The first day of college was a storm Aarav somehow managed to survive. Every step through those new hallways felt heavy, unfamiliar. By the time the day ended, it was as if he had crossed a battlefield.
> "Where have I come…?" he wondered, staring at the fading sky.
But retreat wasn't an option anymore. With quiet determination, Aarav held his heart together, whispering to himself that no matter how hard it got — he wouldn't back down.
The second day arrived with a different kind of buzz. Everyone seemed alert, aware, cautious — because ragging had already begun spreading like wildfire through the campus. Aarav entered his classroom silently, choosing to keep his head low. He focused on the lecture, blending in with the crowd.
Then came lunch break.
Students poured out of the classrooms like water flooding a street after rain. Laughter echoed through the halls, trays clattered in the canteen, and the usual chaos filled the air. Aarav picked up his lunch and found a quiet corner to eat.
But the peace didn't last.
Across the room, a group of seniors had cornered a boy. Aarav's eyes narrowed as he watched. The boy was trembling, surrounded by their mocking grins. One of them grabbed his collar and barked,
> "Why didn't you pick up my call, huh? You think you're not scared of me? Do you want to die?"
The boy's tears mixed with sweat as the seniors hit him, one blow after another. Around them, students watched in silence. No one stepped forward.
Aarav sat frozen — unsure, shocked, anger slowly brewing inside.
And then… a voice cut through the cafeteria noise.
> "If you don't want to end up in a hospital today… walk away. Right now."
A boy stepped into the scene. He wasn't loud — but his presence was sharp, like a blade slicing through arrogance. His lunch tray was still in his hand, but his eyes… they were unwavering.
> "Your little show has gone too far. I can't even eat properly because of you guys. And one more thing…"
"Real men don't raise their hands on the weak. If you want to fight, pick someone who can actually fight back."
The entire cafeteria went silent. A single heartbeat stretched into eternity.
The seniors turned toward him, their faces darkening with rage.
> "What did you just say…?" one of them growled.
Their fists clenched. Food trays were shoved aside. The tension in the air grew electric — something was about to explode.
And in that moment, watching it all unfold, something inside Aarav ignited.
A spark. A pull. As if destiny had just stepped into the cafeteria.
The seniors charged toward him like a pack of hungry wolves.
But the boy… remained completely calm. His eyes were steady. His breathing was controlled. It was like he had already measured every move they were about to make.
The first attacker lunged at him, swinging a wild punch straight toward his face.
In a flash, the boy caught the senior's wrist mid-air — Trap and Twist — and using his momentum, lifted him off the ground and threw him over his shoulder with a clean over-the-shoulder throw.
The senior crashed onto the floor with a heavy thud, the sound echoing through the cafeteria.
Before the others could react, the second attacker rushed in, aiming a hard punch to the boy's stomach.
But the boy sidestepped smoothly — Slip and Counter — and drove his left fist straight into the senior's midsection with a body blow.
The punch landed with a sharp, echoing impact. The attacker doubled over, gasping for air, his legs trembling.
The third one, more desperate, grabbed a baseball bat from a nearby table. With a roar, he swung it downward in a sloppy arc.
But the boy shifted his weight, stepped in close, and before the bat could land, he hooked his arm around the attacker's swing, forcing the bat to rebound.
The attacker lost his balance, and in the confusion, the bat hit his own shoulder with a dull crack, sending him stumbling backward in pain.
The fourth attacker, seeing all of this unfold in seconds, froze. His bravado vanished. His eyes widened with fear, and without a single word… he turned and ran out of the cafeteria.
Silence filled the room. Students stared in disbelief.
The boy walked past the groaning seniors, his footsteps echoing like the aftermath of a storm. He approached the bullied student, knelt slightly, and said in a calm, firm voice:
> "If they bother you again… come to me."
For the first time that day, someone had stood up — not with words, but with strength.
And watching this unfold, Aarav felt something shift inside him
Aarav didn't move. He didn't flinch. He simply watched.
In a world where every fist, every shout, every glance carried weight, there was value in observation. Most people were predictable. The strong were dangerous, yes, but never perfect. Even monsters had weaknesses — and Aarav cataloged them, quietly, meticulously.
Vihaan moved like a storm unleashed. His fists struck with lethal precision, but his fury was chaotic, untempered. Every attack was instinctive, every counter brutal. Aarav's eyes narrowed.
> "Strength… raw, uncontrolled. Useful, but wasted unless directed."
The fight in the cafeteria had ended, and yet the consequences were only beginning. The ones Vihaan had beaten were members of The Forsaken, the most feared faction in the college. Watching from the periphery were the calculating eyes of Vortex of Sin, the second most powerful group. Both had noted the breach: Vihaan had publicly humiliated a pack member — and the rules of the campus were unforgiving.
Aarav's mind mapped the chaos. The power structures, the loyalties, the grudges — all variables waiting to be manipulated. He didn't feel admiration. He felt potential.
> "A blunt blade. It cuts effectively… but in the wrong hands, it destroys itself. He doesn't understand the flow. He never will unless someone teaches him to see beyond the fight."
Rumors spread like wildfire. Whispers about the boy who had saved a student, the one who had dared to challenge The Forsaken, the one whose temper was too dangerous to ignore. Aarav filed each piece of information away, unseen, untouchable.
By evening, Vihaan's recklessness drew attention in a different, darker arena. A deserted street. Shadows stretching long under flickering streetlights. Twenty figures blocked his path. Among them, The Forsaken's leader, towering, calm, and utterly certain.
> "So, you're the one who hit my men?" the leader said, voice quiet but cutting.
"Fine. Let's see if you can do it again."
Aarav didn't move closer. He observed, as a player observes a game unfolding. Rods. Spanners. Ten men attacking together — and Vihaan stood alone.
He struck first. Eight fell in seconds — elbows, knees, body throws, palm strikes — a storm of controlled violence. But the law of numbers was merciless. Overwhelmed, Vihaan began to bleed, a savage rhythm of pain and fury. Phones flashed as his attackers filmed every moment, laughing, mocking, and turning his defeat into entertainment.
Tears ran down Vihaan's face. Not of weakness. Not of surrender. But of pure, untempered rage. He spat blood onto the ground, eyes burning.
Aarav stepped forward. The distance between them was measured, precise. He crouched beside Vihaan without ceremony, voice calm, detached.
> "You have strength. Fighting spirit. But you have no concept of timing. No concept of strategy. That flaw alone ensures you will always be hunted, always be used, always be outmatched."
Vihaan blinked. He laughed — a low, harsh sound, ragged but oddly genuine.