Sindhu lay supine in the cradle of a giant tree's roots, the sweet-sour tang of mango juice drying on his skin. The air was heavy and still, a blanket of perfect peace.
"Ahh... this is the life. Sweet fruit, no training, no soldiers whining." he murmured to the drowsy forest.
" Even the forest agrees I'm the best warrior—it's too scared to disturb me."
Crunch. A twig snapped.
Sindhu turned his head, slow and unhurried.
From the shadows, something crawled into the light—short, hunched, its limbs too long for its squat body. Skin sagged in folds like wet bark, slick and glistening, crawling with flies. Its eyes burned a faint, hungry yellow, but behind them flickered something old, patient, and cruel. The mouth opened too wide, splitting its face into a grin that dripped thick saliva onto the roots, each drop hissing where it fell. Its growl was low and ragged, like an animal choking on its own hunger.
Sindhu raised his mango. "Oh, don't tell me you want this? You have terrible timing, friend. Too sour already."
The figure snarled louder,
It swiped its claw, and sliced the mango clean in two.
He stared at his empty hand, then at the creature. A dangerous grin spread across his face.
"You shouldn't have done that" his voice dropped from lazy to lethal. "That was the best part of my day. You just ruined my nap, so let's make this quick."
He rose, a single fluid uncoiling of muscle. His prāṇa-spear , forged from the breath of ancient sages, thrummed in his hand, its edge shimmering with vital heat.
The asur hunched, its growl deepening into a promise of violence. Spittle hit the earth with a hiss, etching tiny scars in the dirt.
"Inspiring," Sindhu drawled, rolling his shoulders. "A truly moving eulogy. Now watch —this will be educational."
He planted his feet, and the world narrowed to a point. A single, controlled exhale—a breath held for a thousand heartbeats—flowed from his core, down his arm, and into the shaft of the prāṇa-spear. The weapon drank it in and thrummed, its edge shimmering with stolen sunlight and vital heat.
He thrust his spear in a single, fluid arc, its blade trailing a ribbon of white-hot energy .
There was no wind-up. Only a strike—a single, perfect line of incandescent energy that bisected the air. The demon came apart like rotten cloth, its form dissolving into smoke and a shower of fading cinders.
Sindhu flicked the last speck of ash from his immaculate spear-tip. A wide, self-satisfied grin spread across his face.
"Beautiful, wasn't it?" he said, as if to the forest itself, or perhaps us, appreciating his art. "The angle. The economy of motion. No wasted energy. Just... perfection."
He sighed contentedly. "Stolen mango for a broken demon. Fair trade."
But—
The forest didn't breathe.
The ashes didn't scatter—they thickened, sucking the air from the forest. Roots groaned, bark cracked, and the scent of burning hair filled Sindhu's nose. Something vast was clawing its way into the world.
Horns like gnarled, broken branches pushed through the smoke, followed by claws like iron sickles scraping the ground, leaving gouged furrows in the dirt. A vast Rakshas began to take shape, its body a grotesque mockery of a warrior's form, its skin the color of bruised plums and its breath a foul, coppery vapor.
Sindhu felt it.
"...So the free sample comes with a monster subscription..."
Sindhu turned slowly, staring up at it. His grin faltered.
"...Well, that escalated from fruit crime to full-blown nightmare."
The Rakshas let out a roar that shook the branches.
Sindhu adjusted his spear, squared his stance—a picture of defiant courage—then bolted. His feet pounded against the roots as he shouted over his shoulder, his voice cutting through the monster's roar: 'Strategic reassessment! Engagement terminated!'
And then he did the most strategic thing—
running like hell!
"Note to self: no more naps in haunted forests."