The fading sun cast a mellow orange glow over the crowded rooftops of Hyderabad, where dusty laundry swayed gently on thin wires, and the air was thick with the hum of life. The city outside bustled as always, but inside a cramped third-floor apartment, time seemed to have slowed.
Shaurya lay sprawled on his mattress, one arm behind his head, the other holding a battered smartphone just inches from his face. The screen glowed with the final episode of his favorite anime — Soul Land, the Indian fan-adapted version. He had been watching since his school days, and even now, with college barely hanging on and life throwing its usual punches, this one story still made him feel... something.
His room smelled of old books, detergent, and leftover instant noodles. The ceiling fan above ticked unevenly as it spun, adding a dull rhythm to the scene. Posters of mythical creatures and anime characters covered the peeling walls, some held up by hope, others by weak tape.
Shaurya's eyes sparkled as the protagonist summoned a spirit — the Divine Silver Vine — merging it with a mantra orb in a dazzling burst of golden light. The epic final battle was on, and he could feel the weight of every moment, every line.
"If only this world existed… just once… I'd give anything," he thought.
He smiled faintly, mouthing along with the characters' lines. His fingers brushed against the crude sketchbook beside him, its cover worn and edges curled. Inside were hand-drawn clan symbols, spirit ideas, even his own fictional bloodline: The Dharmaforge Sect — powerful, humble, forged from nothing. Unlike Tang San, the protagonist of the original, his hero didn't rely on some ancient sect. His hero started poor, alone, and rose by sheer will.
"Tang San had his master, his sect, his friends. I'd go solo. Build everything with my own hands. Forge my path... my way."
He tossed the phone aside as the credits rolled and stretched his arms. His joints cracked softly. Outside, the evening call to prayer echoed, mixing with the distant cry of a fruit seller. Shaurya sat up, scratching his head.
"A quick bath, then maybe I'll sketch that Garuda spirit idea…"
The thought trailed off as he walked toward the small attached bathroom. The lights inside flickered, and the mirror was already fogged from earlier use. He didn't mind. Steam was like a portal — a place where imagination ran wild.
Warm water poured down as Shaurya leaned under the shower, letting it wash over his face. He closed his eyes.
"Would people awaken spirits in temples?""Could mantra beasts be drawn from ancient Indian mythology? Like Rakshasas, Yakshas… or even Nagas?"
His mind drifted, a spark of excitement flaring inside him. He imagined himself walking into a spirit awakening ceremony, watching as glowing beasts circled above him, a Dharma Hammer forming in his palm. The world would be different. Fairer. More balanced. He'd make sure of it.
"Just a dream," he muttered, chuckling to himself.
Finished, he turned off the tap and stepped out. The floor was wet, slick from steam and poor drainage. A used soap bar, soft and nearly melted, had slipped from its holder and lay unnoticed.
Shaurya's foot landed squarely on it.
In that moment, everything changed.
He slipped. His arms flailed. There was no time to scream, no time to think.
His head struck the edge of the metal tap with a sickening crack. The sound echoed through the tiled walls like a final bell toll.
The light dimmed. Blood mixed with water, swirling around his still body.
His last breath left him in silence, and all that remained was steam... and a whisper of a dream never lived.
now from far away in a alternate universe
The jungle burned.
Faint orange light danced along the soaked treetops, flickering like dying fireflies under a storm-ridden sky. A single figure darted through the underbrush, black robes whipping with each stride. Blood stained the crimson sash around his waist. His breath came in short, sharp bursts, but his grip on the scroll never loosened.
Shaurya — disciple of the infamous Shaakt Clan, now hunted like a dog.
Behind him, the voices grew louder. Blades clashed in the distance. Shouts echoed through the trees.
"Find him! The scroll must not leave the forest!"
"He betrayed the Serpent Oath!"
But Shaurya wasn't running anymore.
He was choosing.
A clearing opened before him, and in the center stood a man — old, yet powerful, eyes gleaming beneath a hood of deep green. He leaned on a silver staff, carved with coiled serpents.
Elder Vedan, the last of the old guard. The only one Shaurya trusted.
"You came," Vedan said calmly, stepping forward as the storm rumbled overhead.
Shaurya knelt, blood dripping onto the grass.
"The scroll... the clan doesn't deserve it."
He unwrapped the snakeskin scroll and laid it before the elder. But then, from within his robes, he pulled out the obsidian medallion, its edges sharp, pulsing with a deep inner glow.
"And this… I don't know what it is. But it's calling to the scroll."
The elder's eyes widened. "Where did you find that?"
"It was with me… always. As if waiting for this moment."
Without another word, Shaurya pressed the medallion into the scroll. The symbols etched in the parchment began to shift and burn with blue-white fire. The scroll writhed, twisted — and then, with a blinding flash, transformed.
The Serpent-Fang Chakram.
A twin-bladed ring, forged from obsidian and spiritsteel, glowing with green-gold runes, humming with the energy of poison and fate. A weapon not seen in a thousand years — not just a weapon, but a legacy.
Shaurya stood slowly and held it out.
"This belongs to the next heir," he said. "Not the ones who chase power. Keep it hidden. Teach it to one who chooses wisdom over blood."
Elder Vedan's hands trembled as he accepted the weapon.
"You… truly are more than they saw."
The shouting grew louder. Shadows moved in the trees.
"Go," Shaurya said, turning toward the cliff's edge. "Tell no one what happened here."
Vedan hesitated. "There's still time to escape—"
"No. My fate ends here. But not my story."
He smiled — not of regret, but of peace.
"I will return… just not as the man you know."
And then, with a single breath, Shaurya leapt into the abyss.
The molten river below surged, swallowing him in a burst of light and heat.
But above, for just a moment, the storm stopped.
And far away, deep in the hidden chambers of the Shaakt Clan, an old prophecy began to stir.