The valley smelled like death and metal. The cold wind, once soft and calm, now carried the scent of blood across the fields. Far away, the setting sun painted the sky red, like the heavens themselves were crying.
Old man Paras stood in the center of it all — proud, steady, like a lone mountain surrounded by chaos. His robe was torn, his sash soaked in blood. Every breath he took came out rough and heavy, but his eyes still burned with fire.
Across from him, Cho stood wounded, his right arm gone, wrapped in dirty cloth. His face twisted in anger, but behind it, there was something else — maybe fear, maybe respect.
"Old man," Cho spat blood, "you should've died long ago."
Paras didn't reply. He simply raised his bow again. His hands trembled, his body was breaking, but his stance was perfect — that of a man who'd fought too long to forget how.
Then came a low rumble from the mountain slope.
The rest of the Rakshas army had arrived.
A black sea of soldiers rushed down — armor shining, blades raised, voices howling like beasts. The ground shook under their charge. Paras didn't need to count — he could feel the weight of forty thousand enemies pressing against the air itself.
Behind a broken rock, young Vid watched. His small frame shook as fear crawled up his spine. He had never seen so many enemies, never felt such hopelessness. He covered his ears, but the screams and clashing metal still broke through. When he finally dared to peek out, he saw Paras take a sword cut across the ribs.
"Paras-ji!" Vid shouted, his voice cracking. But the sound was swallowed by the battle.
Paras stumbled but didn't fall. With sheer will, he swung his bow like a club, smashing the attacker's skull. One fell — then another — but more kept coming.
He fought like a storm. Every arrow was lightning, every strike thunder. But his steps were slower now. His body was failing him.
Vid's heart pounded. He had never seen a man fight on pure will alone. His mind screamed to run, to hide somewhere far away, but his feet stayed planted. Something deep inside him refused to move.
Cho roared and rushed again, his huge frame cutting through soldiers like a ship through waves. His sword burned red, his rage boiling over. Paras met him head-on, catching the blow with his bow. Wood groaned. Sparks flew.
They locked eyes.
"You can't last forever," Cho hissed.
"I only need to last… long enough," Paras said, voice rough but steady.
Then the horde crashed in.
Blades swung from every side. Spears stabbed from all angles. Paras moved like a wounded lion surrounded by wolves — every strike perfectly placed, every motion desperate but sharp. But his strength was fading fast. His back bent lower, his knees shook.
Vid's heart ached as he saw the old man stumble. Just for a moment — but that was enough. The sight broke something inside him. "Why are you still fighting?" he whispered. "You can't win this…"
Paras's words echoed in his head — I am an army of myself.
Vid clenched his fists until blood ran down his palms. He could still hear his mother's voice from long ago — telling him to find Lord Vishwa, to seek protection from the divine. But Paras had said something else — something dangerous, something real.
Be your own solution. Be the savior you want the gods to be.
Cho charged again, sparks flying as their weapons met. Paras was pushed back, barely standing. Soldiers shouted as they rushed in. Paras spun and fired three arrows — each hitting a throat, each giving him another breath. But his body trembled. His legs were weak.
Vid stepped forward without realizing. The wind hit his face, carrying the stink of blood and fire. Paras saw him through the chaos. Their eyes met, and the old man gave a faint smile.
"Stay back," he rasped before turning to block another strike.
But Vid didn't move. He just stood there, watching, feeling something new awaken in him — something burning.
He didn't know if Paras would live through this. But he knew one thing — he would never again be the boy who only hid. This moment would change him forever.
The dust over Dand Valley turned the afternoon into a dull, smoky haze. The air was filled with screams, the clash of swords, and the heavy smell of blood and fire. Vid stood barefoot on the warm, bloodstained stones of the ruined street. He was shaking, not just from fear but from the helplessness tearing at his chest.
"Why?" he shouted hoarsely into the chaos. "Why can't I do anything?" His voice cracked.
He grabbed a rock and threw it at the Rakshas army. Then another. Then another. Each throw was weaker than the last — more out of frustration than hope.
Suddenly, a rough hand grabbed his shoulder. "Boy!" a voice yelled.
Vid turned to see a villager — a man with one eye and a torn tunic. His grip was tight.
"You're coming with me," the man said.
"No! Let go! Paras needs me!" Vid struggled and kicked.
The man didn't argue. He just picked Vid up and dragged him toward the narrow alley leading to the ridge. "Paras's orders," he grunted. "He said no one stays."
Vid's eyes filled with tears. Over the man's shoulder, he could still see Paras — standing alone in the open, robes torn, bow in hand, facing an army that looked endless.
"Paras!" Vid screamed. "I can help!"
But the old warrior didn't turn. His gaze stayed fixed on the black wave of enemies closing in. The villager kept dragging Vid away, his boots pounding the dirt.
Just before the ridge swallowed him, Vid heard Paras's voice, faint but strong.
"Go, boy. Live."
And then he was gone.
Paras stood alone.
