Thunders roared through the storm-soaked night, it growled like a predator stalking across the rain-drowned world.
This was no ordinary night. It was a night where the world felt like it was holding its breath. Waiting for a secret to break.
The sky over the riverbank was the color of a fresh bruise—a deep, painful purple. Heavy, charcoal clouds hung low, swelling with the weight of an ancient prophecy that had been buried for centuries. The air was thick and vibrating, tense with the feeling that something monumental was about to happen.
KA-BOOM.
A roar of thunder, louder than any natural storm, tore the sky open. For a split second, a jagged rift of "dark light" sliced through the clouds like a blade. With a sickening shudder in the air, the rift spat out a solitaire figure, sending him tumbling through the freezing rain toward the muddy ground below.
The figure was non other than 'Harsha', He hit the riverbank with a heavy, metallic thud. looking as though he had just been dragged through the very center of a battlefield.
His divine armor, slick with rain and stained in blood, crashed loudly against the sharp rocks, the sound instantly drowned by the hungry roar of the Kalindi River.
Even as he skidded and battered against the muddy slope towards the swamp below, Harsha's arms remained locked like iron bands around a small, lotus-weave basket. He clutched it to his chest as if it were the last anchor in a drowning world. Tucked inside the petals of the basket lay a secret: an infant resting in an eerie silence. The child's wide, glittery eyes reflected the lightning with a clarity that no ordinary human baby could possess.
But it didn't felt like they were the only one alone in that place.
Something was off..
"There! The scent... the child's scent is coming from the swamp!"
A predatory voice hissed from the lipless mouth of a gruesome creature—a sound as thin and cold as a winter wind.
Three Chhaya-Asuras crawled out from the mist like ink bleeding into water. They were terrifying creatures, made of shifting shadows and protruding bones. They moved with a sickening, liquid grace that didn't belong in the natural world. In their gnarled hands, they gripped curved blades that dripped a slow, soul-chilling venom. The poison sizzled as it hit the wet earth.
As they were following the scent, the asura's stumbled upon a man laying in front of them 'unconscious' in a muddy swamp. Their lidless eyes locked onto the broken man collapsed on the bank. To them, Harsha was nothing more than a final hurdle standing between them and a prize that promised a reign of eternal darkness.
"He's finished the fall has finally broken him" one of the Asuras muttered, its voice like the grinding of dry stones. It started stepping forward with hungry impatience.
"Fool," the lead Asura snapped. "He is a celestial, not some fragile mortal. He won't have perished so easily. Even If he's still, it's only because the cursed dagger has finally begun to work its magic. He is either unconscious, or far too weak to stop us."
Harsha did not move. He remained facedown in the freezing swamp, his breath barely stirring the mud beneath his lips. To any observer, he was nothing more than a fresh corpse for the crows.
"Whatever he is," another Asura growled, its voice thick with a cautious malice, "step carefully. Celestials do not die quietly."
The impatient Asura ignored the warning. He moved forward, its clawed, skeletal foot stopping mere inches from Harsha's head. It leaned down, its shadow-wrapped frame looming large as it began to mock the fallen warrior. "Look at him. Once a great warrior, now reduced to—"
The insult was cut short. Harsha's eyes snapped open he hadn't been defeated he was waiting for a perfect opportunity to strike while pretending to be unconscious.
In a heartbeat, the illusion of death vanished. Harsha exploded into motion with a ferocity that defied the laws of gravity. He surged upward. His gauntlet-clad hand shot out, seizing the impatient Asura by its throat of shifting shadow. The creature's mocking hiss now turning into a startled gag as Harsha's blade cleared its sheath, the cold steel flashing with a sharpness that seemed to silence the thunder itself.
In one fluid, lethal motion, he swung. The celestial blade cut through the rainy gloom, leaving a trail of orange flame that sliced through the Asura's chest. The creature didn't even have time to scream before it began to dissolve into black mist instantly snatched by the winds.
Harsha stood tall, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he was ready to finish the rest. His body trembled from the poison, but his stance remained as solid as a mountain. He stepped over the vanishing remains of the asura, placing himself firmly between the basket and the remaining monsters.
The other two Asuras froze, their lidless eyes widening as their companion's shadow-flesh melted into the rain. Harsha didn't give them a second to think.
With a roar that rivaled the storm, he lunged. The lead Asura tried to raise its venomous blade, but Harsha moved like a blur. He pivoted on the slick mud, his heavy boot smashing into the creature's chest. As it staggered back, Harsha's blade swept upward in a brilliant arc, taking the monster's head in a single, clean stroke. It vanished into smoke while hitting on the ground.
