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The Storm That Spoke
The sky tore itself open.
Lightning clawed through black clouds, casting jagged shadows across the plateau. Rain lashed the stones like a curse, soaking the earth until it wept mud and blood. In the eye of the storm, two figures stood—neither moving, both trembling with something deeper than rage.
Veerath stood with his back to Parashu, the edges of his cloak slicing through the wind. His twin blades, already drawn, shimmered with eerie luminescence. Lightning reflected in the silver curve of steel—sharp, hungry.
"I've waited years for this," Veerath said. His voice was like frost—sharp, clear, and cruel. "Not for apologies. Not for redemption. Just an ending."
He turned slowly, his eyes glowing like dying stars. "You carry Jamadighini's blood. The man who turned my world to ash."
Parashu's grip tightened on the hilt of his greatsword. His breath steamed against the cold, rain dripping from his brow like sweat.
"I'm not my father," he said, his voice raw. "But if you've come for blood… I won't disappoint you."
The wind howled in answer, and in the next breath—they collided.
---
Clash of Fates
Veerath moved first. Not as a man—but as memory given shape and steel. His daggers blurred in the stormlight, his body a ghost trained by agony.
Parashu blocked the first strike, steel shrieking against steel. Sparks burst into the rain. But Veerath did not relent. His strikes were not attacks—they were grief made precision. Every motion a lesson carved into his bones long ago.
Parashu answered not with grace, but fury. Each swing of his blade cracked stone, churned mud, and tore through the world as if daring it to stop him.
"You defend a butcher!" Veerath shouted, spinning behind Parashu. "You bear his name. Now carry his sins!"
His hands slashed through the air, drawing symbols that glowed purple in the dark. From the shadows, chains erupted—wreathed in flickering black fire. They lashed around Parashu's limbs, searing into flesh, burning deep.
He screamed, knees buckling.
And then, with a roar that shook the skies, Parashu shattered the chains. The ground heaved. Veerath was flung backward—mud streaked across his face as he landed hard.
"I never asked for this legacy," Parashu said through clenched teeth, rising to his feet. "But I won't run from it either."
---
The Storm Within
The wind stalled. Thunder fell silent.
Veerath stood still, drenched and bloodied—but smiling. He raised his arms, and from the heavens fell ancient fragments—glowing pages inked with runes from a dead tongue. The Secret Treatise.
As they hovered, the storm obeyed. Lightning curved around him. The sky twisted.
Veerath had become the storm.
He descended like a god—strikes faster than sight, his body dancing through time-worn techniques lost to men. Parashu faltered.
"No…" Parashu whispered, backing away. "Not again."
Visions flooded him. A village burning. A boy reaching for him. Smoke, blood, silence.
"First my clan. Now that boy…"
His sword slipped. He dropped to his knees.
"Am I cursed to lose everyone?"
And then—stillness.
And light.
---
The Vision
In the hush between heartbeats, Parashu floated in a place beyond time. Silver and gold swirled around him, and warmth pressed against his chest.
A hand touched his shoulder.
He turned—and gasped.
"Master Vishma?"
The old warrior stood before him—his face weathered by storms, his eyes full of memory and sorrow.
> "You carry more than blood," Vishma said softly. "You carry a choice. And that choice comes with pain."
The light flared—and vanished.
---
The Awakening
Parashu's eyes snapped open—burning gold.
His sword pulsed in rhythm with his breath. The air bent around him.
Veerath lunged.
Too late.
Parashu let the blade take him in the side—but didn't stop. He drove his own weapon forward, impaling Veerath through the shoulder.
They both collapsed.
Rain returned—no longer violent. Gentle. Almost mournful.
The storm was over.
---
Aftermath
Veerath was first to rise—barely. He looked down at the broken figure of Parashu.
"You could've killed me," Parashu rasped.
Veerath's face was unreadable. "Death's too easy."
He turned. "Live—with the truth."
And then he vanished—into the shadows he was born from.
Moments later, through the curtain of mist, Master Vishma appeared. His eyes took in the scene with ancient grief.
"You were told not to leave the village," he said coldly.
Parashu didn't rise. "When I returned… everyone was gone. And another box was waiting. Same as before."
He looked up.
"A message. Coordinates. And this time—it said someone close to me was in danger."
Vishma's face tightened.
"So… this is how you meet your father."
Parashu shook his head, eyes dark. "He's not my father. Just the man who murdered my mother."
A pause.
"And Master… that boy from the forest? He gave his life for me."
Vishma closed his eyes.
> "The death of someone we love leaves a scar we understand. But when a stranger dies for us… it lingers differently. It leaves a weight. And it never truly fades."
He placed a hand on Parashu's shoulder.
"Come. I have something to show you."
Parashu hesitated. "And Veerath?"
Vishma didn't answer immediately.
At last, he said, "That's been taken care of."
---
Ruins and Revelations
Twilight fell gently across the ridge as the two figures stood watching the world burn beneath them. Ruins stretched out like bones. Ash drifted through the sky like falling feathers.
Parashu broke the silence. "Master… I wanted to ask him something. After our fight."
Vishma turned slowly.
"Veerath was once a prince. Of a kingdom long forgotten."
Parashu blinked. "A prince?"
"Vayrak," Vishma said. "Its name has been lost. Erased. Buried with the dead."
"He said my father killed his family."
"Not all," Vishma replied. "Only his father."
---
The Forgotten Kingdom
Vayrak was a land of towers, carved in runes and secrets. Its people were keepers of knowledge too dangerous for the world.
At its heart stood Arvann—Veerath's father. A scholar, a king, a guardian of the Secret Treatise.
He believed it was too dangerous. He locked it away.
But Jamadighini… believed otherwise.
He came with fire.
And Vayrak burned.
---
The Ghost That Remains
Veerath survived. A child, orphaned in fire. He wandered deserts, trained with killers, sharpened his hate into blades.
He became a whisper. A myth. A vengeance no one saw coming.
---
Back to the Ridge
Parashu said nothing for a long time.
"He wasn't my enemy," he said finally. "He was a boy left behind."
Vishma nodded. "And vengeance… was all he had left."
Parashu turned.
"Did you speak to him? Before our fight?"
Vishma looked away.
"We exchanged words," he said quietly. "But not all truths are ready for the world."
Parashu frowned. "What truths?"
Vishma's voice was nearly lost in the wind.
"Not every war ends in blood, Parashu. Some end in silence. And scars that still speak."
They stood side by side, the silence no longer empty.
Ahead of them, the sky broke.
And light spilled across the ruins.
A beginning.
Or perhaps…
The calm before the next storm.
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