The sun was sinking low over Dand Valley, glowing like a dying ember across the sky. The warm light faded slowly, swallowed by a long, creeping shadow. Out of that darkness came them — the Northern Rakshas Skull Army. At the front rode their leader, Ke'dil'cho. His armor was dark as night, covered in metal chains holding human skulls that clinked softly like eerie wind chimes.
His mount was no normal horse — it looked part beast, part demon — snorting thick steam into the air.
Each step it took hit the ground like a slow, heavy drumbeat that made every villager's heart pound in fear. Behind him marched fifty thousand warriors. Seeing them from the town gates was like staring into a living nightmare. Shields shone like insect shells, spears caught the red light of the setting sun, and black banners whipped in the wind, marked with the blood-red symbol of the Rakshas — a skull split by a jagged blade.
The people of Dand Valley froze.
Some grabbed their children and ran; others just stood there, staring in disbelief, hoping it was all a dream. But this was no dream. From the top of the old wooden watchtower, someone moved. The fading sunlight caught the shape of a bow and the pull of a tense string.
The archer took a deep breath… and released.
The arrow whistled through the air — then exploded. A burst of blue-white light tore through the front line of the Rakshas army, throwing soldiers into the air.
When the smoke cleared, ten of Ke'dil'cho's men were down, their armor broken and burned. But the army didn't stop. If anything, they grew angrier.
Like a swarm of ants kicked from their nest, they charged — thousands of feet pounding the ground together like thunder.
Every soldier was built for war, each strong enough to crush a man with one hit. From a narrow alley, Vid watched in horror.
His breath caught. It wasn't just their numbers that scared him — it was their aura.
They carried death wherever they went. And deep inside, that same terror brought back the memories he tried to forget.
Two hours earlier The inn smelled faintly of lentil stew and smoke from the hearth. Sunlight slipped through the shutters, laying soft golden lines across the wooden table where Vid and Paras sat.
Around them, a few travelers talked quietly, but their corner stayed silent. Paras leaned back in his chair, eyes calm but sharp.
"Son," he said, "why are you looking for Lord Vishwa?" Vid gripped his cup tightly. "Because my mother told me to," he said, voice low but firm.
"When the Rakshas came to my village… they killed everyone. My father, my brother…" His throat tightened.
"They fought to protect me. And my mother—" He stopped. The words caught in his chest. His eyes burned, and before he could stop himself, the tears came."She stood between me and the soldiers," Vid whispered.
"She didn't run. She didn't beg. She fought them with her bare hands until they cut her down." His breath trembled.
"Before she died, she told me to find the almighty god who could bring peace to the world.
She said his name was Vishwa… that he was blue, and the kindest being to ever exist." Paras' rough face softened.
The lines around his eyes deepened, not with age, but with quiet sympathy. For a long time, he didn't say a word. Then he leaned forward, his tone calm but sharp.
"Vid," he said, "I've traveled across kingdoms. Met kings, thieves, monks… and monsters.
But I've never seen this god you speak of. Not once." Vid's head snapped up. "Listen, son," Paras continued, his voice firm but not unkind. "You're sixteen.
You've lost everything. I understand why you hold on to this hope — I really do. But tell me…" He paused, his tone hardening.
"You never trained with a bow, did you?" Vid hesitated. "No." "Because your father didn't allow it?" "Yes." Paras' eyes narrowed.
"And now, instead of fighting — instead of learning — you're wandering around, waiting for a god to fix your world for you." The words hit like stones.
"Do you really think your father, your mother, your brother saved you just so you could grow up to hide from pain?" Vid flinched. "You're being weak," Paras said sharply.
"You want someone to be the savior you dream about? Then become that savior. The Rakshas took everything from you, and they're doing the same to others right now.
And you're here, wasting the life your family died to protect."
Vid's fists clenched. Paras saw it and gave a small nod.
"You still have time," he said. "You can either keep chasing a god who may never come, or work so hard that you become the reason others believe in miracles."
Vid's voice was barely a whisper.
"And if I can't?" Paras leaned back, eyes sad but steady. "Then no god will save you, son. Not in this world."
Vid's hands trembled as he clung to the edge of the alley, watching chaos unfold outside.
The image of his mother's final stand burned behind his eyes — her voice screaming for him to run, her blood on her hands, her courage burning brighter than any flame.
Paras' words echoed inside his mind, cold and sharp: Be the savior you want someone to be.
The Rakshas roared, their shouts bouncing off the valley walls. Another arrow shot from somewhere above, cutting through the dusk before exploding into blue fire.
Soldiers screamed. Steel clashed. The tide didn't stop.
Vid's heart raced. Every instinct told him to run, to hide — but his feet wouldn't move. His eyes stayed locked on the street where the Skull Army stormed through like a living wave.
