The battlefield stank of ash and iron. Smoke curled above the ruins of the huts, where only hours ago laughter had echoed, and the cries of cattle had filled the dawn. Now the cries were of the wounded, the lost, and the terrified.
Aadi stumbled through the wreckage, his arms raw from carrying children and his chest tight with dust and exhaustion. Arul was somewhere by the river, tending to those who could not run, but Aadi could not rest. His people were scattered, and the devas and asuras still clashed above with a fury that turned night into blood-red day.
As he dragged a collapsed bamboo beam from atop a man's body, a shadow loomed across him. Not one of flame, nor one of horn, but something heavier, older.
A figure walked through the smoke.
He was broad-shouldered, clad in armor that looked as if it had once been glorious but now hung in tatters, rusted and blackened by centuries of blood. His skin was dark, streaked with dirt, his beard unkempt, and his eyes burned with a fever that was not entirely human. A great wound gaped across his forehead—old yet never healed, crusted and festering. From it oozed not fresh blood but a strange, dark light.
The villagers who saw him froze. Some whispered, some ran. Aadi remained rooted, staring, the weight of myth pressing into his bones.
The man's voice was gravel when he spoke."You see it now, boy. The war that tears the sky. And you think to stand between gods and demons?"
Aadi swallowed, his throat dry. "Who are you?"
The stranger's lips curled into something like a smile, though it carried no warmth."I am one who fought for dharma once. One who carried weapons in a war that was meant to end all wars. But wars do not end. They breed, like flies on corpses." He stepped closer, and Aadi felt the air grow colder despite the flames around them. "I am Ashwatthama, son of Drona. Cursed to wander until the last star falls."
The name struck Aadi like thunder. He had heard it in stories told around the fire—how Ashwatthama had unleashed a forbidden weapon in rage, condemned by Krishna himself to walk the earth immortal, unhealed, unredeemed.
Ashwatthama leaned on his spear, the metal cracked and rusted yet still humming faintly with a forgotten energy. His gaze locked onto Aadi's with an intensity that pierced deeper than the smoke.
"You would save your brother," Ashwatthama said, his voice like a dirge. "You would shield your tribe. Noble. But know this—when you fight in the games of gods, you do not save. You curse. Every champion who thought to bend divinity for mortal love has found only ruin."
Aadi's fists clenched, his pulse hammering in his ears. "Then what choice do I have? Stand aside and let them destroy us?"
Ashwatthama's laugh was bitter, echoing like stones breaking. "Choice? That is the first illusion of Maya. Gods promise it, demons tempt you with it, and still you walk into the same snare. Look at me, boy—I chose once. And my choice has become my prison."
For a moment, Aadi thought he saw something beyond rage in the man's eyes. Loneliness. A plea, buried under centuries of hate.
"Run if you can," Ashwatthama rasped, turning his back. "Or fight, if you must. But know that once you step onto their battlefield, you do not leave whole."
Then, as suddenly as he had appeared, the cursed wanderer moved into the smoke, his silhouette swallowed by flame and shadow.
Aadi stood frozen, trembling. The sky above still cracked with thunder, the clash of gods and demons raging. Yet his heart beat not with awe, but with dread.
The cursed man's words clung to him like chains:Every champion who fights for love in the games of gods finds only ruin.