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> August 13th, 2025 — 03:47 AM
Ujjain, Madhya Pradesh
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The dream always began the same way.
Aadiv was ten again — knees curled up in the backseat of their old silver car, the wind pushing his hair back as they climbed the winding hill roads out of Ujjain. His father's laughter boomed over the radio's static. His mother was half-asleep in the front seat, humming an old bhajan under her breath. And his little sister — tiny hands sticky with chocolate — leaned on his shoulder, drifting off with a half-eaten candy bar still clutched in her fingers.
He could still smell the sweet wrappers, the faint tang of his father's aftershave, the warmth of the sun splintering through the window.
It was perfect.
> Stay here, he thought. Stay here, please…
But perfection is never kind. Not in his dreams.
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There was a sound — metal shrieking like a demon's cry. The tires left the road. The world spun. The windshield shattered inward like a wave of teeth. Flames kissed the edges of his vision.
When he opened his eyes, he wasn't in the car anymore.
He was kneeling on black asphalt, the air thick with smoke and gasoline. His tiny hands were raw from trying to drag them out. His father's arm — heavy and limp — was sprawled across his lap. His mother's face was hidden by his trembling hand, shielding her eyes from the broken glass. His sister's candy wrapper was half-melted against the scorched door.
The flames rose higher.
So did the silence.
Aadiv screamed — but the world didn't answer. Only the fire did.
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He shot awake, chest heaving like a bellows, the memory burning holes through his ribs.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a shaky hand. His shirt clung to him, damp and cold. He looked down at his palms, half-expecting to see them bloodied — but there was only skin, and underneath, the faint glow of the marks that had no right to be there.
> Same dream. Same curse, he thought. How many times will you make me watch them die?
He clenched his fists so hard his nails dug into his palms.
> "I won't forget," he whispered to the empty room. "Never."
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By 4:15 AM, Aadiv was on the rooftop, cross-legged, eyes half-lidded under the bruised blue sky. The city stretched around him — Ujjain's temples poking through the early mist like sleeping giants.
He inhaled through his nose. Held it. Let it burn in his chest before exhaling slowly.
> Mana Veins… flow steady. Don't crack. Not yet.
He could feel it — the hum beneath his skin, the golden heat curled around the black spiral deep inside his soul. It shifted every time he let his mind drift too far into the past.
> Control it before it devours you.
Aadiv pressed his palms together. The runic marks along his forearms flickered, then dulled. For now, the Resonance was still dreaming. Just like him.
He stayed there until dawn cracked the horizon open like an egg.
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[ 8:30 AM — Ujjain Streets ]
The morning heat was already rolling off the market stones like restless ghosts. Vendors shouted half-hearted promises of fresh vegetables, spices, fake jewelry from Jaipur.
No one noticed the man moving through the stalls at first — just another traveler wrapped in a worn scarf and an old military jacket. His boots scraped the dust as he walked. The lower half of his face was hidden beneath the scarf's folds, and his eyes stayed low, scanning the maze of rickety stalls.
He stopped at a chai stand where an old vendor wiped sweat from his brow.
> "Excuse me, uncle…" The man's voice was calm, almost lazy. "You know someone named Aadiv?"
The vendor squinted. "Who's asking?"
"Just… an old friend." A smile ghosted beneath the scarf.
The vendor looked him up and down. Something about the man's posture — too straight, too ready — made him nervous. He gestured vaguely down the lane.
> "No Aadiv here, son. Try the apartments by the temple steps."
The man's eyes crinkled, amused. "Already did."
He moved on, asking another vendor. And another. Each answer was a lie, but each lie tugged a little harder at the hidden tension under Ujjain's dusty streets.
By the fourth question, he felt it.
Eyes.
And footsteps.
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When he turned the corner near the half-ruined watchtower, he found what he expected: five strangers, waiting in the shade. Their shoulders were too stiff for street thugs. Their eyes too sharp. One stepped forward, arms folded over a cheap leather jacket, a crude blade strapped to his belt.
> "You lost, scarf boy?" the leader sneered. "This is Ujjain, not your playground."
The unnamed man tilted his head, the scarf slipping just enough to reveal a wry smile. "Is that right? You boys own the streets now?"
Another one cracked his knuckles. "Depends who's asking for who."
"I'm asking for Aadiv."
The group exchanged glances — and the leader's smile turned thin and mean.
> "Nobody here by that name. Not for you, anyway."
They started to circle him like stray dogs testing for weakness.
> "Funny," the scarfed man drawled, voice dripping sarcasm. "You lot got collars with 'City Watch' written on 'em? Or you just bark at strangers for sport?"
The leader's eyes narrowed. "You're new here. So I'll say this once — turn around, walk away. Aadiv's not someone you find. He'll find you. If he wants."
The man's eyes flashed with something darker — a glint that made the leader's smirk falter for a heartbeat.
> "Or maybe…" the scarfed man said softly, "I just stand here until one of you rats squeals."
The leader's smile died. "Should've walked away."
His blade slipped free with a hiss of rusted steel.
The scarfed man sighed, rolling his neck until it popped.
> "Ah, good. I was starting to get bored."
The strangers lunged.
And in the moment before the first blade fell, the man's eyes flicked up — and behind the scarf, a grin spread like fire across dry fields.
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