The afternoon sun hung low over Dand Valley, casting warm gold on the tiled roofs and narrow alleys, but the beauty was shattered by the roar of battle. The streets that once smelled of spice and baked bread now reeked of smoke, blood, and dust. Paras stood like a lone pillar in the center square, the faint heat of his bowstrings still rising from the last volley. Across from him, Ke'dil'cho, the flame-clad commander of the northern Rakshas troops, circled like a predator, eyes sharp, breath steady.
Paras had the upper hand for now — his strikes keeping Cho at bay — but around them, the chaos deepened. Soldiers in blackened armor clashed with scattered defenders. The sound was a sickening rhythm: the ring of steel, the snap of broken wood, the occasional scream cut short.
From the corner of his eye, Paras noticed movement — three Rakshas warriors breaking away from the melee, their eyes fixed on something down a side street. His stomach tightened.
They had noticed Vid.
The boy, small and wide-eyed, had been watching from behind the splintered doorway of an abandoned hut. Paras's gaze flickered to him for a heartbeat too long. In that instant, Cho lunged forward. The commander's flaming blade whistled through the air, faster than thought. Paras twisted to parry, but he was a fraction late.
The blade's edge grazed his left shoulder — not deep, but enough to burn through leather and flesh. Pain flared, hot and searing, and the force of the blow knocked him a step back. He gritted his teeth and steadied himself, but Cho's smirk told him the damage was done.
"You're distracted, old man," Cho growled, pressing forward with a flurry of strikes.
Paras's bow came up like a shield, deflecting a blow, then snapping to release an arrow at point-blank range. Cho sidestepped, flames trailing from his sword as if the weapon itself was alive.
But the real danger wasn't Cho in that moment — it was the other Rakshas soldiers closing in on Vid.
The boy stumbled backward, his heels scraping against loose stones. He could hear their guttural growls as they advanced. One had a jagged spear, another a chipped sword, and the third carried nothing but a chain wrapped around his forearm.
Paras's mind screamed at him to move, but Cho's relentless strikes forced him into the defensive. He blocked high, ducked low, side-stepped another slash — yet with each movement, the pain in his shoulder spread, and his vision blurred at the edges.
Vid's breath came fast and shallow. His small hands clutched at the splintered wood of the doorframe until the skin on his knuckles went white. This wasn't the far-off battle he had imagined in the safety of his dreams — this was here, in his street, in his home.
One soldier broke into a run toward him. Vid's instinct was to hide deeper in the hut, but the second soldier swung his chain into the doorway, smashing what remained of the frame. The boy flinched as wood splinters peppered his face.
Paras saw it — the boy trapped — and something primal surged in him. He shoved Cho back with a burst of strength, his feet digging into the cracked stone. "Stay away from him!" he roared, drawing three arrows in one motion and loosing them toward the soldiers.
Two found their marks — one arrow thudding into a soldier's chest, another into his thigh. But the third Rakshas, the one with the chain, kept coming.
That moment of overreach cost Paras.
Cho struck.
The commander's blade arced low, catching Paras across the ribs. The heat of the flames seared into him before the steel even bit. Blood welled instantly, dark against the folds of his tunic.
Paras staggered back, vision swimming. He felt warmth running down his side, his breath growing heavier.
Vid's hut door gave way entirely under the chain-wielder's next strike. The wall shuddered, the structure groaned, and half the roof caved inward. Dust billowed, choking the air.
Vid coughed and stumbled into the open, eyes stinging from the debris. He didn't run. He froze.
The soldier raised his chain to strike.
"NO!" Paras bellowed. He planted his foot, ignoring the tearing pain in his side, and raised his bow. But his aim faltered — the blood loss was already stealing his precision.
Cho laughed. "Your fight is with me, Paras!"
He lunged, forcing Paras to block again, his bow vibrating from the force of the clash. The wound in his side throbbed with every heartbeat.
From the rubble, Vid could see Paras bleeding, could see the strain in the old man's movements. This was the man who had stood like a mountain against Cho's flames. This was the man who had taken on an army without flinching — and now, because of him, because Vid had been seen, he was bleeding.
Something shifted inside the boy. The fear was still there — cold and sharp — but beneath it, something else began to burn.
The Rakshas soldier swung the chain again. Vid ducked, the metal links snapping through the air where his head had been. The sound was deafening.
He could have run. He could have screamed for help. But instead, Vid's eyes locked on Paras.
Paras had Cho locked in a bind, bow against sword, but the flames were eating away at the bowstring. Cho's face was a mask of savage delight, certain of his victory.
Vid clenched his fists. I will not be useless.
His chest ached, not from injury but from the weight of a vow forming deep within him. This valley, this town, these people — they were being swallowed by the Rakshas like they were nothing. Paras stood against them with nothing but his skill, his will, and his bow.
And Vid knew, in that moment, that he wanted that strength. No — he needed it.
The chain soldier lunged again. Vid twisted away, the metal grazing his arm. Pain flared, but he didn't cry out. He darted toward the alley, heart pounding.
Paras, catching a glimpse of the boy moving, shouted, "Go! Get to safety!"
