The scene fades into morning.
It's barely 5:30 a.m. The bus stand is wrapped in thick fog; the cold wind bites at the ears. Yash stands alone on platform 3, a faded blue bag slung over one shoulder—two pairs of clothes, a small towel, a steel tiffin box. He keeps glancing at his watch.
Two silhouettes appear through the haze.
"Yash!" Sameer's voice cuts the silence.
Mukesh jogs up behind him, panting, eyes half-shut with sleep, half-lit with excitement.
"Six o'clock bus, platform 2," Mukesh wheezes. "Ten minutes left. Let's grab tickets."
They join the queue. The old uncle at the counter grins. "Three for Rampurwa?"
"Rampurwa!" Mukesh shouts.
The bus rolls in—an ancient blue beast with "Safe Journey" painted on the cracked windshield. The door creaks open; a gust of icy air rushes inside. The three boys scramble aboard and claim the long back bench.
Yash takes the window. Fog thins outside, revealing ghostly hills. He asks, "How old is this Guru-ji? Will he even take us?"
Mukesh pulls out a biscuit packet. "Master Jagat Singh—past sixty, body like iron. Runs Vajra Academy. Over a hundred kids live and train there. I spoke to him. He said, 'Three boys? Bring them. Two months, and I'll turn them into men.'"
Sameer stuffs a biscuit in his mouth. "Two months? Bruce Lee took ten years!"
Mukesh laughs. "We don't need to rule the underworld. Just enough kicks, punches, and ground work to dust those college seniors."
Yash smiles at the window. "If he teaches us to fall and rise… the seniors will run on their own."
The bus lurches forward, swaying along mountain roads. Elbows jab, laughter echoes, then exhaustion wins. One by one, they slump into sleep.
Yash slips into a dream.
The same day returns—hazy edges, razor-sharp events. Rage has swallowed him whole. His eyes are pure black, a colour that holds only fury and something beyond human. Two thugs charge; he slams them to the ground like rag dolls. Deep gashes bloom across their skin; they writhe and scream.
Their boss can't stomach defeat. He sends his four deadliest men, knives gleaming in the dark. Yash stands motionless, black eyes unblinking, predator calm.
Four blades flash from every side.
A heartbeat later, four broken bodies litter the earth. One arm severed clean, one leg twisted at a sickening angle, two more with arms shattered to splinters. Blood pools; shrieks turn the night infernal.
The boss stumbles back, voice trembling. "Get the guns from the car. Shoot this monster."
Flashback—truth behind the blur.
As the four lunge, Yash moves like lightning. He rips a knife free and slices the first man's arm off at the shoulder. A second later he hacks another's leg and five fingers in a single stroke. The last two collapse under blows that powder bone. It happens faster than thought—screams, blood, unbearable pain.
The boss orders guns. Two surviving goons sprint for the car. Yash flicks a knife from twenty feet; it pins one man's palm to the car door. The goon howls, trapped.
Yash blurs forward—inhuman speed. The boss charges first, slamming Yash against the car, pinning him. "Hold him!" he roars. The plan: immobilise, then execute.
The last two goons grab Yash's arms. The boss's grip is iron, but Yash's strength is tidal. He thrashes; his shirt snags on the jagged window edge, rips free, giving him an inch.
Then the nightmare repeats: the men holding him crumple—arms snapped like twigs. Worst of all, the boss's eyes are gone, dark sockets weeping red. No one saw it happen.
Only one soul remains: the goon still nailed to the car by his palm. He trembles, tears streaming, pants soaked with terror and piss. The air reeks of blood and urine.
He falls to his knees. "Forgive me, sir. We'll never harm anyone again." He yanks the knife free, flings it at Yash's feet, and grinds his forehead into the dirt, begging.
Yash stands silent, black eyes burning holes. No words, no mercy—just a silence that screams louder than pain.
The goon waits five endless minutes, watching for a twitch, a strike. None comes. He crawls to his broken brothers, drags them into the car, and drives away without looking back.
The taillights vanish.
Yash's strength drains like water through cracked earth. He collapses, eyes fading to normal, body spent. Darkness swallows him.
Cut to daylight.
The bus brakes to a halt. Yash, Mukesh, and Sameer step down, bags slung, boots crunching gravel. They head toward the academy gates.
Yash walks in silence, thinking:
"Was that just a dream?
It felt like memory…"
Yash, Mukesh, and Samir finally reach the place after their long journey. Samir looks around and grabs his forehead in disbelief.
Samir (shocked):
"This… this is the place? We're actually going to live here? This tiny house and that shabby ground—feels like someone played a massive prank on us!"
Yash takes a deep breath and says calmly,
"Let's check inside first. Don't judge by the outside; it might be decent in there."
The three walk forward slowly.
The moment they push open the creaky wooden gate…
Their jaws drop.
Inside, kids stand in perfect lines, drilling like pros—
Kicks, punches, balance drills, meditation—everything razor-sharp!
Mukesh puffs out his chest proudly:
"Told you! A school with this kind of reputation can't be fake!"
They step closer and ask one of the kids—
Yash:
"We need to meet Guru Jagat Singh. Where is he?"
The boy bows respectfully and replies,
"Guruji is practicing in that room. Until he steps out himself, you cannot speak to him. Please wait."
The trio sits quietly and waits.
One hour…
Two hours…
Finally Mukesh snaps.
Mukesh (irritated):
"That's it! I'm going in. Just because he's a great guru doesn't make him God! Come on!"
Yash tries to stop him, but Samir's stubbornness wins. Yash gives in.
The three tiptoe into the room…
And the sight in front of them blows their minds!
Because inside, Guru Jagat Singh isn't training at all—
he's sprawled on a cot, binge-watching TV,
crunching chips with loud, happy smacks!
Samir (whispering):
"Bro… is this a guru or some uncle on vacation?"
Mukesh:
"Wait—he's been doing THIS for two hours?!"
Yash just stands there, holding his head in despair.