The final Asura, panicked and desperate, hissed and made a lunging grab for the basket.
"Not today," Harsha spat, his voice like grinding iron.
He caught the creature mid-leap, his hand clamping over its face. A blinding flash of orange flame erupted from his grip, burning through the shadow-ichor of the Asura's soul. The creature shrieked—a sound of pure unadultured fear—before shattering into a thousand harmless sparks that the freezing rain instantly washed away.
The swamp went silent, save for the warrior's heavy breathing and the steady rush of the river. Harsha slumped to one knee, using his sword as a crutch to keep from collapsing. He was bleeding, and the poison felt like lead in his limbs, but the path was finally clear.
He turned his bruised face toward the lotus-weave basket, his gaze softening as he checked on the silent child laying unharmed.
He scanned the dark edges of the swamp, his eyes stinging from the rain. He didn't know if there were more of those Asuras lurking in the shadows, waiting for him to finally collapse.
"I cannot carry you any further, my boy," he wheezed through a throat tight with pain. He looked down at his trembling hands and realized his body would not longer keep up with him. His legs could no longer carry the heavy weight of his destiny.
In that moment, a desperate, wild idea took hold of his mind. He turned his head toward the Kalindi River, watching its churning, iron-gray currents muscle through the rocks.
"The water," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the storm. "I must let the current take what I cannot."
He knew it was a gamble—placing a silent infant with him into the heart of a raging river—but he had no other choice. The land was crawling with monsters, and he was a dying man. With a final, shaking effort, he crawled toward the water's edge, dragging his heavy armor through the mud.
He reached the swirling white foam of the riverbank gripping the basket in his knuckles. Before him, the Kalindi River was a churning beast, its currents roaring in a violent duet with the heavy winds. For a moment, he stopped; a flicker of raw hesitation and nerves betrayed the exhaustion in his eyes as he looked at the child's calm, glowing eyes.
But with a final, desperate surge of strength, Harsha hauled himself upright. He lifted the lotus-weave basket and placed it carefully onto his head, balancing it with his last bit of coordination. He felt the weight of the child—the weight of the entire future—resting on him one last time.
"May the river kalindi be kinder to us than the world has been," he prayed.
Then, he finally stepped in forcing himself into the freezing torrent of the river. The icy water screamed against his open wounds, but than he went numb to the pain, wading deeper and deeper until the soft mud disappeared and the strong treacherous current pulled him to the depths.
Lifting the basket high above his head like a sacred offering, he surrendered his body to the river's violent embrace. He became a ghost in the surf, a lone soul struggling against the swelling tide to reach the far, dark bank.
The rain lashed at his face and the thunder roared above, but he kept his eyes fixed forward.
As he was flowing with the river current through the heavy curtains of rain, a single, flickering yellow light appeared in the dark. It appeared like a lonely star on the far side of the roaring river, marking a strong stone and wood farmhouse. Harsha's heart gave a painful surge of recognition. He knew that light. It was the home of Nand Verman—his oldest comrade, a man who was as reliable as his own sword.
Harsha blinked through the painful rain, keeping his eyes fixed on that small, golden light.
"He is there, he is still there" he whispered, his voice cracking against the wind.
The sight of the light felt like an invisible hand reaching out to him, pulling him forward when his legs wanted to give up. With a deep breath, he began to drag himself from the river's icy grip. He fought the current inch by inch, his heavy, soaked armor scraping against the stones until, at last, he reached the dry bank.
Through blurred eyes, he saw his friend's house standing just ahead—it was exactly as he remembered it. Moving slowly and steadily, he limped toward the light, clutching the basket tightly in his left hand. Every breath felt like a struggle, a heavy price to pay for crossing between worlds without a moment's rest.
By the time his boots hit the wood of the porch, the last of his strength was completely vanished.
He swayed at the threshold, his chest heaving as he fought for air.
Slowly and painfully, he lowered himself to his knees, with the trembling hands he placed the lotus-weave basket gently onto the floorboards, pulling his hands away quickly before his shaking fingers could tip it over.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of the rain. Then, from inside the basket, came a soft, shivering whimper—the first sign that the child was truly alive.
A tired smile broke across Harsha's blood-stained face. Relief washed over him.
Than he looked at his waist and from his belt, Harsha drew a double-edged sword. He wedged the heavy hilt into the side of the lotus basket, bracing it firmly against the wooden door so the basket wouldn't move. The glowing symbols on the blade pulsed twice and then went dark, the weapon disguising itself as nothing more than a piece of iron.