The ghosts of the fallen seemed to stand beside him, silent but watching. His chest rose and fell heavily, his breath tasting of blood and smoke. His body was broken, but his spirit burned bright.
A low, hoarse laugh escaped him — quiet at first, then louder. It echoed through the valley like the cry of a dying lion refusing to bow.
"I," he said, his voice clear even through the chaos, "Paras… will make a bloodbath here."
The Rakshas soldiers hesitated. Some looked uneasy. They could tell — this was not the bluff of a dying man. It was a promise.
A tall figure stepped forward — black armor glinting like molten metal. His voice was calm, almost respectful. "I should've been born earlier," he said. "To face you at your peak. I am Ke'dil'cho. But today will do."
He drew his massive, red-glowing sword. "Rakshas Knight Technique — Blood Flame Slice!"
The blade ignited in a burst of crimson fire, the air warping from its heat. It screamed through the air like a meteor.
Paras grinned. His grip tightened on his staff. "Festival Storm — Flame of Hope."
Golden light exploded from him, swirling upward like sparks from a sacred fire. The air trembled. Dust spun in wild circles. His energy burst out, old yet powerful, focused into one final storm.
The two attacks met.
Red fire crashed against golden light. The sound shook the earth. Soldiers were thrown back, the ground cracking open under the pressure. Heat and light filled the valley like a second sun.
And through it all, Paras stood — shaking, barely breathing — but his eyes never left Cho.
Vid ran, his lungs burning, his heart heavy. Behind him, the valley still roared with battle. Every crash, every scream tore through him.
He didn't want to run.
He wanted to fight.
He wanted to stay.
But his body wouldn't let him.
He fell to his knees beside a broken wall, gasping. His fists tightened, nails cutting into his skin.
"You fool," he muttered, his voice trembling. "You're useless."
He remembered his father's laughter. His mother's voice. The sound of children playing in the streets.
All of it — gone.
And still, he lived.He remembered how it all began.
The fire. The screams. The chaos.
The night the Rakshas army stormed their town.
His father was the first to fall, clutching a farming blade that had no chance against real steel. His friends disappeared into the smoke. And his mother—her hands shaking, her eyes wet with tears that never fell—grabbed his face one last time.
"Son, you know I follow Lord Vishwa… Find him. He'll protect you."
Those were her last words before she pushed him into the back alley. Then she turned around, standing between him and the monsters, holding only a kitchen knife.
She never came back.
Vid's nails dug into the dirt, trying to stop the memories. But they came anyway—each one cutting deeper than the last.
Then he heard Paras's voice echo in his head.
Not gentle like his mother's, but strong. Brutal. True.
"Be your own solution. Be the savior you expect some god to be."
It hurt, because Paras was right.
But right now, Vid didn't feel like a savior. He felt like a scared child.
He wanted to scream. To break something. To tear the world apart for what it took from him.
So he did the only thing he could. He screamed until his throat burned, hurling chunks of rubble at the ground. The stones shattered, but nothing changed.
That's when a shadow loomed over him.
A villager—one of the last survivors—grabbed his arm.
"Come on, kid. Now!"
"No! Let me go!" Vid kicked and thrashed, but the man's grip was iron.
"Paras's orders," the man growled. "He told me to get you out alive."
Vid's chest tightened. He didn't want to be saved. He wanted to stand beside Paras, to die fighting like him. But the man dragged him through the burning streets, and Vid's struggles only slowed them down. The further they went, the quieter it got—no cries, no footsteps, just the roar of battle behind them.
Paras had stayed behind.
Paras was alone.
Back on the broken streets of Dand Valley, the old warrior faced an ocean of enemies—forty-five thousand Rakshas soldiers, their armor gleaming through the haze of dust and smoke.
Paras's breath came heavy. His arms ached. Blood ran freely down his side.
And yet, he laughed.
"Forty-five thousand," he said, his voice raw but proud. "And you think you'll leave this place alive? No. This valley will be your grave. I, Paras, will make a bloodbath here."
Across from him, Cho straightened up, his mangled left arm hanging by a few strips of muscle. Even wounded, the Rakshas general grinned.
"I should've been born earlier," Cho said, voice deep and rough. "If I'd met you in your prime, old man, maybe I could've died with some honor."
Paras smiled faintly. "You think age took my strength? Let's test that."
Cho planted his sword into the ground, both hands gripping the hilt. The air shimmered with heat.
"Rakshas Knight Technique—Blood Flame Slice!"
A crimson wave of fire burst from his sword, roaring forward like molten lava.
Paras didn't move. His feet pressed into the ground. His hands drew a pattern through the air—slow, deliberate, perfect.
"Festival Storm," he growled. "Flame of Hope!"
Golden fire erupted around him, spinning upward like a cyclone. The two forces—red destruction and golden defiance—collided with a blinding explosion.
For a heartbeat, the world disappeared into white light and thunder.
Then came the shockwave, ripping through walls and tossing soldiers like leaves in a storm. The ground melted where the fire met.
