The heavy bronze coin felt like a hot coal in Aryan's pocket as he navigated the labyrinthine streets of New Varanasi. Every shadow seemed to stretch toward him; every flickering neon light felt like a watching eye. The old man, Maruti, had mentioned the zenith of the moon. In this city of perpetual light, the moon was often a forgotten ghost, but tonight, it hung silver and sharp, cutting through the smog.
Aryan returned to the Dashashwamedh Ghat. The tourists had thinned out, leaving only the rhythmic chanting of distant priests and the lapping of the dark river.
"You're late. Three minutes of life wasted is three minutes closer to the end of the world," a voice rasped.
Maruti was sitting on the very edge of a stone pillar, his feet dangling over a hundred-foot drop. He wasn't peeling an orange this time. He was staring at the stars with a gaze that seemed to span lightyears.
"I didn't think you'd actually be here," Aryan said, his chest heaving. "And I have questions. How did you do that in the alley? Why is my body... changing?"
Maruti hopped down, landing as silent as a feather. "Questions are for scholars. Experience is for warriors. You feel heavy, Aryan, because you are trying to carry your power like a burden. You fight the wind instead of becoming it."
"I don't understand," Aryan muttered.
"Breath," Maruti said, standing inches from him. The old man smelled of crushed Tulsi and ancient dust. "Everything starts with Prana. The air you breathe isn't just oxygen; it is the command of the universe. Close your eyes."
Aryan obeyed. The sounds of the city faded.
"Inhale. Don't just fill your lungs. Fill your bones. Imagine the air as liquid gold, flowing into that mark on your shoulder."
Aryan took a deep breath. Usually, his lungs felt tight, but under Maruti's rhythmic guidance, something shifted. The "heavy lead" feeling in his bones began to vibrate. The heat on his shoulder didn't burn this time; it pulsed with a warm, comforting glow.
"Now," Maruti's voice whispered in his ear, "Open them."
Aryan opened his eyes, and the world had changed. He could see the individual droplets of mist rising from the Ganges. He could hear the heartbeat of a stray dog fifty meters away.
"The shadow is coming back," Maruti warned, his voice losing its playful edge. "And it brought a friend."
From the dark surface of the river, the water began to swirl. A figure emerged, tall and jagged, wearing a tactical combat suit that shimmered with dark energy—an 'Asura-Hybrid' enforcer. In its hand was a pulse-blade that hissed as it touched the humid air.
"Target identified: Vajra-Vessel," the Enforcer's voice was a metallic growl. "Extraction or Elimination authorized."
Aryan's instinct was to run, but his feet felt rooted. Maruti stepped back, crossing his arms. "Well, don't just stand there. Show the metal-man why the wind cannot be caged."
The Enforcer lunged. It was fast—faster than Vikram—but to Aryan's heightened senses, it looked like it was moving through water. Aryan stepped to the left, and the movement was so effortless he almost fell over his own feet. He was... light.
The Enforcer pivoted, swinging the pulse-blade in a wide arc. Aryan ducked, the blade whistling just inches above his hair. He felt a surge of adrenaline, but it wasn't frantic; it was focused.
"The fist is a secondary tool, boy!" Maruti shouted from the sidelines. "The Prana is the weapon! Focus it into your palm!"
Aryan balled his fist. He felt the air around his hand tighten, the pressure building until it hummed. As the Enforcer charged again, Aryan didn't just punch; he pushed his palm forward.
BOOM.
It wasn't a physical hit. A concentrated blast of air, solid as a marble pillar, erupted from Aryan's hand. The Enforcer, weighing at least three hundred pounds with its armor, was lifted off its feet and sent flying across the stone plaza, crashing into a temple wall with enough force to crack the ancient brick.
The Enforcer groaned, its armor sparking. It looked at Aryan with mechanical fear, then activated a cloaking device and vanished into a cloud of black smoke.
Aryan stood there, his hand trembling. The glow on his shoulder was fading, replaced by an immense ache. He fell to his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"What... what was that?"
"A fraction," Maruti said, walking over and placing a hand on Aryan's head. The touch instantly cooled his overheated blood. "You just used the Marut-Astra—the basic strike of the Wind-Born. But look at you. One strike and you are spent. Your spirit is a lion, but your body is still a cage of glass."
Maruti looked toward the horizon, where the first hint of grey was touching the sky. "The organization that sent that toy... they call themselves 'Narak-Corp'. They are digging for things that should stay buried. They want the Gada, Aryan. And they know you have the key."
"The Gada? You mean the weapon from the stories?" Aryan asked, looking at his hands.
"Stories are just memories that people have forgotten to believe in," Maruti smiled, but it didn't reach his golden eyes. "Rest now. Tomorrow, we go to the old ruins. If you want to survive, you need to learn how to fly before they learn how to shoot you down."
As Aryan walked away, his legs feeling like jelly, he didn't see Maruti look up at the moon. The old man's shadow on the stone floor didn't look like a hunched beggar. It was the shadow of a giant with a tail that reached for the stars and a mace that could shatter moons.
"The seed has sprouted, My Lord," Maruti whispered to the wind. "The war for the Yuga has begun."