The sun hung low over Dand Valley, an ember bleeding into the horizon. The once-golden light now felt like the dying breath of the day, its warmth swallowed by the creeping shadow that slithered across the town. And from that shadow emerged them—the Northern Rakshas Skull Army.
At their head rode Ke'dil'cho. His armor was forged black, adorned with chains from which dangled human skulls, each one rattling like wind chimes of death. His mount—a beast not quite horse, not quite demon—snorted steam into the evening air. Its hooves struck the dirt with a slow, steady rhythm, a heartbeat of doom that every villager could feel in their bones.
Behind him stretched an ocean of warriors. Fifty thousand strong. To see them from the town gates was to stare into a nightmare made flesh—shields like the carapaces of monstrous beetles, spears glinting like the fangs of some ancient god, banners whipping in the wind with the sigil of the Rakshas: a crimson skull split by a jagged blade.
The townspeople froze. Some clutched their children and ran for their homes; others simply stood rooted, staring, as if hoping the sight would dissolve if they blinked enough times. But this was no mirage.
From the tallest building—a three-story watchtower of timber and stone—a figure shifted. No one below noticed at first. The fading light caught the curve of a bow, the tension of a string drawn back to its limit. The archer exhaled, a quiet, controlled release.
The arrow sang through the air.
Then it detonated.
A blossom of white-blue energy erupted in the middle of the Rakshas vanguard, hurling armored warriors into the air like ragdolls. The blast ripped through the evening quiet with a roar, and when the smoke cleared, ten of Ke'dil'cho's men lay crumpled, armor cracked and blackened.
But the army didn't slow.
If anything, the sight seemed to ignite their fury. Like a disturbed colony of ants, they surged forward—thousands of feet pounding the ground in unison, the sound rolling like distant thunder. Only these ants were built of muscle and rage, each one capable of killing a man with a single blow.
From the shadows of a side street, Vid watched it all. His breath caught in his throat. The sheer size of the Rakshas force was overwhelming, but it wasn't just their numbers—it was their presence. They radiated violence. The same violence that had torn his life apart.
And in that moment, the memory clawed its way back.
Two hours earlier
The inn's dining room smelled faintly of stewed lentils and smoke from the hearth. Afternoon light filtered through the shutters, striping the wooden table where Vid and Paras sat. The clatter of spoons from the kitchen was distant; here, there was only the low murmur of voices from other travelers and the heavy silence between them.
Paras leaned back in his chair, studying the boy. "Son… why are you searching for Lord Vishwa?"
Vid's hands tightened around his cup. "Because my mother told me to." His voice was small, but steady. "When the Rakshas came to my village… they killed everyone. My father, my brother…" He swallowed hard. "They fought to save me. My mother—"
He broke off, blinking quickly, but the tears came anyway.
"She stood between me and the soldiers. She didn't run. She didn't beg. She fought them with her bare hands until they cut her down." His breath shook. "Her last words… she told me to find the almighty god who can bring peace to the world. She said his name is Vishwa. She said he is blue in color, and he will be the kindest of all beings."
Paras's weathered face softened, the lines around his eyes deepening. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he leaned forward, his voice low but sharp.
"Vid… I have traveled many lands. I've met kings, thieves, sages. I have not seen this god you speak of. Not once."
The boy's head snapped up.
"Son, listen to me. You are sixteen. You lost everything. And I understand—truly, I do—why you cling to this hope. But tell me…" His tone hardened. "You never tried to learn archery, did you?"
Vid hesitated. "…No."
"Because your father didn't allow it?"
"Yes."
"And now, instead of fighting, instead of preparing, you're wandering the land waiting for a god to solve your problems."
The words landed like stones.
Paras's gaze was unyielding. "Do you think your father, your mother, your brother saved you so you could grow into a coward?"
Vid flinched.
"You are pathetic," Paras said, the word slicing the air. "You want someone to be the savior you need? Then become that someone. The Rakshas took your home, your blood. They are doing to others what they did to you—right now. And here you are, hiding."
The boy's fists clenched. Paras saw it and nodded once.
"You are young, but you have a choice. Keep chasing a ghost in the sky, or work so hard that you become the man people pray for when the world burns."
Vid's voice was a whisper. "…And if I can't?"
Paras leaned back, his expression softening just slightly. "Then no god will save you, son. Not in this world."
Vid's knuckles were white against the wooden beam he clung to as he peered from the alley. The image of his mother's final stand burned in his mind—the fear in her eyes swallowed by the defiance in her voice, the blood on her hands as she pushed him away, shouting for him to run.
Paras's words were still there, raw and unyielding: Be the savior you want someone to be.