At the center stood Paras, barely standing, eyes glowing like embers.
Vid's chest burned as he ran. The villager dragged him through the smoke-filled fields, away from the screaming and the clash of steel. He stumbled, crying, his voice breaking.
"I should've fought… I should've stayed," he muttered.
He grabbed a handful of stones and threw them weakly, as if he could somehow reach the battlefield miles away.
The villager said nothing. His weathered face was blank, but his grip was firm—like he was carrying something precious. Every step he took sounded heavier than the last. The air was thick with the smell of blood and ash.
Behind them, Dand Valley burned.
And Paras still fought.
Paras stood alone in the ruins. The Rakshas army had surrounded him completely.
His body was broken. His wounds leaked freely. But his spirit stood tall.
Cho watched him closely, his sword blazing red. "You've earned it, old man," he said. "An honorable death. Not decay… not time. Death by battle."
Paras smiled faintly. "I'm ready," he said.
He thought of Vid.
Of the stories from the old days.
Of the prophecy.
"They say," he whispered, "when the world drowns in greed and kings lose their way… a savior will rise to set things right."
Miles away, Vid lay unconscious in the villager's arms. In his dreams, he saw that savior—Lord Vishwa—returning in the world's darkest hour.
Back on the battlefield, Cho raised his blade.
But before it could fall, a sharp whistle sliced through the air.
An arrow.
It streaked across the sky—bright, glowing—not with fire, but something purer.
It didn't strike the ground. It shot straight upward.
The sky split open.
A hole tore through the clouds, swirling with energy. From it burst a dragon made of light, its roar shaking the valley. Its scales shimmered like glass, and then, with one great beat of its wings, it split apart—becoming thousands of blazing arrows raining from above.
The Rakshas army barely had time to scream.
Each arrow struck with divine precision, cutting through steel and armor. The night turned bright as day. Paras shielded his eyes, awe flooding his face.
"This power…" he whispered. "I know this power."
Then a calm, commanding voice rang across the battlefield.
"Step back, Paras. You've done enough."
Through the smoke, a man emerged—tall, steady, his armor shining like moonlight. Every mark on it told a story. His hair was dark, his gaze cold and focused. A bow rested in his hand, glowing faintly with power.
The soldiers who recognized him froze.
The Boomi Empire's strongest commander.
The demi-god archer whose arrows never missed.
The man who turned battles into legend.
Vick'belson.
He walked forward slowly, confident, like he already knew the outcome. The ground cracked under his boots as he stopped beside Paras, eyes fixed on Cho.
"Ke'dil'Cho," he said quietly, "you've lived long enough."
Cho grinned. "Vick'belson. So the rumors were true."
Vick drew an arrow. The string hummed, filled with energy. "Then this will be your proof," he said softly. "And your last memory."
The battlefield fell silent.
Even the dying held their breath.
Outside the valley, the villagers carried Vid farther away. His consciousness flickered in and out. In his dreams, he saw Lord Vishwa standing in the flames—just as the elders had told him.
But reality burned brighter.
The rift in the sky still glowed, and from it came another roar. The dragon's remnants turned into a thousand more arrows, raining down with blinding light.
Each one struck true—never a villager, never an ally. Only the enemy.
Through the haze, Vick stepped forward, his armor gleaming gold and black, his presence heavy as thunder. Behind him, the Boomi army advanced—banners flying, their formation perfect.
Paras grinned weakly. "Long time no see," he said. "Still dramatic as ever."
Vick's eyes scanned the battlefield. "Paras… you've aged."
"And you," Paras coughed, smiling faintly, "still act like you own the world."
Vick didn't respond. He just drove his halberd into the ground with a sharp crack. The Boomi soldiers moved instantly—archers on the ridges, cavalry forming a spearhead, shields locking tight.
Cho spat. "Another challenger?"
Paras raised his hand. "Not this time, Cho. This fight belongs to him."
Vick's voice rolled like distant thunder.
"Boomi steel—forward."
The first wave hit like a storm. Cho's lines shattered, their formation broken under the weight of Boomi's precision. Arrows rained down in perfect rhythm. The air filled with dust and screams.
Vick cut through it all, his halberd carving wide arcs. Every swing ended lives. Every step pushed the enemy back. Six lieutenants charged at him—seasoned killers all.
The first was cleaved in half.
The second slammed into the dirt with enough force to break bone.
The rest hesitated.
Paras watched, pride flickering in his tired eyes. "He's not fighting a battle," he murmured. "He's ending one."
Within minutes, the Rakshas front crumbled.
Vick raised his halberd, pointing toward the heart of Cho's forces.
"Boomi," he said quietly. "Break them."
And the army obeyed.
The Rakshas ranks shattered.
Cho's men fled.
The valley was filled with fire and light.
Paras leaned against a wall, eyes closing. "Your turn, old friend," he whispered.
"Don't let them see another sunrise."
And Vick'belson—the Demi-God Commander—walked forward through the smoke, a storm given human form.