The village square was alive with noise—children sparring with wooden staffs, elders bargaining for grain, and the crackling laugh of Kavin, the blacksmith's son.
"Oi, powerless!" Kavin shouted across the crowd. "You here to beg or sweep the ground?"
Anshuman gripped the basket of rice tight against his hip. He didn't respond. He was used to Kavin—everyone was. Ever since Kavin awakened his power of flame last year, he walked like the earth belonged to him.
"I said," Kavin stomped forward, "why don't you kneel like a good little servant and polish my boots, Hades-wannabe?"
People laughed.
A few turned away, pretending not to hear.
Anshuman straightened his back. "I'm here for ration, not your attention."
The blacksmith's son smirked, flames flickering at his fingertips. "Big words for a weakling."
Anshuman turned to leave, but Kavin moved fast. Too fast. A small blast of fire struck his leg—not enough to burn, but enough to knock the basket out of his hand.
Rice scattered across the dusty ground like fallen pearls.
Gasps.
Laughter.
A low chuckle from behind: "Looks like the gods skipped one."
Anshuman froze. He bent slowly, gathering each grain by hand as the villagers watched in silence. No one helped. Even the ration clerk pretended to rearrange his ledgers.
"Do you think collecting rice with your bare hands will awaken your power?" Kavin mocked. "Oh wait—what power? You're sixteen. You're done."
"Enough." Anshuman's voice was steady, but something inside cracked. Not anger, not yet. Something heavier—something deep, ancient.
He looked up.
For a moment, his eyes met Kavin's.
And Kavin stepped back.
Just for a second.
Something in Anshuman's gaze made the fire flicker out.
But the moment passed.
Kavin smirked again. "That's what I thought. Stay down, powerless."
Anshuman didn't fight back. He didn't say anything. He simply picked up the last handful of rice, dusted it off, and walked home barefoot—his clothes stained, his pride shattered.
---
That night, the house was silent.
Even the wind held its breath.
His mother asked nothing. She saw the bruises on his arms and the scorch mark near his ankle. She stirred the pot and said only one word:
"Eat."
But Anshuman couldn't. His siblings ate slowly, the sound of metal spoons against clay bowls echoing in the quiet.
After they fell asleep, Anshuman walked outside.
The stars were bright. Cold. Distant.
He sat on a rock under the neem tree and looked at his hands.
Rough.
Dirty.
Empty.
"Why do I exist like this? Am I truly worthless? Did the gods forget me?"
The wind stirred. Leaves rustled. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled across a clear sky.
Then... a voice.
Not spoken. Felt.
"You are not forgotten."
Anshuman stood up quickly. "Who said that?"
No reply. Only silence, thick and pulsing.
He looked at his palm again. For a second—just one breath—he saw something.
A black sigil, faint and glowing, like fire trapped in stone.
Then it vanished.
He blinked. "What... was that?"
His heart pounded, not in fear—but in recognition.
Like an echo returning home.
---
Far away, atop a temple mountain, an old priest opened his eyes during prayer. His lips trembled.
"The mark… it has appeared," he whispered.
A young disciple asked, "Whose?"
The priest closed his eyes again, and a chill passed through the candlelight.
"The God of Disaster… walks again."