"Grow well, my little ember, am leaving you here in the hands of my my most trusted friend" Harsha whispered. His voice was calm, though it was the last of his strength. He pressed a bloody thumbprint onto the boy's soft clothes—a final, protective mark of him.
Then, like mist vanishing in the morning sun, Harsha turned and walked back into the darkness. By the time he reached the edge of the trees, he was gone. All that remained of the celestial warrior were a few shimmering drops of blood on the grass, quickly washed away by the rain.
Inside the house, the heavy thud against the door and the thin, sharp cry of a baby awoke Nand Verman from his sleep. He sat up at once, his heart racing as he looked at his wife, who was still asleep. He grabbed his lantern and hurried toward the entrance. His hand trembled slightly as he slid back the bolt and pulled the door open, the yellow light casting a long, nervous shadow across the porch.
"Who's there?" Nand called out, peering into the dark, rainy night.
He looked left and right, seeing nothing but the sheets of rain. Then, his eyes fell to the floor of the porch. He didn't notice the baby at first; his gaze was snatched by the sword. Even under the layer of dull, disguised iron, he recognized the lion-headed pommel instantly. It was a legendary weapon, a relic belonging to the best friend he hadn't seen in years.
Nand... is that...?" his wife, Smita, asked softly. She had been pulled from her sleep by the noise and was now standing in the shadows of the hallway. "I heard a sound like thunder hitting the wood... and then the crying of a child. is there a baby at our door?" She whispered as she was coming out through the hallway.
Nand didn't answer right away. He dropped to his knees, his rough, scarred hands shaking as he reached toward the basket.
There, tucked inside the petals, lay a baby boy. As Nand moved the lantern closer the petals started revealing the baby More, as the baby's body was fully revealed he saw a strange mark on the child's wrist—a symbol of a serpent mark. Nand's breath hitched. He looked at the lion-headed sword, then back at the child, and a cold shiver of realisation ran down his spine.
Than He turned around and looked up at his wife, his eyes shining with a strange, painful joy.
"Smita," he whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of terror and wonder. "Do you remember the stories I told you? About the Great Wars, and the man who saved my life a thousand times over? Harsha! This is HARSHA'S son... but his son is no ordinary child."
Smita knelt beside him as she stepped out to the wet porch, her eyes widening as she followed her husband's gaze to the child's wrist.
"Look at the mark," Nand breathed, his rough hands shaking as he pointed to the serpent. "Harsha didn't just send us a boy to raise. He has sent us a miracle." His voice was filled with mix of extreme surprise and happiness.
"I had never imagined even in my wildest dream that the prophecies i had grown up hearing would took place in our lives at my own house—and I never thought I'd live to see the day—but here he is. This child is one of the seven Avatar, Smita. The heavens have truly taken birth in our world."
Smita got completely stunned and surprised to hear the fact about the baby at their door but the initial shock in her eyes softened the moment she looked into the baby's face.
The infant's eyes were wide and unnervingly clear, reflecting the flickering lantern light like two deep, golden pools. Her motherly instinct kicked in, and Without a word, she reached into the basket and gathered the child against her chest, shielding him from the freezing spray of the rain. The baby's tiny fingers instantly locked onto her sleeve, holding on as if he never wanted to let go.
"An Avatar or not," she said, her voice turning fierce and protective. "He is freezing. Don't speak as if he is some distant legend or a burden of destiny. He is just a little baby right now. Who just needs our love and a warm house."
"That isn't what I meant," Nand said quickly, reaching out to touch the baby's small hand.
Smita than paused for a second looking at the baby with a smile than declared "from now on we will keep him as our own son"
But while looking down at the infant for a few seconds, then back at Nand, a shadow of doubt crossing her face.
"But... why would he leave him here?" she whispered, her voice trembling with her own question. "On a doorstep, in the middle of a storm? Is the condition of the Devlok truly so dire? Is the Realm of Light no longer safe for its own children?"
"I fear it is worse than we imagined," Nand said. He didn't look at her; instead, his eyes darted nervously toward the dark treeline, searching for any movement in the shadows. "There is only one reason Harsha would have chosen the mortal world over the heavens. Only one reason he would risk bringing one of the seven Avatar here."
"And that is?" Smita asked, her gaze hardening as she clutched the baby tighter.
"Because the Devlok has already fallen," Nand replied, his voice barely a breath. "If he brought the boy here, it means there is nowhere else left to hide. The mortal world isn't just a choice, Smita—it's the last fortress we have to shield him from the wrath of the Great shadow, who is determined to kill his future slayers before they even stand on their legs."
