The ceiling was white. A fan turned slowly above.
Sharank blinked.
He was back.
Seventeen. Still in his room. The same room he hadn't seen in decades—walls with faded posters, a desk by the window, books stacked on the floor.
He sat up. His heart felt strange. Not fast. Just… full. Like something heavy was sitting on it. His hands trembled faintly. He looked at them. Young skin. No scars. No sunburn. No cracks.
This wasn't a dream.
He was here.
Back.
But he couldn't remember how.
The memory slipped like oil. He remembered being someone else. An old man, maybe. A beggar? Something about that felt true, but there were no details.
He rubbed his face and stood up.
The wall mirror showed a thin boy with sharp collarbones and messy hair. He stared at himself.
> "My name is... Mahan."
The mirror didn't respond.
> "No, wait. That's not right."
Another name rose in his mind like a warm whisper.
> "Gajanand."
But that didn't feel right either.
There was one more.
Something deeper. A name beyond names. But when he reached for it, it scattered like sand in wind.
Gone.
The clock showed 11:03 PM. The house was quiet. Through the door, he heard the TV from the living room murmuring softly. His mother would fall asleep watching it, as always.
He turned off the light and lay down.
He stared at the ceiling again.
> "Tomorrow is Naming Day," he whispered. "I don't want it."
But sleep came anyway.
---
The Next Morning
A gentle hand shook his shoulder.
"Sharank. Wake up."
He opened his eyes slowly. The light was golden. His mother's face hovered above his, her voice kind but firm. She looked younger than he remembered. Softer, somehow.
He blinked at her like a stranger.
Then it hit him. He had returned. For real. This was the past. His mother was alive. Her face, her voice—unchanged. His throat tightened.
She smiled. "Don't be late. Go wash your face."
He sat up and watched her walk out of the room.
> "Ha," he exhaled. "What should I even say?"
He rubbed his eyes and stood up. The world looked slightly off-color, like a picture with the saturation turned down. Not dull. Just quieter.
He went to the bathroom, washed up, and dressed. School uniform, blue and white. The fabric felt strange—clean, pressed. His body felt lighter than he remembered. Not because of youth. Because of something missing.
Maybe sadness.
Or hunger.
But he didn't feel either.
At the breakfast table, his mother served him rice and dal. He looked at her hands. The way they moved. He tried to remember how she died. But that, too, was missing. Only a hollow ache stayed behind, like something had been removed with precision.
"You nervous?" she asked.
He shook his head slowly. "No."
She smiled again, this time with a bit of pride. "Good. Many kids cry the night before. But you didn't."
He didn't respond.
He wanted to ask her a hundred questions. Wanted to hug her tightly. Wanted to tell her she would die soon.
But he didn't.
He ate quietly.
---
By midmorning, he was walking toward the Naming Hall.
It was a large white dome at the end of the street, built from polished stone and reinforced with silver plates. It shimmered faintly under the sun. Birds circled above. The gates were already open.
Other kids his age were walking too, all wearing the same uniform. Some were laughing. Some were silent. A few had parents walking beside them.
Sharank walked alone.
As he reached the gate, he looked up at the arch.
Words were engraved in silver:
> "In Naming, All Are Set Upon Their Path."
He swallowed and stepped inside.
The hall was cold inside. Sharank stepped through tall metal doors into a space that felt far older than the city around it. The dome stretched high above, lit by natural light filtering through thin, silver-lined windows. The stone under his feet was pale grey, carved with lines that looked like river paths from above.
Benches were arranged in semicircles, hundreds of students already seated. He found his place, second row from the back, and sat.
The ceremony had already begun.
A man in ceremonial robes stood at the center, in front of the Naming Altar, holding a silver-bound tome. He chanted. One by one, students were called to the center. They stepped up. The priest placed a hand on their foreheads. A soft glow spread, then dimmed. The tome flipped pages on its own.
A name would be spoken.
Then a large glass panel—called the Path Mirror—would display their Pathway and Perks.
Some names brought cheers. Others brought silence. One girl got the name "Viveira" with the pathway Swordborn. Another got "Kalmes" with Whispershade. A boy in the front cried when he received Mudtouch.
Sharank didn't react. He didn't really remember what happened during his own Naming, forty years ago. The whole day felt like fog. He only remembered the aftermath.
He watched.
Time passed.
Then something stirred in the back of his mind.
A sensation—not sound, not voice.
Just the feeling of being called.
He turned slightly. No one was behind him.
The next student was called forward. The light glowed. A name was said. Cheers erupted.
The feeling returned again.
Still no sound. Just pressure, like someone brushing a hand across the surface of his thoughts.
He rubbed his forehead and looked up at the dome. It was silent.
His name was called.
He stood.
His legs moved on their own. No pride. No fear. No wish. Just motion.
He walked to the altar.
The priest placed his hand on Sharank's forehead. The tome began to turn.
Inside his mind, something snapped into place.
> "Madhagaza."
A whisper, not from the priest, not from the hall. From inside. Cold, clear, final.
His chest warmed. The pressure behind his eyes faded.
> Yes. That was my name.
Madhagaza.
The true name. The one deeper than all others. The one he wasn't supposed to remember yet.
He looked up, but the priest hadn't said it.
Instead, the priest's eyes widened slightly. A hesitation.
Then his voice echoed across the chamber:
> "Gajanand."
The crowd murmured. The tome stopped turning.
The Path Mirror lit up.
---
Pathway: Mammoth
Perks:
Strength of a Beast
Instinct of Beasts
Beast Synchronization
Beast Weapons
Beast Servant
---
Gasps filled the hall. Some kids clapped. Some just stared.
Mammoth was rare. A Lifeform-based pathway. One of the high-tier beast paths.
Sharank stood still.
He wasn't surprised.
Of course it would be Gajanand.
That name had come to him before. It had fought its way into his soul, carved its mark.
But it wasn't his truest name. He knew that now.
He stepped down without expression and returned to his seat.
The ceremony continued.
Names were called.
Light glowed.
But for Sharank, the world had started moving again—not forward, but inward.
Something had begun.