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The forest was drowning in darkness.
Beneath the moonless sky, a trail of weary warriors moved through the undergrowth like ghosts bound to a forgotten road. Their torches hissed with every step, flickering like wounded fireflies in the damp air. Trees pressed in from both sides—tall, silent things that had seen too much to speak of it. Even the wind held its breath.
At the front of the group, Asura rode in silence, his tattered cloak flapping softly behind him. His face was worn, half-lit by flame. When he finally spoke, his voice barely rose above the hooves on soil.
"We're heading back to the village, Master Vishma."
Behind him, Vishma lifted his gaze. The years had dulled neither his senses nor his authority. "And Daksha?" he asked. "Why is he not riding with us?"
Asura didn't answer right away. His eyes searched the path ahead, as if looking for something that wasn't there.
"He's still… lost," he muttered. "Still blaming himself."
Vishma's eyes narrowed. "Then that is exactly why he should be here. The only way to bury the past is to drag it into the light. If he keeps running from it, it'll keep chasing him."
Silence followed. It stretched between them like fog. Then Asura let out a breath and slowed his horse to a halt.
"I've known Daksha since we were boys," he said quietly. "He's the kind of man who carries pain like armor. Even when it's not his."
He looked down at his hands—scarred, calloused, stained with too many failures.
"He once saved everything I held dear. All of it—because of me. But one mistake, just one, and it all shattered. That was the last time I saw him truly whole."
Asura's voice cracked, low and rough like stone dragged over stone.
"This time… it broke something inside him that might not grow back."
The torchlight flickered as they stopped. The forest leaned in closer, as if listening.
"When someone hurts you," Asura continued, "you can either forgive or let time fade the scar. But when you're the one who caused it… when you spill the blood… it stays. And it rots you from the inside out."
Vishma's face remained impassive, but his eyes gleamed with thought.
"He spoke of someone else," the master said. "Someone who could stand against the Kara Army."
Asura nodded, slowly. "There is someone. But he won't lift a blade unless Daksha stands beside him."
Vishma straightened in his saddle. "He refuses to fight unless Daksha joins us?"
"He's waiting," Asura said. "And watching."
Vishma's jaw tensed. "I don't know what history lies between the three of you… but I know this much—soldiers don't get the luxury of waiting. Nor do they get to collapse."
He looked around at the worn men trailing behind them—faces gaunt, eyes hollow, armor dented by more than blades.
"You and Daksha both—you've forgotten what it means to be a soldier."
Asura bristled. "Discipline? That's what this is about?"
His voice rose, unfiltered for the first time.
"You see what's happening, Master? These men behind us… they're breaking. Quietly. Silently. But still breaking."
He gestured back. No one had spoken for hours. Just breathing, just marching.
"They look whole. But inside? Cracked. Shattered. And yet your rules—they tell them to stay silent. Keep the pain hidden. Never show weakness."
Parashu, riding nearby, tilted his head. "Rules? What rules?"
Asura shot him a glance. "The ones no one tells you. The ones we were trained to follow without question."
He nodded toward Vishma.
"His code. The unspoken law he built this whole unit on: A soldier must never appear broken. Not in front of an enemy. Not in front of his own. Not even in front of himself."
Parashu frowned. "But Master Vishma's just… a traveler. Isn't he?"
Asura's bitter smile returned. "That's what you think."
"I've only known him a few days," Parashu muttered. "He never said anything about… this."
Asura's tone softened, though weariness clung to every word. "He wouldn't. But long ago… he didn't just walk through villages. He built something."
He looked up at Vishma again. "Daksha and I were part of it."
His voice dropped.
"So was your father."
Parashu blinked. "My father?"
"They called him the One-Man Army," Asura said. "And he was. But before that, he was just another boy who followed the same code."
Vishma remained still, unreadable, but something deep stirred in his gaze.
Asura continued. "There was a time when the world was in chaos. Villages burned. Families vanished overnight. Those without warriors… didn't last."
"And then one day," he went on, "a man passed through. He saw what was happening. And he stayed."
He turned to Parashu.
"That man was Master Vishma. He trained the first soldiers—not just fighters, but guardians. One warrior from each bloodline, taught to protect, to lead. And it worked."
Parashu's eyes widened. "The original defenders…"
"The first bloodline unit," Vishma finally said, his voice barely above the wind. "But blood alone doesn't make a warrior."
Parashu swallowed. "But… you said my village had more than one soldier. I was always told my father was the last. Why?"
The question hung there—sharp, unrelenting.
Asura didn't answer.
Not right away.
They rode on, the silence more suffocating than the dark woods. The torches burned lower now, just enough to keep the night from swallowing them whole.
Somewhere behind them, history whispered through the trees.
And ahead… something darker waited.
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