Aryaman did not know whether he was falling… or floating.
There was no wind. No sky. No earth.Only an endless twilight, a vast ocean of dusky grey that stretched in all directions. Time felt suspended here, stretched thin like silk about to tear. His body drifted weightlessly, pain beating somewhere distant—muted, as if happening to someone else.
A faint ripple passed through the void, distorting the horizon.
Then a voice—calm, cool, unhurried—rose behind him.
"A fish cannot recognize the ocean it swims in."
Aryaman turned sharply.
A figure stood a short distance away, not approaching, not receding—simply there, as if the void had always belonged to him. His skin was blue, not the crude blue of dyes or paint, but the deep serene blue of a river reflecting a full moon. His robes shimmered faintly, pale like morning mist that refused to settle.
In his hand, he held Vajra.
Aryaman's breath hitched. The sword pulsed with a low golden beat, as if alive, as if breathing with him.
"Who… who are you?" Aryaman whispered, voice thin, childlike. "Where am I? Did I… die?"
The stranger tilted his head slightly, studying him with eyes that held neither judgement nor pity—only undeniable truth.
"You would have," he said softly, "had I not intervened. Death was already curling its fingers around your throat."
Aryaman swallowed hard. So he was dying. The memory hit him like a jagged wave—Varun shouting, Lakshmika's blade flashing, Vajra humming, then agony ripping through his stomach and the forest tilting sideways into black.
He lowered his gaze, shame burning bitter in his throat.
"I tried to protect them," he murmured. "I didn't want to run. I had no choice."
The Deva's expression did not soften. If anything, the air around him cooled.
"No choice?" he repeated. "Or simply no discipline? You attempted to pour your life into a blade forged for Indra's command. A reckless act of a reckless child."
Aryaman's chest tightened. He felt small, not belittled but revealed, as though this being saw the truth beneath his bravado, beneath his excuses.
The Deva flicked his wrist and tossed Vajra toward him.
The sword spun in slow, perfect rotation—its runes tracing arcs of gold in the air—before landing firmly against Aryaman's palm. The hilt felt warmer than before, thudding faintly as if greeting him, remembering him.
"Keep it close," the Deva said. "Its legacy is older than your fear."
Aryaman clenched the blade."Please… at least tell me your name."
The faintest smile touched the Deva's lips—an echo of a smile more than a real one.
"A fish cannot name the ocean."
The void behind him folded like cloth being drawn shut.He stepped back once… twice…And on the third step, he vanished completely.
His radiance dimmed.The silence cracked.The world snapped.
THE BREATH OF LIFE
Air exploded into Aryaman's lungs as if he had been underwater for far too long.
He choked, gasping, hand clawing instinctively at the forest floor. Leaves crumpled under his fingers. The scent of rain-soaked earth filled his nose. His head throbbed, his stomach burned like fire still licking the wound.
Thunder rolled above the canopy, echoing through the woods like distant drums.
The Black Hollow jerked mid-flight, its shadowy mass rippling. It turned—slowly, disbelievingly—to face the boy who should have been dead.
"…Still alive?" its gravelly voice rasped, strained and limited, like vocal cords that weren't meant for words.
Aryaman tried to rise. Pain exploded across his abdomen, nearly dropping him again. His legs trembled violently. His vision swayed.
But Vajra was firm in his grasp, humming with a quiet assurance. Sending a zap sensation to my nerves.
He stood.
Not tall.Not strong.But standing.
The Asura hovered lower, its hollow eyes glinting with something between curiosity and annoyance. It drifted left, then right, studying Aryaman like a puzzling mistake.
"You weren't the one I came for," it muttered. "My task lies elsewhere. The threads pull me toward another."
Aryaman blinked, disoriented. "Another… what?"
The shadow tilted its head, as though deciding whether a dying human deserved an answer.
"You are only a loose thread," it said simply. "Your death was a convenience, nothing more."
A shiver crawled down Aryaman's spine.
The Asura continued, its voice rougher now:
"I have no time left to waste on you. Fate bends strangely tonight."
It drifted backward, dissolving into the thicker shadows between the trees. Its form thinned into a smear of black, stretching like smoke drawn toward an unseen altar.
"Live, then," it hissed. "If fate wishes it."
Its body dissolved into shadow and shot through the trees like a streak of black lightning—silent, predatory, fleeing toward its true mission.
Aryaman didn't chase it.He couldn't.His body finally gave way, knees buckling as pain tore through his abdomen. Vajra slipped from his grasp and clattered softly against wet soil.
He collapsed forward—
—and the world tilted.
His vision swam. Every heartbeat felt like a hammer blow. The rain grew louder, drowning out the forest, drowning out thought.
But one sound cut through the haze.
A single footstep.
Soft. Controlled. Waiting.
Someone had been standing there.Watching.
A figure stepped out from the curtain of rain — long white robes drenched, hair unruffled despite the storm.
Guru Vasistha.
His eyes, usually calm, were cold as winter steel.
The Black Hollow sensed him an instant too late.
A flicker of shadow twisted back toward the clearing—instinct screaming danger—but Guru Vasistha had already moved.
There was no warning.No chant.No flourish.
Just one step.
One breath.
One strike.
His blade flashed like captured moonlight, so fast it carved a streak of brightness through the rain. It cut cleanly across the clearing, slicing through the Black Hollow's form before it could fully rematerialize.
The Asura's scream never finished.
Its body imploded into itself, collapsing into a whirl of black vapour. The corrupted essence writhed, twisted, then sank to the earth like ash smothered by wind.
Silence returned — sharp, almost sacred.
Vasistha lowered his sword. The killing had taken less than a heartbeat.His gaze didn't linger on the fading remains of the demon.
It lingered on Aryaman.
The boy lay slumped on the ground, soaked in rain and blood, breath shallow, consciousness fading. His fingers twitched weakly toward Vajra.
"Aryaman," Guru Vasistha murmured, crossing the clearing with long strides.
He knelt beside him, hand hovering over the wound. His expression tightened — not at the injury, but at the faint afterglow of death still clinging to Aryaman's life-thread.
"…Someone intervened," he whispered to himself."Someone far above my reach."
Aryaman tried to speak — a word, a plea, a name — but nothing came out.His eyes rolled back.
The last thing he felt was Guru Vasistha lifting him gently from the mud, as if handling something far more fragile than flesh.
And then darkness claimed him.