But Vid didn't go far. He ducked behind the corner of the square, watching, memorizing every movement Paras made, every arrow loosed, every step that kept Cho's blade from finding his heart.
The clash between Paras and Cho reached a fever pitch — arrows against flame, steel against wood, sparks scattering into the dusty air. Each impact sent tremors through the square, tiles falling from rooftops, windows shattering.
A group of Rakshas soldiers tried to flank Paras, but Cho barked at them to stand back. "He's mine!" the commander snarled, flames dancing along the blade's edge.
Vid's small hands shook, not from fear now, but from a strange, fierce longing. I will learn, he thought, the vow searing into his heart like iron into flesh. I will learn to fight. I will learn the bow. I will become strong enough to protect — to stand like Paras stands. And I will find the god Vishwa. Whatever it takes.
Behind him, the last remnants of the hut collapsed completely, sending another cloud of dust into the air. That was his home, gone in an instant.
Vid didn't look back.
In the square, Paras blocked another strike, but his knees buckled for a heartbeat. Cho pressed forward, smelling blood.
The boy's vow deepened. This was not the end. This was the beginning.
And though the battle in Dand Valley raged on, something had been set alight in Vid — a flame that no Rakshas sword could extinguish.
he air in Dand Valley reeked of blood and burnt wood. Paras' cry of pain still echoed in Vid's ears, but it was faint now — as though someone had dropped a thick curtain between him and the world. Somewhere to his left, the clash of steel rang out. Somewhere to his right, soldiers screamed. Yet here, in this shrinking bubble of stillness, all Vid could hear was the hammering of his own heart.
He stood frozen, an arrow half-drawn, staring at the scene in front of him — Paras staggering back, Cho pressing forward, flames curling around that cursed red blade. The ground trembled with every strike, but Vid's legs refused to move. A soldier's snarl snapped him halfway back to reality — the glint of a spearpoint heading straight for him — but even that didn't feel real.
Why am I standing here?
The question wasn't loud; it was quiet, almost tired.
And then, without warning, the valley dissolved. The heat of the battle faded, replaced by a warm kitchen glow, the smell of jaggery tea, and his mother's gentle hum.
He was small again, barely reaching the table's edge, watching her work. She had a way of making even the smallest home feel like a palace — the clay walls, the woven mats, the soft light filtering in through the single window. Outside, the voices of neighbors called across the lanes, children's laughter chasing them.
That day, she had been telling him stories. Not the kind from the merchants in the market or the elders in the temple courtyard — hers were older, deeper.
"Son," she had said, leaning close as though sharing a secret, "you know I am a devotee of Lord Vishwa. Find him — he is the solution. He will protect you."
He had giggled, asking if Lord Vishwa would bring him sweets. She'd laughed — that rare, warm laugh that seemed to make the whole world kinder.
"Maybe," she'd said, "but more than sweets, he brings the strength to stand when no one else will stand for you."
He saw the night. The fire. The shadows of men who were not men. He remembered how the air had smelled — not of woodsmoke, but of something black and bitter. Screams tore through the lanes. His father's voice — shouting his name once, and then never again.
His mother had dragged him through the smoke, her breath coming ragged, the hem of her sari torn. Something heavy had struck her back, but she didn't falter. She kept running until they reached the river's edge.
She had knelt before him, gripping his face with both hands, her eyes fierce despite the blood.
"Son… you must live. You must find Lord Vishwa. He will protect you."
A sound — the hiss of an arrow, the thud as it struck — and then she was gone.
Vid's breath caught in his throat. In the valley, the clash of weapons sounded closer again. A soldier had fallen nearby, his body tumbling into the mud.
He forced himself to look toward Paras — the old man was still fighting, though his movements were slower now, each swing heavier than the last. Blood trickled from a wound at his side, staining the ground dark.
Paras caught Vid's eye, even mid-strike. For a heartbeat, the old man's expression softened.
"Be your own solution," he'd told Vid once, back when they'd first met. "Be the saviour you want some random gods to be."
At the time, Vid had laughed, thinking Paras just didn't believe in anything. Now, the words sat heavier in his chest.
His mother had told him to find a god. Paras told him to become one.
Which was right?
The truth pressed in on him — maybe they were both right. Lord Vishwa, if he existed, wouldn't come to save him unless Vid first stood up to save himself. And if he never appeared? Then Vid would still have to fight.
He thought of the friends he'd lost. The boy from across the lane who had shared his bread. The girl with the crooked braid who had once dared him to climb the banyan tree. Every face, every voice — gone. All that remained was him.
Why had he survived?
The sound of Paras' grunt brought him back sharply. Cho's flaming blade came down like a comet, striking the old man's sword. Sparks exploded between them. Paras staggered, barely blocking the next blow.
Vid's fingers tightened on his bow.
No more freezing. No more waiting for gods or miracles. His mother's words were not an excuse to stand still — they were a direction. Find Lord Vishwa. But until he did… be the bow. Be the arrow. Be the fire.
He drew the string to his ear. The world narrowed to a single point — not Cho's weapon, not even Cho himself, but the moment. The choice.
