Year 6652.
The house was small, warm, and filled with quiet life.
Three-year-old Vaibhav sat on the floor, legs sprawled in every direction, stacking wooden blocks with intense concentration. His tongue stuck out slightly as he tried to balance a blue block on top of a red one.
"Like this," Prabhat said patiently.
Twelve-year-old Prabhat knelt beside him, adjusting the block just enough so it didn't fall. He was already tall for his age, shoulders broadening early, eyes sharp but gentle when he looked at his little brother.
Vaibhav beamed.
"It's a tower!"
Prabhat smiled. "Yeah. A strong one."
From the kitchen came the soft clink of utensils and the faint scent of cooked spices. Ishara moved calmly between the counter and stove, sleeves rolled up, long hair tied loosely behind her. There was a quiet beauty to her—unforced, warm, the kind that made a house feel like home simply by existing in it.
She glanced into the living room, watching her sons for a moment, a small smile touching her lips.
"Don't fight," she called lightly.
"We're not!" Prabhat replied immediately.
Vaibhav nodded very seriously. "Not fight."
Ishara chuckled and turned back to the stove.
Then—
Knock.
The sound was firm, deliberate.
Prabhat looked up first, confused. They weren't expecting anyone.
"I'll get it," he said, standing.
He walked to the door and opened it.
A boy stood outside.
He looked about sixteen.
Black hair fell loosely around his face. His clothes were simple, dark, unremarkable. But his posture was straight—too straight for someone his age. And his eyes—
Black sclera.
White pupils.
Prabhat froze.
The boy inclined his head slightly.
"Hello," he said calmly. "I'm Lin Xuan. I came here for you."
Prabhat's breath caught.
"F–for me?" he managed.
Before anything else could be said, Ishara appeared behind Prabhat, wiping her hands on a cloth.
"Who is it?" she asked.
Her eyes fell on the boy.
In that instant—
Her expression changed.
Not fear. Not confusion.
Instinct.
Ishara moved without hesitation.
The air snapped as her hand lashed out, force condensed into a sharp strike aimed straight for the boy's throat.
Vaibhav squeaked from the floor.
Prabhat shouted, "Mom—!"
The boy stepped aside.
Effortlessly.
The strike missed by a hair's breadth, slicing nothing but air.
"Wait," the boy said calmly. "Ma'am. I'm not your enemy."
Ishara's eyes locked onto his face.
This time, she really looked.
At his eyes.
Her breath stuttered.
"…Those eyes," she whispered.
Her stance shifted—not relaxed, but no longer attacking.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
The boy met her gaze evenly.
"My name is Lin Xuan," he said. "I'm from the same bloodline as Arvind Nyxer."
The name hit like a hammer.
Ishara's face drained of color.
Prabhat's fists clenched.
"You're lying," Ishara said, but her voice lacked conviction now. "Arvind never mentioned—"
"I know," Lin Xuan replied. "He wouldn't."
Silence stretched.
Then Lin Xuan continued, voice steady but grave.
"I want you to come with me," he said. "There's something you need to know."
Ishara swallowed. "About what?"
"About your husband."
The word hung in the air.
Vaibhav toddled closer, grabbing Prabhat's leg, sensing something was wrong even if he didn't understand it.
Ishara looked down at her children.
Then back at Lin Xuan.
"…Give me a moment," she said.
Minutes later, they were in a car.
Vaibhav sat strapped into the back, clutching a small toy absentmindedly. Prabhat sat stiffly beside him, eyes never leaving Lin Xuan, who drove in silence. Ishara sat in the front passenger seat, hands folded tightly in her lap, knuckles white.
The car moved smoothly, too smoothly, the city lights blurring past.
No one spoke.
Eventually, the car stopped.
They stood before a large, quiet house—too large, too still. The kind of place that didn't feel empty, but restrained.
Inside, the air was calm.
The living room was spacious, clean, and warm in a different way than their home—controlled warmth, deliberate.
A girl stepped in first.
She looked young—around sixteen or seventeen—with light purple-white hair that shimmered faintly under the lights and soft purple eyes that held quiet kindness.
She bowed slightly.
"Please, have some tea," she said gently. "My name is Yan'er."
She carried a tray, setting cups carefully before Ishara, Prabhat, Lin Xuan—and even placing one in front of Anika, who had appeared without announcement and dropped onto the couch beside Lin Xuan like she belonged there.
Anika leaned back, purple hair cascading over her shoulders, eyes sharp but curious as she studied Ishara and the children.
Yan'er poured the tea, hands steady, movements practiced. When she finished, she sat down between Lin Xuan and Anika, posture straight, composed.
The warmth of the tea did nothing to ease the tightness in Ishara's chest.
Lin Xuan set his cup down untouched.
"Ma'am," he said quietly. "I'll be direct."
Ishara nodded once, bracing herself.
"Your husband," Lin Xuan said, "is dead."
The words shattered the room.
Ishara stared at him.
Prabhat's breath hitched sharply. "No—"
"He went on an exploration," Lin Xuan continued, voice even, unflinching, "to a Cristarion base in Jovaryn."
Ishara stood up so suddenly.
"Arvind—!" she cried out.
Her knees gave way.
Tears flooded her eyes as the world spun violently out of control.
The room tilted.