The Rakshas roared as they closed in, the sound reverberating off the valley walls. Somewhere above, another arrow was loosed. The air trembled before it struck, lighting the dusk in a burst of electric blue. Soldiers screamed. Metal clattered. And still, the tide kept coming.
Vid's heart pounded. He wanted to run. He wanted to hide. But he stayed rooted in place, eyes locked on the street where the Skull Army poured in like a flood. The choice was here, now—between the boy who waited for a god, and the boy who began to fight.
And somewhere in the distance, Ke'dil'cho's laugh rolled over the town like the promise of death.
Shadows stretched long over shattered rooftops, their jagged silhouettes dancing with the flicker of distant fires. The air smelled of burnt wood and iron, of dust stirred by the restless feet of retreating soldiers. Somewhere in the distance, the cry of a wounded beast echoed before being swallowed by the chaotic hum of war.
And then, from the gloom, laughter broke out.
It was not the laughter of joy, nor the laughter of madness—it was something heavier, sharper, cutting through the tension like a drawn blade. A deep, confident chuckle that made even the embers shiver.
From the far end of the narrow street, Ke'dil'cho emerged.
His armor was battered from a hundred battles, yet every dent felt like a medal, every scar a story. In his hands, he held a blade unlike any other—its steel already shimmering with a strange, crimson glow. With a single motion, he lifted it toward the sky. The metal shifted hue, deepening into blood-red. A low hum began to pulse from it, like the heartbeat of a beast waking from slumber.
And then—flames.
They crawled up from the hilt, swirling and coiling like serpents hungry for air. The fire wrapped around the blade, not wild but controlled, as if the weapon itself demanded obedience from the element. The heat radiating from it made the nearby air shimmer.
"I…" Ke'dil'cho's voice boomed like a war drum, "…Commander of the Northern Troops, under order of Emperor of Rakshas—the Lord Sur—" His eyes locked on Paras, burning with the same intensity as the sword he held. "I will hunt you down."
Without waiting for a response, Ke'dil'cho bent his knees and leaped. The motion was unnatural, almost predatory, as his body arced upward with inhuman grace. His boots met the edge of a crumbling rooftop, and the wood groaned beneath him.
Paras didn't flinch. His eyes narrowed, reading every line of Ke'dil'cho's movement. Slowly, deliberately, he reached for his bow—a bow blackened by soot and battle scars. The air thickened as he drew an arrow, the tension of the string a quiet whisper compared to the roaring heat above.
Then Paras' lips moved. The words were not for the enemy, nor for the crowd, but for the arrow itself. "Thousand Flame Cracker."
The arrowhead ignited—not with gentle fire, but with a burst of explosive light that seemed to devour the shadows around it. Sparks hissed into the air like miniature comets, each promising devastation. The glow reflected in Paras' eyes, twin embers ready to meet the blaze of his foe.
Ke'dil'cho crouched low on the rooftop, sword angled down, flames licking along its edge. The world seemed to hold its breath.
And then they moved.
Ke'dil'cho launched forward in a blur of crimson light, descending from the rooftop like a meteor. Paras loosed the Thousand Flame Cracker, the arrow screaming through the air as if desperate to reach its mark before all else.
The two attacks met in the center of the street.
Impact.
It was not the clash of mere weapons—it was the collision of storms. A shockwave burst outward, rattling the very bones of the earth. The force rippled through the town, shaking loose tiles from rooftops and sending them clattering into the streets. Windows shattered, their shards catching the firelight as they spun through the air.
The Rakshas soldiers nearest to the blast were thrown like ragdolls, their armor ringing like hollow bells before they hit the ground. Some screamed, some didn't have the breath left to.
Vid, standing at the far corner of the street, felt the wave of heat wash over him. His heart pounded, not from fear, but from something else—a hunger to fight. The sight of the two warriors, locked in an exchange of such magnitude, lit something inside him.
Dust swirled between them as the sound of crackling flames filled the air. The ground beneath their feet was scorched black, tiny fires crawling across the broken cobblestones. Ke'dil'cho's face was twisted into a grin, sweat beading at his brow yet his stance unbroken.
Paras stepped back, the bow still in his grip, his breathing heavy but steady.
For a moment, there was silence—just the faint pop of dying embers.
Ke'dil'cho tilted his head, studying the man before him. "Old man," he said, voice low yet carrying across the ruined street, "you are mighty."
The words were not mockery. They were an acknowledgment—a predator recognizing the strength of another predator.
But the battle was far from over.
The air between them still shimmered with heat. Somewhere in the ruins, another ember flared, as if the town itself was holding its breath for the next strike.
