The battlefield was drowned in blood.
Corpses lay scattered across the land—some torn apart, some crushed, others lying still with empty, lifeless eyes. The ground was slick and red, as if the earth itself had been forced to bleed.
Above it all, the sky burned crimson.
A blood-red moon hung silently in the heavens, watching.
Amidst that sea of death, a boy's voice broke the silence.
He was crying.
He was on his knees.
His body trembled uncontrollably, breath ragged, his chest burning as if every inhale tore something apart inside him. When his voice finally escaped, it was neither a plea nor a prayer.
It was raw.
Broken.
Forged from fury and despair.
Why… why did you do this?"
His words shook.
"Why did you kill them all? You were supposed to be a protector, Soma.
You are no protector—you are a rakshas!"
The cry echoed across the battlefield, unanswered.
The air reeked of iron and death. Silence pressed down on the land like a curse.
At the center of it all stood Soma.
His white dhoti, once a symbol of purity, was now soaked in blood, clinging tightly to his body. In his hand rested the severed head of a man—lifeless, abandoned, stripped of all meaning. Blood trickled down Soma's long black hair, falling to the ground in slow, steady drops, breaking the silence.
Like a cruel rhythm.
Like a cruel heartbeat.
Soma's eyes were cold.
Not angry.
Not sorrowful.
Empty.
When those eyes met Ishan's gaze, something inside Ishan shattered completely—hope, faith, belief.
Somewhere far away, a temple bell rang, its trembling sound mourning the fallen.
Ishan's cries faded into silence, but the question lingered like a curse:
Can a protector still exist when his hands know only blood?
Soma did not answer.
He did not move.
He was no guardian.
No savior.
He was no longer himself, but a vessel carrying an ancient force—one without mercy, and beyond reversal.
[THE PAST].
The world shifted.
Blood and silence dissolved into green fields beneath clear skies. A village stood peaceful and alive, untouched by tragedy. At its heart was a gurukul, where children sat cross-legged beneath ancient trees.
Their guru spoke calmly.
"There are many paths in this world—twenty in total," he said. "A path cannot be chosen by desire or effort alone. The path itself chooses the one it deems worthy."
He paused.
"Those who are chosen by a path and cultivate it through sadhana are known as sadhak."
The children listened intently.
"Our current village leader," the guru continued, "is a fourth-stage sadhak of the Dyaus Path—the Path of Raw Power."
Whispers spread among the students.
Among them sat IshanDyunath of the Dyunath Vansh—calm, upright, his presence impossible to ignore. His chakra had awakened when he was only two years old—far earlier than normal. The entire village placed its hopes upon him. Many believed that whichever path chose Ishan, he would rise far.
The guru's gaze lingered on him briefly before shifting.
It stopped on another boy.
Thin. Quiet. Almost invisible.
Soma.
His body looked fragile, dark circles heavy beneath his eyes. His chakra had awakened late—and even then, it was weak.
The guru sighed internally.
I doubt any path will choose him.
He turned his gaze away.
Soma sat beneath a tree, apart from the others.
People whispered behind his back wherever he went.
Children were warned to stay away from him.
Elders watched him with quiet suspicion.
Not because Soma had done something wrong—
but because no one knew who his parents were.
He had no surname.
No lineage.
No bloodline to claim.
In a village where ancestry defined worth, being born without a name was treated like a silent sin.
To them, Soma was an outsider from birth.
As the gurukul dismissed, Students began leaving, their voices fading into the distance. Soma remained seated under the tree, silent and still.
Ishan walked up to him.
Before he could speak, Soma lowered his gaze.
"This place…" he whispered. "It's always been the same."
Ishan stopped for a moment.
Soma lifted his eyes slowly.
"Ahh… it's over already?"
Ishan nodded. "Yeah."
Soma looked at him for a moment.
My only friend in this world, he thought.
Ishan spoke again, calmly.
"Come on. Let's go home together."
Soma stood up without another word and followed him.
On their way back, Soma froze.
His elder sister, Anaya, stood cornered near an alley.
Before her was Kunal Dyunath , the village leader's eldest son. His eyes were filthy, his intent unmistakable. He had long desired her and never missed a chance when he found her alone.
Soma rushed forward.
A brutal kick sent him crashing to the ground.
Kunal was a second-stage sadhak of the Pashu Path. Soma never stood a chance.
"Enough."
Ishan stepped between them.
Kunal stiffened. No matter his arrogance, he could not oppose Ishan—the village's rising star. With a snarl of frustration, he retreated.
That night, rain leaked through the broken roof of their hut.
Soma lay with his back turned toward Anaya, facing the wall.
Seeing his still form, Anaya thought he was asleep—or perhaps didn't want to look at her. She forced a small smile.
"It's nothing," she said softly. "Don't think too much about today."
But tears slipped silently down her cheeks.
Soma noticed.
He noticed the tremble in her voice.
The tears she tried to hide.
The person who had loved him since childhood, who had raised him—
and yet he couldn't even protect her.
The weight crushed his chest.
Seeing his pain, Anaya gently tried to calm him.
"Tomorrow is the Awakening Ceremony," she said softly. "Maybe tomorrow, a good path will choose you. If that happens, you'll grow strong—strong enough to protect me. Maybe you'll even become a village elder one day and change our lives."
Soma said nothing.
He simply stared ahead in silence, his eyes calm, fixed on the sadness hidden behind her smile.
The night moved forward—
toward awakening.