The choice was here, now — between the scared boy waiting for a god, and the one ready to fight.
And then, from the heart of the burning town, came laughter.
It wasn't joy. It wasn't madness. It was something darker — the kind that chilled the blood. From the far end of the street, Ke'dil'cho appeared.
His black armor was scarred from countless battles, every dent telling a story. In his hand gleamed a sword that shimmered red, pulsing faintly like a living thing.
He raised it toward the sky, and the metal shifted — glowing a deep crimson as heat rippled through the air. Flames burst to life along the blade, swirling like living snakes.
The fire didn't burn wild; it moved as if the sword itself controlled it. The air shimmered from the heat. "I, Ke'dil'cho," his voice thundered, "Commander of the Northern Army under Lord Sur of the Rakshas Empire—" His eyes locked onto Paras. "—will hunt you down."
Without warning, Ke'dil'cho leapt. His movement was fast, too fast — almost animal. He landed on a nearby rooftop with such force the old wood cracked beneath him. Paras didn't flinch. He slowly raised his bow — a dark, worn weapon marked by fire and battle.
He pulled an arrow from his quiver and drew it back, the tension humming softly. Then he whispered, "Thousand Flame Cracker."
The arrow's tip burst to life, shining like a tiny sun. Sparks hissed into the air, lighting Paras' calm, focused eyes. Ke'dil'cho crouched low, sword blazing.
The world seemed to freeze. And then — they moved. Ke'dil'cho dove from the rooftop, descending like a meteor wrapped in flame. Paras released the arrow.
The two forces met mid-air. The impact exploded like a thunderclap.
The shockwave tore through the streets, shattering windows, breaking walls, and throwing soldiers aside like rag dolls.
The earth shook. Dust and fire filled the air. Vid felt the heat from where he stood, but instead of fear, something else lit up inside him — awe. Hunger.
A spark of courage. Paras stood his ground, bow still raised. Ke'dil'cho grinned through the smoke, his blade humming, sweat on his face but no weakness in his stance. For a heartbeat, everything went still.
Then Ke'dil'cho tilted his head slightly. "Old man," he said, not mocking, but with respect, "you are strong." Paras' breathing was heavy but steady. Neither moved. The air shimmered with heat as small fires crept along the street. The Rakshas soldiers stared, unsure whether to move or pray. Ke'dil'cho spoke again, his voice echoing over the rubble.
"Why fight alone, old man? Has your Boomi Empire abandoned you?" Paras didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached behind him and pulled out a plain wooden arrow. The crowd shifted nervously. "Abandoned?" Paras finally said. "No. I've never needed someone else's shadow to fight my battles."
He raised the arrow, whispered a few strange words, and then called out clearly — "Festival Storm: Arrows of Glory." He drew his bow, and the air shimmered. One arrow became ten, ten became a hundred, until the sky was filled with light. Five hundred glowing arrows arced above like a shower of golden stars.
The Rakshas soldiers froze, awe and fear twisting their faces. Ke'dil'cho grinned wider. "So the festival archers of Boomi still live." Then the arrows fell. Ke'dil'cho didn't retreat — he charged. His flaming sword slashed through the storm, cutting wood, steel, and men apart in bursts of fire and smoke. Soldiers screamed, tripping over their dead as the sky rained death.
Paras fired again, the bow thrumming like thunder.
The second explosion ripped through the air, throwing men and debris everywhere. The ground shook. Buildings split. The noise was unbearable. Vid huddled in the wreckage of a small hut, arms over his head. The walls cracked around him, the world roaring outside.
Then the second shockwave hit — tearing everything apart. He fell hard, the breath knocked from his lungs. Through the dust, he saw Paras — old, but unbroken — standing like a wall against the Rakshas tide. Ke'dil'cho was still laughing, swinging his burning blade like a god of war. Around them, the soldiers fell one after another.
And in that moment, something inside Vid changed.
All his life, he'd waited for someone stronger — his father, his brother, a god. But no one had ever come. Not for him. Not for his people. His mother's words echoed in his head: Find the god who will bring peace. He clenched his fists. No. He wouldn't just find that god. He'd become strong enough to stand beside him. He'd become the power his mother believed in. He'd become the weapon his world needed. Paras' shout cut through the chaos: "I don't need an army!" he roared. "I am the army! I will protect Pascha and the Boomi Empire from you, Rakshas scum!" Vid felt the words burn through his fear. He stood up.
Dust covered his hair and face, but his eyes were clear now — sharp and alive. He would learn archery. He would train until his bow was more than a weapon — until it became his soul.
One day, he'd stand where Paras stood, not as a scared boy, but as a warrior who could shake the earth with one arrow.
His heart whispered a vow: I'll become the greatest archer in Pascha. I'll find Vishwa. And I'll end this war.
The battle raged on, but for Vid — his war had just begun. about this