The sun was a dying ember over the chaotic skyline of New Varanasi. Here, the ancient stone ghats didn't just meet the river; they collided with towering neon billboards and hovering transit drones. The air was a thick soup of incense smoke and diesel fumes.
Twenty-one-year-old Aryan stood at the edge of the Dashashwamedh bridge, looking down at the swirling dark waters of the Ganges. He wasn't looking at the beauty; he was trying to drown out the noise in his head.
For as long as he could remember, Aryan felt... heavy. Not fat, but dense. Like his bones were made of lead instead of calcium. Every step he took felt like he was holding back a tidal wave. He moved slowly, spoke softly, and avoided conflict, fearing that if he ever truly "let go," something would break.
"Hey, Orphan! You daydreaming again?"
The harsh voice of Vikram shattered his thoughts. Vikram was the son of a local politician, a bully who used a high-tech 'exoskeleton-glove' to intimidate people. He was flanked by three cronies, their shadows stretching long and jagged across the concrete.
Aryan didn't turn around. "I don't want any trouble, Vikram. I'm just heading to the library."
"The library? Looking for clues about who dumped you at the temple gates twenty years ago?" Vikram laughed, his mechanical glove whirring as he balled his fist. "Maybe they left you because you're a freak. Look at you—you're sweating in 20-degree weather."
It was true. Aryan was burning up. His skin felt like a furnace. Specifically, a mark on his right shoulder—a faint, brownish discoloration shaped vaguely like a mace—was throbbing. Thump. Thump. Thump. It matched the rhythm of his heart, but louder.
"Leave me alone," Aryan whispered.
Vikram stepped forward, the hydraulic pistons in his glove huffing. "Make me."
He swung. The mechanical fist moved at a speed no human could dodge. It should have shattered Aryan's jaw. But time, for a split second, seemed to turn into thick honey.
Aryan's eyes didn't just see the fist; he saw the stress points in the metal. He saw the way the air displaced around it. Without thinking, his hand shot up.
CLANG.
The sound echoed across the bridge like a temple bell. The crowd nearby froze. Vikram's eyes widened. Aryan hadn't just blocked the punch; he had caught it. The high-grade steel of the exoskeleton glove was crumpling under Aryan's bare fingers like a soda can.
"What... what are you?" Vikram gasped, his face turning pale as he felt the literal ton of pressure Aryan was unintentionally exerting.
"I... I don't know," Aryan said, his voice trembling. He let go, and Vikram fell back, his expensive tech ruined and sparking.
Aryan didn't stay to talk. He ran. He didn't run like a normal man; he felt like a spring that had been compressed for two decades and was finally released. Every leap took him ten feet. His heart was a drum, and the heat in his shoulder was now a blinding white fire.
He ducked into a narrow, ancient alleyway—the kind where the walls are so close you can touch both sides. He collapsed against a damp stone wall, gasping for air.
"Control it, boy. If you breathe like a bellows, you will burn the oxygen out of this entire street."
The voice was calm, gravelly, and came from the shadows.
Aryan looked up. Sitting on a discarded wooden crate was an old man. He looked like a beggar, wearing tattered saffron robes that had seen better centuries. His hair was a wild mane of white, and a long, unkempt beard fell to his chest. But his eyes—they were unnerving. They weren't the eyes of an old man; they were bright, piercing gold, glowing with the intensity of a thousand suns.
The old man was peeling an orange, his movements slow and deliberate.
"Who are you?" Aryan panted, his hand clutching his burning shoulder.
"A student of history," the old man said, tossing a piece of orange peel. "And a witness to a very long slumber. You've been holding it in for a long time, haven't you, Aryan?"
Aryan froze. "How do you know my name?"
"I knew your name before the foundations of this city were laid," the old man chuckled. He stood up, and despite his hunched back, he seemed to tower over the alley. "The mark on your shoulder... it's crying out. It senses the shadow. The Asuras are no longer hiding in the dark patches of the universe. They are wearing suits now. They are signing laws. And they are looking for you."
"Asuras? That's just... that's mythology. I'm just sick. I need a doctor," Aryan stammered, backing away.
Suddenly, the temperature in the alley dropped to sub-zero. The shadows on the wall began to stretch and detach themselves, forming tall, obsidian-skinned figures with elongated limbs and glowing red slits for eyes. Shadow-Walkers.
"Doctors can't help with soul-rot," the old man said, his voice turning cold. "But a weapon can."
One of the Shadow-Walkers lunged, its fingers turning into blades of dark energy. Aryan braced for death.
"Stand tall, son of Vayu," the old man commanded.
In that moment, the old man didn't move to fight. He simply tapped his wooden staff on the ground. A shockwave of pure, golden light erupted from the point of contact. The shadows screamed—a sound like metal grinding on glass—and disintegrated into ash.
Aryan fell to his knees, the golden light reflecting in his pupils. He looked at the old man, who was now calmly finishing his orange.
"The world thinks it has outgrown its legends," the old man said, looking up at the neon skyscrapers. "They think a God is just a statue. They have forgotten that the wind doesn't die. It only waits for the right moment to become a storm."
He turned to Aryan. "My name is Maruti. And your training begins when the moon reaches its zenith. Don't be late, little monkey. The gate to Pataal is already creaking open."
Before Aryan could ask another question, a gust of wind whipped through the alley, stinging his eyes. When he cleared them, the old man was gone. Only the scent of sandalwood and a single, heavy bronze coin remained on the crate.
On the coin was the image of a mountain being lifted by a single hand.
Aryan looked at his own hand. It was still glowing. The weight was gone. For the first time in his life, he felt light. He felt dangerous.
The legend wasn't just coming back. It was standing in an alleyway in New Varanasi, and it was hungry for justice.