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Chapter Title: Shadows Before the Storm
The walls of the shrine whispered with age, damp stone echoing the steady rhythm of Parashu's breath. Day after day, beneath the cracked ceiling and flickering torches, his body was reshaped—beaten, bent, and hardened like tempered steel. Under Master Vishma's cold scrutiny and Veerath's silent watch, Parashu was not just trained. He was remade.
Every movement demanded blood. Every breath was earned.
Yet as the pain deepened, so too did something else—an awakening buried in the marrow of his bones. Power older than the shrine itself stirred within, as if his blood remembered something he did not.
Then the winds changed.
A scout stumbled into the training hall, dust in his hair, breath ragged, eyes wide with urgency. He said nothing, only handed Vishma a sealed scroll before disappearing like a shadow into the stone corridor.
Parashu broke the seal and read aloud, his voice low and even, but his pulse thundered beneath the surface.
> "To Master Vishma, Veerath, and Parashu—
Your presence is required at once in the village hall.
Intelligence reports suggest an elite Kara unit is mobilizing for an assault."
His gaze dropped to the final lines—ones that made Veerath stiffen beside him.
> "To counter the threat, the Asura warrior Daksha will assist.
This is my decision. Do not question it."
For a moment, no one spoke. The shrine itself seemed to fall into deeper stillness. Even the flame on the nearest torch stilled, as though it, too, braced for what came next.
Vishma's jaw clenched. Veerath turned away, his hands tightening behind his back. And Parashu—he felt the Blood Sigil stir within him. Not in rage.
But in hunger.
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Later that night, the scroll lay unfolded in Parashu's hands. Candlelight painted uneasy shadows across the faded ink.
> "Daksha," he muttered. "They said he refused. That he walked away when we needed him."
Vishma, seated nearby, closed his eyes as if revisiting a wound that had never fully healed.
> "He did."
> "Then why now?"
The master's voice was quiet, almost reverent.
> "Because once… Daksha and Asura were not deserters. They were legends."
And so the story was told again—though it never truly left the hearts of the old.
Long ago, when the land was carved by fire and steel, two warriors had risen from the ashes of Gharvek's brutal teachings. Asura, fierce and fearless. Daksha, cold and calculating. Together, they were twin blades—unstoppable when joined.
When the Kara Army first cast its shadow across the realm, it was Asura and Daksha who held the line. Not just soldiers. Guardians. Symbols of hope.
But when the final siege came, Daksha was gone.
The village fell.
Asura stood alone, and the earth drank the blood of innocents. His kin, his wife, the village leader's entire bloodline—all lost beneath the Kara Army's blades.
By the time Daksha returned, the only thing left was ash. And in that ash… he found the corpses of his own family.
Guilt rooted in his spine like poison. He did not speak. Asura never forgave.
And yet…
> "One survived," Vishma said softly.
Parashu looked up.
> "Durga."
The name struck like a spark.
Asura's daughter. A child once cloaked in laughter and mischief. Now a blade in enemy hands—sworn to the Kara General himself.
---
Parashu sat forward, questions burning behind his eyes.
> "When I met Daksha, he was one-handed. They said he lost both hand and leg during the war. But if he fought beside Asura at full strength—how is that possible?"
Vishma's gaze darkened like a storm passing over water.
> "Naagvanshya."
> "What is that?"
> "An ancient bloodline," Vishma said. "Serpent-born. Their ancestors were spirits once worshipped as gods. The Naagvanshya carry that legacy in their flesh."
Parashu's heartbeat slowed.
> "You mean… he can regenerate?"
> "Bones. Muscle. Even organs. His kind does not die easily. That's both their blessing… and their curse."
A silence stretched between them, filled only by the rustling of parchment and the low hiss of flame.
Then Vishma stood.
> "You must ready yourself. The storm is no longer coming. It's already here."
Parashu rose with him.
> "Where are you going?"
> "To the village leader. The army must move now."
> "You're leaving… now?" Parashu's voice cracked.
> "This battle is only the first tremor," Vishma said, voice grave. "If we lose this… we lose everything."
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The village leader's hall pulsed with movement. Scrolls snapped open, voices barked commands, and maps were unrolled across wooden tables scarred by past wars.
The leader looked up as Vishma entered.
> "You received the warning?"
> "Yes," Vishma replied. "We don't have time. Call your commanders."
They gathered swiftly. Warriors, mages, tacticians—all tense with anticipation.
> "Divide the army," Vishma said. "Four units—A, B, C, and D. Prepare B and C to deploy within the hour."
A younger commander stepped forward, brow furrowed.
> "Why not Unit A? They are our finest."
Vishma's eyes locked on his.
> "Because they will be needed later. When the real army arrives."
A hush fell. The words lingered like frost.
> "This attack is bait. A probe. When they fail, the Kara will return… with monsters. The elite must be saved for that day."
He turned to the village leader.
> "A and D will remain to protect the villagers. B and C will hold the line with minimal casualties. No glory. Just survival."
> "And Daksha?" the leader asked.
> "We wait," Vishma said. "For him. And for Asura."
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Outside, the sky had begun to churn.
And deep within Parashu's chest, the Blood Sigil throbbed again—not as a weapon.
But as a warning.
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