giant's battle-axe shattered boulders into ash. The robed figure unleashed a torrent of blood-red shades, and the star-hooded woman spoke an illusion that made flesh devour bone.
But Vijay Veer strode like the eye of a godly whirlwind.
With a bellow of "Ashti Dharah!" he hurled Dharmajaal into the ground, and the sword sang.
A burst of pure light flared, sending three of his assailants flying off their feet. Ghostly chains burst forth from the earth, entrapping the silent one in a cell of unheard mantras. Vijay bounded over magic-fire and whirlwind both, his sword writing runes in mid-air, redirecting spells back against their originators.
But five against one.
Wounds opened — deep, holy wounds. His blood spat like mercury, etching glyphs on the ground with every drop. The flowers cultivated by the emerald woman sustained themselves on his agony, bursting into thorned creatures that nipped at his heels. The giant caught him in mid-run with a bludgeoning blow that shattered the armor over his ribs.
Yet he stood.
"You strike at your own father," he panted, "and yet your hands shake."
The robed magician released his last illusion — a shower of wraiths of memory. Dead faces shrieking reached out to claw Vijay Veer, telling him all he had lost — sons, brothers, even his name."
Even Dharmajaal was starting to fade.
But before the sword had its chance to perish, Vijay had lifted his other illusions.
A mandala of fiery script coalesced in the sky. His last spell — the Unspoken Reversal, a curse not against them, but against fate itself.
"If this flesh must fall. then let my flame rise again."
The heavens split open. Not with thunder — but with laughter. Old gods roused from their prisons. Time warped. The stars above went dark with terror.
And then, silence.
When the dust had settled, nothing was left but a sword standing, plunged into the earth like a monument — still pulsing, still waiting. The five stood battered, dazed. None ever spoke of what they beheld in that last incantation, nor of what cost was exacted.
But somewhere, far from Vaikra's End, a wail pierced the veil of rebirth.
A child had just been born.
The apartment lay in silent reverence, somewhere between yesterday's grime and tomorrow's routine. A plain 3BHK — too small to resonate with sound, too big to suffocate with space — its walls kept more silence than secrets.
The living room was functional, worn but not overlooked. A small sofa with sun-bleached cushions sat in front of a screen, cluttered with a mess of cables and a shelf too small for the amount of things that crowded onto it. A wall fan ticked its way round, like it had something to say but never quite said it.
There was a passageway inside. To one side, a metal-shelved kitchen with aluminum pots exhaled the final wisps of yesterday night's spices. The tiles had the soft stains of a thousand hasty meals. One steel cup rolled half an inch each time the refrigerator creaked.
More along, a room—sallow, still, window fractionally open—contained the stifled beat of shallow sleep and slow whir of ceiling fans. Bedclothes ever so slightly rumpled, air a degree too hot. Clothing draped over the back of a door like mute guards.
Another room, smaller, had the residual intentions of a nursery. Pale blue walls. A faint glow from a plastic light that imagined itself a star. The floor was largely uncluttered, except for one slipper faced the wrong direction. Something about the room was. contained. Not holy. Not evil. Simply observed.
The air did not shift much. But it heard.
The fan above spun with a slight squeak every third turn — a sound he'd stopped noticing until tonight. He lay on his back, arms folded beneath his head, staring at the fading glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling since he was ten.
Another terrible day. Another round of pointless chaos.
It had started with the alarm not going off. Or maybe it had, and he'd just slept through it. Studying until three in the morning for a subject that refused to stay in his head—dates, treaties, long-dead kings arguing over long-erased borders. None of it mattered to him.
History was just names. Blood without motion. War without weight.
He'd stumbled out of bed half an hour late, groggy and aching. The dining table had already been raided. Only a single slice of bread remained, the crusts dry, the corner already nibbled. The rest of breakfast—whatever it had been—was gone. His younger brother had eaten like it was a competition. No one had saved anything for the late riser.
The ride to school had been quieter than usual at first.
broken only by the sputtering of the old engine and the wind flapping his shirt collar. He kept his eyes on the road, hoping the topic wouldn't come up.
It did.
"So," the man said, barely audible over the wind, "what's the plan?"
He stayed quiet.
"You're sixteen now. You think time's on your side. It isn't."
Still silence.
"You can't punch your way through life."
That one landed. He exhaled slowly through his nose, gripping the side of the seat harder.
"There are kids in your class who've already joined coaching," the voice continued. "Bio. Physics. They know what they're doing."
"Yeah. Memorizing answers they don't understand."
"They'll still become doctors. Engineers. People who matter."
He turned his head slightly, voice low but sharp.
"You think I won't matter?"
"I think you'll matter when you choose to matter. And right now you're choosing to waste time beating up a punching bag on the roof!"
The scooter slowed slightly as they neared the school gate. The old man sighed, letting silence stretch long enough to feel final.
Then, softer:
"I just don't want to see you lose before life even begins."
He swallowed hard. The words were meant as concern, but they tasted like disappointment.
"I'm not losing," he said quietly. "I'm just not playing your game."
The scooter stopped.
Neither of them looked at each other as he climbed off.
No goodbye. Just the hum of the engine pulling away.
He kicked off his shoes now, letting one land awkwardly near the cupboard
The room was dark except for the faint blue of the charging LED on his phone. His bag still lay by the door, half-unzipped, history notes spilling out like the defeated troops of a war he didn't care to fight.
He sat up slowly.
His knuckles still carried faint marks from training on the rooftop two nights ago — rough edges against brick wall, fast jabs that punished air and shadow alike. He hadn't been taught by anyone. No coaches. No dojo. But his body knew. It learned. It remembered.
He flexed his fingers now, just to feel that quiet readiness hum beneath his skin.
Tomorrow was going to be worse.
He could feel it even now — the sneer, the shove, the laughter in the hallway. The same one who pushed too far, who joked too loud, who needed to be reminded that not everyone forgets how to push back.
And maybe tomorrow was the day that reminder would arrive.
He stood. Walked to the window. The city outside was small, sure — but it had corners sharp enough to cut. His breath fogged the glass for a second.
Then he whispered something to himself, not in anger, but certainty.
The body doesn't lie.
And when the moment came — it would answer.