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8:35 AM — Narrow Lane, Ujjain
The narrow street reeked of fresh vegetables, dust, and sweat. Morning sun glared off tin roofs. Crows circled overhead, waiting for scraps.
A burly thug, face slick with sweat, swung his rusted dagger at the stranger's throat. But the scarfed man moved like a ghost in a monsoon storm.
He ducked, twisted.
CRACK!
His elbow smashed into the thug's nose. Blood burst like a split fruit. The man hit the dirt, groaning.
The remaining three hesitated, circling. A vendor, half-hidden behind a sack of potatoes, muttered a prayer under his breath.
The stranger's eyes glinted above his scarf — mocking.
> "Four of you. No courage to fight like men?"
A lanky goon with a crowbar lunged. The stranger grabbed the crowbar mid-swing, yanked it away, then planted a brutal knee into the man's gut.
> "Gahh—!"
The man folded like wet cloth. The crowbar clattered on the stones.
Another thug screamed and charged, wielding a broken bottle. The stranger stepped forward this time — his fists a blur. One, two, three strikes. The thug's head snapped back, bottle shattering to pieces before it ever touched skin.
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8:37 AM — Rooftop, Aadiv's Building
High above the street chaos, Aadiv sat cross-legged on his cracked concrete rooftop, eyes half-shut. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the early hour.
His mind drifted — to embers, to blood, to voices that wouldn't stop whispering.
But something cut through the noise — the tremor in the mana around him.
Aadiv's eyelids flicked open. He tilted his head, as if listening to the city's heartbeat.
> "That pressure…" he murmured.
"It's close. Who the hell is looking for me this early?"
He stood slowly, a faint pulse of heat curling around his fingers. The flames inside him, always eager, always hungry.
He stared at the skyline — Ujjain's temples and tangled wires — and breathed deep.
> "Fine. Come find me then."
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8:39 AM — Narrow Lane
Back in the alley, the last thug trembled, gripping a switchblade with white knuckles. The scarfed stranger tilted his head — like a predator studying prey.
> "Leave… before it's too late!" the thug barked, voice cracking.
"This city isn't for you—!"
The stranger's eyes narrowed. A slow grin tugged at his hidden mouth.
> "I was born for storms like this."
He stepped in — faster than breath. His bare fist crashed into the thug's ribs. CRACK! A scream. He caught the falling man by the hair, slammed his head against the brick wall. Silence.
A lone vendor peeked out, eyes wide.
> "W-Who are you… sir?" the old man croaked.
The scarfed man rolled his shoulders, glancing down at his bruised knuckles — then at the sky, where the sun fought behind drifting monsoon clouds.
> "Tell Aadiv…"
A gust of wind blew his scarf slightly aside — just enough to see the corner of a scar at his jawline.
"…a storm's back in his city."
He turned, boots crunching over broken glass and splattered blood. In a heartbeat, he melted into the maze of alleyways — a ghost of fists and thunder.
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8:42 AM — Rooftop
Aadiv felt it — like thunder echoing through his veins. He stood at the edge of the roof, hair stirring in the wind.
> "Old ghosts," he whispered to himself, eyes darkening.
"Let's see what you want from me this time."
A single spark flickered in his palm — an ember waiting for the right storm.
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