Then went dark.
Yan'er was on her feet instantly.
Anika caught Ishara from the other side.
"Hey—!" Anika snapped, steadying her. "Careful."
They lowered Ishara gently to the floor, calling her name.
But she didn't respond.
Prabhat stood frozen, fists trembling.
Vaibhav clung to his leg, confused, scared, too young to understand why his mother wasn't getting up.
And Lin Xuan—
Lin Xuan remained standing.
Silent.
Watching the consequences of truth unfold.
Confused.
They carried Ishara to a quiet room at the back of the house.
The lights there were softer, the air warmer. Curtains shifted gently even though there was no wind. Yan'er laid Ishara down carefully on the bed, brushing stray hair from her face, while Anika stood near the door with her arms crossed, unusually silent.
A few minutes later, another woman entered.
She looked calm, composed—mid-twenties perhaps, dressed simply, eyes sharp with experience rather than power. She knelt beside Ishara, placed two fingers lightly against her wrist, then her temple. A faint pulse of energy passed through her hands, subtle and controlled.
She sighed softly and stood.
"She's in a coma," the woman said.
Prabhat stiffened. "A… coma?"
The woman nodded. "Caused by psychological trauma. The shock was too severe."
Ishara lay still, her expression peaceful in a way that felt cruel.
"She could wake up at any time," the woman continued. "In a few days. Weeks. Months."
A pause.
"…Or years."
Vaibhav didn't understand the words, but he felt the weight of them. He tugged at Prabhat's sleeve.
"Mommy sleeping?" he asked quietly.
Prabhat swallowed hard. "…Yeah," he said, forcing the word out. "She's sleeping."
The woman turned to Lin Xuan.
"She'll need constant care," she said. "And distance. Too many familiar faces will keep pulling her consciousness back into the trauma."
Lin Xuan nodded once. "I understand."
"I'll take responsibility for her," the woman added. "Don't visit often. Not until she stabilizes."
Anika frowned. "You sure?"
"Yes," the woman replied calmly. "This is the best chance she has."
She raised her hand.
Space folded open beside the bed, a clean, circular portal shimmering like liquid glass. Without another word, she lifted Ishara gently and stepped through.
The portal closed.
Just like that—
Ishara was gone.
The room felt emptier than it should have.
Prabhat stood motionless for a long moment.
Then Lin Xuan turned to him.
"Until your mother recovers," Lin Xuan said quietly, "you will take care of your little brother."
Prabhat looked up, eyes red but steady.
"I will," he said. No hesitation. No doubt.
Lin Xuan studied him for a moment—then nodded.
From that day on, Prabhat trained.
Not like a child.
Not like a prodigy.
Like someone who had no choice.
Lin Xuan taught him discipline first. How to stand. How to breathe. How to endure pain without letting it define him. Strength came later. Control after that.
Vaibhav watched from the sidelines, too young to understand, but old enough to feel that something had shifted permanently.
Time moved on.
Two years passed.
Vaibhav and Alicia joined kindergarten—largely because Yan'er insisted that "at least children should have a normal childhood."
One afternoon, the house was unusually quiet.
Vaibhav sat at a small table, tongue sticking out in concentration, staring fiercely at a worksheet.
"Two plus two…" he muttered, scribbling confidently. "Twenty-two."
Yan'er paused mid-step.
Alicia, sitting beside him, glanced over.
"That's wrong," she said softly, erasing her own paper neatly.
"Two plus two is four."
Vaibhav frowned. "No. It's twenty-two."
Yan'er leaned over Vaibhav's shoulder, smiling patiently. "Vaibhav, numbers don't stack like that."
She gently corrected his paper.
Nearby, Alicia's sheet was already perfect.
Vivan—ten years old—sat cross-legged on the couch, reading a thick book titled Quantum Physics. He turned a page without reacting to the chaos.
Outside, Prabhat trained with Daichi.
Both were fourteen now.
Daichi laughed loudly as he swung a heavy strike. Prabhat blocked it cleanly, feet sliding back but stance intact.
"Again," Prabhat said.
Then—
The door opened.
The temperature dropped.
Lin Xuan stepped inside.
His clothes were torn. Blood stained his sleeve and side. One arm hung slightly lower than it should have.
Anika supported him, one arm around his shoulder, her own clothes soaked red. Behind them came Arjun and Theo—both injured, both silent, blood drying on their skin.
Yan'er froze.
Then moved.
She rushed forward as Anika and Lin Xuan reached the living room.
"Sit," Yan'er said urgently.
Together, Anika and Yan'er lowered Lin Xuan onto the couch.
Before anyone could speak, Vivan stood and calmly ushered Vaibhav and Alicia away.
"Come," he said gently. "Let's go to another room."
They obeyed.
The living room fell quiet.
A woman lay on the floor nearby, shoulders shaking, sobbing uncontrollably.
Lin Xuan pushed himself down from the couch and knelt in front of her.
He lifted her chin carefully.
"Daeun," he said softly. "It's okay now."
Her eyes were red, unfocused.
"I…" she cried. "I…"
Lin Xuan shook his head.
"It's okay." he said.
She collapsed forward, burying her face against his chest, sobbing harder.
Lin Xuan wrapped one arm around her.
And for a long moment—
He let her cry.