The firelight flickered across the broken street, painting jagged shadows over crumbled walls and scattered debris. The stench of smoke and blood hung thick, the air itself heavy with the echo of the last collision between Paras and Ke'dil'cho. Even the Rakshas soldiers had fallen into uneasy silence, their eyes locked on the two figures at the center of the ruin—warriors standing as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist.
Ke'dil'cho tilted his head, his crimson blade still humming with heat. "Old man…" he said, his voice carrying over the moans of the wounded, "why are you fighting alone? Did your Boomi Empire not send an army? Have they abandoned you to die here?"
Paras' eyes narrowed, but there was no hesitation, no flicker of doubt. Slowly, he reached behind his back—not for a steel arrow this time, but a shaft of plain, unassuming wood. The crowd of Rakshas shifted uneasily.
"Abandoned?" Paras' voice was steady, almost calm, but it carried the weight of stone. "No… I have never relied on another's shadow to fight my battles."
He lifted the wooden arrow, holding it between his fingertips. His lips moved, whispering ancient words, syllables that twisted the air like ripples in water. And then, louder—clear enough for every man, woman, and beast in earshot to hear—he called its name:
"Festival Storm: Arrows of Glory."
The bowstring sang as he pulled it back—not once, not twice, but with a motion so fluid it seemed his arms were moving faster than sight could follow. One arrow became two. Two became ten. Ten became a hundred. In a heartbeat, the sky above the town darkened—not from clouds, but from arrows.
Five hundred shafts, glowing faintly with golden light, fanned out in a perfect arc across the sky. Each one burned faint trails into the air, like falling stars tearing the heavens open. The Rakshas soldiers looked up in awe and dread, their discipline cracking for the first time.
Ke'dil'cho's grin widened. "So… the festival archery of Boomi still breathes."
The arrows descended.
Ke'dil'cho moved.
He didn't step back—he advanced, his flaming sword cutting into the wave. Each slash was a burst of blinding light, steel and fire cleaving through shaft and flesh alike. Around him, soldiers fell—some skewered before they could scream, others crushed beneath their comrades as panic spread. The street was chaos, a maelstrom of fire, wood, and blood.
Paras loosed again, the bow thrumming like a war drum. Ke'dil'cho roared in return, the air between them shattering as another clash of fire and arrow detonated in the center of the town.
The shockwave tore through the streets. Stone split, timber snapped, and screams filled the air as bodies were hurled into walls and through shattered windows. The ground itself quaked, splitting open in jagged cracks.
Somewhere near the edge of the destruction, Vid crouched in a small hut—hands over his ears, trying to will himself invisible. He had told himself he was only hiding, waiting for the moment to run. That was what his mother had wanted, wasn't it? To survive?
The world answered with violence.
The second shockwave hit like the hand of an angry god, smashing through the walls of the hut as if they were made of paper. Wood splintered around him, dust and light flooding the space. Vid stumbled, the force knocking him onto his knees. The heat burned his skin, but it wasn't the fire that made his eyes sting—it was the sight before him.
Through the haze, he saw Paras, old yet unyielding, standing against the tide of Rakshas as if the continent itself depended on him. He saw Ke'dil'cho, laughing in the face of death, a storm of fire wrapped around his blade. And he saw the soldiers—hundreds of them—scattered, wounded, and dying.
And something inside him broke.
All his life, he had waited for someone stronger to save him. His father. His brother. The god Vishwa. But no one had come—not for his town, not for his family.
His mother's voice returned to him, clear even through the roar of battle: Find the god… bring peace to the world.
His hands curled into fists.
No—he would not just find the god. He would become the strength his people needed. He would wield a bow not as a child imitating a hero, but as the deadliest archer the world had ever seen. He would carve his own path to Vishwa, not as a beggar pleading for help, but as a warrior standing as an equal.
Paras' voice cut through the chaos, pulling him back to the present.
"I do not need an army," the old man roared, his voice carrying over the screams and the clash of steel. "I am an army of myself! I will protect the Pascha Continent and the Boomi Empire. I will save it all… from you!"
Vid felt the words burn into him, searing away the last remnants of his fear.
He stood. Dust and ash clung to his hair and skin, but his eyes were clear now—sharper, brighter.
He would learn archery. He would train until the bow was no longer a weapon in his hands, but an extension of his soul. And when the day came, he would stand in Paras' place—not as a boy hiding in a hut, but as a force that could shake the ground with a single arrow.
The vow formed in his chest, unspoken but unbreakable:
I will become the strongest archer in all of Pascha. I will find Vishwa. And I will end this war.
The battle raged on, but for Vid, the war had already begun.