"I will find you, Lord Vishwa," he whispered under his breath, his voice shaking, "but until then, I will be my own Vishwa."
Somewhere deep in the valley, a horn sounded — maybe an ally's call, maybe an enemy's. Vid didn't care. His arrow loosed, slicing through the air with a whistle that cut through the noise of the battle.
Paras glanced back just long enough to see it fly. For the first time that day, the old man's lips curved into a faint smile.
The arrow struck.
The battle roared on. But something inside Vid had changed forever.
The sun hung low over Dand Valley, its light fractured by drifting smoke and the dust of a battle that had begun as a clash of steel and now boiled into something far more primal. Blood ran in thin rivulets along the uneven stones, merging with the mud until the earth itself seemed to drink in the war.
Paras stood at the center of it all. His breath was ragged, his frame trembling not from fear but from the strain of holding his body together after wounds that would have felled a younger man hours ago. Every muscle in his body screamed. His clothes were slashed open in a dozen places, red soaking through the fabric until the old colors of his tunic were unrecognizable.
A cut just above his brow leaked into his right eye, blurring his vision, but the old lion refused to wipe it away. Instead, his gaze locked on Cho—the brute who had been harrying their side since morning. Cho's chest heaved, one shoulder hanging slightly lower from an earlier strike, but his grin still clung to his face. Around him, hundreds of soldiers circled, their boots stomping into the ground in a slow rhythm, as if the valley itself were pounding a war drum.
Somewhere behind Paras, Vid crouched low, hands shaking. His mind was a battlefield of its own—haunted images of his family, his mother's final words, Paras's earlier warning. But in this moment, Paras's focus was only on the men before him.
A fresh line of blood slid from his split lip as he spoke, voice low but carrying like a growl.
"You… have taken enough from me."
Cho scoffed. "Old man, you've already lost. Lay down your arms before the dirt swallows you."
But Paras did not lower his weapon. Instead, something changed in his posture—his spine straightening, his left foot sliding back half a step, his hands tightening on the worn hilt of his blade. It was the stance of a man about to stop holding back.
A murmur ran through the enemy lines. Some of the veterans recognized it, their eyes widening with a fear their younger comrades did not yet understand. This was no ordinary stance. This was the preparation for an astra.
For years, the Festival Storm Arts had been little more than legend—tales whispered in garrisons and half-believed by new recruits. But Paras had lived those tales. He was those tales. And today, in this blood-soaked valley, the legend would breathe again.
Paras closed his eyes.
The sounds of battle seemed to fall away, leaving only the faint rush of wind and the distant crackle of burning wood. He exhaled slowly, letting his mind sink past the pain, past the exhaustion, until he found the core of his being—the river of chakra that still flowed inside him, battered but unbroken.
When his eyes opened again, they burned—not metaphorically, but with the faint blue light of energy pulled from the depths of his spirit. The ground at his feet began to hum, a tremor so faint at first it could be mistaken for the shifting of loose stones. Then it grew.
Soldiers hesitated, their ranks shuffling. Even Cho took a wary half-step back, his grin faltering.
Paras's voice rose—not loud, but carrying with the weight of centuries of warrior tradition.
"Festival Storm Arts…"
He shifted his grip, the blade now angled toward the ground as though inviting the heavens to strike through it. The air around him thickened; dust motes hung frozen, unwilling to fall.
"…Multi Cracker Burst!"
The valley erupted.
Light tore from Paras's weapon in cascading bursts, each one splitting into dozens of smaller explosions that arced through the air like festival firecrackers—except these carried the force of a siege engine in every detonation. The first wave struck the front line of soldiers, bodies flung backward in arcs of red. Screams rose, but they were drowned out by the second wave, and then the third, until the entire front of Cho's army collapsed into chaos.
Hundreds fell in seconds. Armor plates shattered, shields splintered, and the ground itself cracked under the repeated shockwaves.
Cho roared and charged through the destruction, his massive frame swatting aside falling debris. But Paras was already moving—not with the speed of youth, but with the precision of a master who knew exactly where his strikes would land.
The old man pivoted, meeting Cho head-on. Their weapons clashed, the impact sending a ripple through the surrounding air. Paras's left side screamed in protest as he forced Cho's blade away and brought his own in a low arc. The edge bit deep—not into armor, but into flesh.
Cho staggered, staring in disbelief at the sudden absence of weight on his left arm. Blood sprayed, painting the trampled grass. His roar turned into a howl of rage, but it was cut short by the next burst from Paras's astra—three detonations in rapid succession that peppered Cho's chest and legs with burning cuts.
The once-proud commander stumbled back, his breath ragged, his body a canvas of wounds.
Around them, the battlefield had turned. What moments ago had been an overwhelming force was now a broken mob, many throwing down their weapons and fleeing toward the valley's edge. Paras did not chase them. He stood in the center of it all, chest heaving, the last traces of energy light fading from his eyes.
The cost was written in every line of his body—his hands shaking, his knees threatening to give. But the old lion was still on his feet, and as long as he stood, Dand Valley would remember.