The musty scent of old paper couldn't drown out the sickening smell of burning flesh clinging to Kunal's senses.
He jerked back from the brittle manuscript, heart hammering against his ribs, the memory—or whatever it was—seared into his mind like a brand.
Empress Tishyarakshita. The betrayal.
The burning irons.
The blinding.
It wasn't a dream. It was too raw. Too real.
It can't be just his imagination.
"I... I need a minute," Kunal muttered, forcing himself to his feet. His chair screeched back noisily against the marble floor, drawing curious glances from nearby researchers.
Ananya gave him a worried look but didn't stop him. "Take your time," she said softly, her brows knitted tightly together, her hands clenching her tablet. She wanted to follow him but knew he needed space right now to gather himself.
Kunal stumbled through rows of dusty shelves until he found a secluded corner near a cracked window, the sunlight pouring across the floor in faded lines.
He sat down heavily, head buried in his hands.
Kunala.
The destiny has found you.
They are closing up on you.
The words whispered and throbbed in his mind. He didn't understand it yet, but deep down he knew—this wasn't just some ancestral memory being triggered.
This was his story. His life...he forgotten about and now it's coming back to him.
The loneliness of it crashed over him.
He thought of his mother.
Of Ananya and Abhishek—his only constants.
Would they even understand what he was going through? What he is becoming now?
A few tables away, Ananya kept stealing glances toward him, biting her lip hard enough to bleed. Her heart twisted painfully.
Kunal had always been reckless, stubborn... but this was different.
This was something which was breaking him from inside.
And she hated that she could do nothing to ease that pain of his.
---
Hours later, she returned with a worn tablet clutched in her hands, her face grave.
"Kunal," she said, kneeling beside his chair.
He looked up. Tired.
"I found more," she whispered.
She showed him snippets: fragmented stories, chronicled accounts, ancient retellings — gathered from the Ashokavadana, the Divyavadana, and other scattered Buddhist texts.
Yuvraj Kunala.
Son of Emperor Ashoka and Queen Padmavati.
A prince blessed with wisdom and beauty compared to gods.
Beloved. Destined. Envied. Conspired. Betrayed.
But it wasn't enough to shield him.
Betrayal by Empress Tishyarakshita. Burning irons to blind him — not to kill him, but to snuff out his light.
Even when betrayed, Kunala had obeyed what he thought was his father's will.
Blindness over disobedience.
And when Ashoka found out the truth, it was too late. He was heart broken in twisted agony but couldn't bring back his eyes and spirit.
Tishyarakshita was executed — burned alive, some versions claimed.
But Kunala had already lost everything.
He became a wandering monk, led only by the touch of his loyal wife, Kanchanmala.
And then, after a brief tragic return to Ashoka's court... he vanished into the folds of time.
Forever lost.
Ananya swiped to a grainy image—an ancient carving from a ruined temple site.
The figure depicted:
Regal. Armored. Crowned.
The eyes — sharp, defiant, alive.
The face — Kunal's own, staring back through the dust of centuries.
A shudder ran through him.
This wasn't coincidence.
This wasn't imagination.
He had lived before.
He had fought.
He got betrayed.
And had fallen.
And now, he was reliving those memories again. Feeling that agony once more.
---
Their phones buzzed sharply, breaking the moment.
Abhishek's message:
"Burners ready. Meet outside."
They gathered their notes, leaving the heavy silence of the archives behind.
Outside, under the afternoon sun, Abhishek leaned against a cab, holding a plain duffel bag.
"Three burners. Prepaid. Dummy IDs. Use them sparingly," he said, tossing one to each of them.
"Thanks, man," Kunal said, his voice rough.
"And," Ananya added quietly, meeting Kunal's eyes before turning back to Abhishek, "We submitted our resignations."
Abhishek froze.
"You serious?"
Kunal nodded grimly.
"We can't risk OmniCorp. We can't drag them into this."
Ananya hesitated, then added under her breath, "Besides... none of this feels like it'll end inside boardrooms and cubicles."
And look at this as she showed Kunala's old granular image to him as well.
Abhishek looked at the face of the image with wide open eyes. Then looked at Kunal. Closed his eyes. Opened them and now there's no hesitation in them. No second thoughts.
The last traces of disbelief burned away.
"Good call," he said grimly.
He let out a sharp breath. "Alright then," he said. "Burn the old life. We walk forward together."
There was no going back now.
—
Back at Kunal's apartment, they shut the curtains tight.
Three burner phones lay on the table—silent, waiting.
Kunal powered his up.
No apps. No contacts. No history.
Just a blank number.
A fragile feeling of safety crept in.
Maybe, just maybe, they were off the grid for now.
PING.
All three froze.
Kunal's new burner phone glowed.
A message.
A phone activated barely five minutes ago.
A number no one should know.
His hand trembled as he picked it up.
They all leaned to look at the screen.
One word on the screen:
Kunala.
---
Far away, across a barren and broken stretch of land hidden from normal eyes, a different kind of gathering stirred.
Dark figures prowled under a brooding sky.
Eyes glowing dangerously red in the twilight.
No names. No words.
Only a brutal hunt.
A young man ran across the rocky ground — ragged, desperate, clutching a satchel close to his chest.
The shadows followed him without a sound.
They caught him easily.
One slashed his Achilles, another crushed his arm. He screamed, pleaded, but no help came.
They circled him like wolves around a wounded lamb.
Then they turned on the others nearby—villagers, men, women, even children.
One by one, limb by limb, the creatures cut them down.
Blades flashing wet with blood.
Crimson rain falling in the night.
They bathed themselves in the gore, some licking blood from their arms, others chanting words in a tongue lost in the sands of time.
Their leader watched it all, silent.
A towering figure with six arms folded neatly across a broad chest, his skin a dark ashen grey.
Black horns curled back from his temples, and his six crimson eyes burned without blinking.
He wore no armor, only blood-smeared cloth, and the shifting shadows seemed to cling to him like armor itself.
At his belt, hung a crude string of human skulls — some fresh, some ancient.
One of his lieutenants approached, bowing low.
"It has begun, Lord Kalaranjan," he rasped.
The leader's six eyes stared up into the night sky, at the crimson constellation slowly blooming there forming a petal— two red stars growing steadily brighter.
He bared his fangs in a silent snarl.
"This was also a false alarm," he said in a voice that sounded like death made flesh.
"His soul stirs. He is starting to wake up. The hunt must quicken. Before he remembers. Ashuras we are not done yet. Come."
And with a flick of his clawed hand, the Ashuras scattered into the night like roaches before a flame.
Their hunt had begun in earnest now.
And this time — they will leave no stone unturned.
To be continued...