"Then let the shadows watch," Smita declared, as she pressed the child close to her chest. She gently wrapped him in her shawl, drying his tiny body as maternal warmth seeped through the damp fabric. "From this moment on, he is ours. If your friend has entrusted us with his life—than we would not fail him."
Without another word, she turned her back on the storm and carried the baby into the safety of the house.
Nand remained there standing, watching his wife disappear into the warmth of the house. A faint, fleeting smile touched his lips. Seeing Smita's quiet joy acted like a balm, softening the jagged edge of fear that had been lodged in his chest since the first bolt of thunder.
For a single, fragile moment, he allowed himself to believe that perhaps the worst of the nightmare had passed.
The rain lashed against his face, cold and chilling. He turned his gaze toward the river one last time. The Kalindi flowed on, a dark and rushing muscle of water, carrying away secrets that it would never return to the world of men.
Harsha was long gone. The riverbank was empty, and the mist had swallowed every trace of the struggle.
"So, Harsha… you came all the way to my home after so long… and still chose to leave without seeing me?"
The words trembled with a quiet, hollow, aching disappointment rather than anger.
"What held you back?" he murmured into the hush of the dusk.What held you back?" he murmured, his gaze searching the empty, rain-drenched path where his friend should have been. ""Are you still upset with me over the past… or there was something so urgent that you couldn't spare even a moment for me?"
After whispering to himself Nand turned his attention back to the weapon wedged into the porch. It was a massive sword, forged from a dark metal that seemed to swallow the dim light of his lantern. He reached out, his breath held tight in his chest, and gripped the handle.
The moment his skin touched the leather-bound grip, a jolt of energy surged through his arm, vibrating like a low hum against his bones—a flicker of the power he had once known so well. With a sharp tug, he pulled the blade free from the wood of the porch.
As the sword came loose, a faint, golden smoke began to curl from the edge of the metal. It didn't drift away in the wind; instead, it hung in the air, forming glowing shapes that only an old soldier like Nand could understand.
"Is there a message?" Nand whispered, his eyes searching the fading light. "Is there a message for me?"
As if in answer to his whisper, the sword began to glow. A deep, pulsing heat radiated from the steel, and the dried blood of the monsters still clinging to the edge began to vanish into a thin, white mist. Beneath the surface of the metal, glowing symbols began to crawl like living embers, shifting and turning until they formed a message that burned in the darkness.
Nand's breath hitched as he read the words appearing on the blade:
"The cycle is restored. The blood of the cosmic entity has returned to the earth. This child is the Seventh and final Seal—the Vessel of the Eternal, the last Avatar reborn. He is destined to lead the armies of the heavens and to strike down the Great Shadow forever. Protect him, Nand Verman, for the future of the universe is now in your hands."
The light pulsed one last time, so bright it forced Nand to blink. When he opened his eyes, the glow was gone. The sword looked ordinary once more—dull, heavy, and silent. But the heat of the message still lingered in Nand's palm, a permanent reminder of the war that had just arrived at his doorstep.
Nand breath hitched in his throat, he realized that his small, quiet farmhouse was no longer just a home; it was now the most important place in all the realms.
He wasn't just holding his friend's son or just hiding a refugee. He was guarding the savior of the realms itself. The weight of the sword in his hand suddenly felt like the weight of the entire world.
The steel pulsed one last time, a soft golden light intensified at the base of the hilt, the metal vibrating with a final, urgent message. The letters didn't just appear; they seemed to etch themselves deep into the steel.
He leaned in, squinting against the glow to read the final warning:
"His name is Arjun. Let the world see only an ordinary boy until the day he comes of age. But heed this: in his twelfth year and seventh month, the shadows will find him. On that day, a great warrior must make the ultimate sacrifice to shield him from the darkness, holding the line until the Devas descend to reclaim their own."
As Nand finished reading, the light faded completely. The magical script vanished, leaving the blade dull and silent. Nand stood alone in the darkness of the porch staring at the sword, his heart sinking. The prophecy wasn't just a promise of hope; it was a countdown to a tragedy. To protect the boy, someone would have to pay down their life for the greater good.
He looked at his own reflection in the dull metal of the blade. He remember that he was once a soldier. He may have left the Devlok but never abondoned his responsibility, He understood the sacrifice. He knew then that the peace he was about to give this boy was borrowed time—and that he was likely the one who would have to pay the price when the shadows finally arrived.
He stepped inside and moved quietly through the small house, his feets making no sound on the floorboards. He reached the bedroom door and stopped. There, by the soft, flickering glow of a single candle, he saw them. Smita was resting on the bed, the infant cradled safely in the crook of her arm.
Nand leaned against the doorframe, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of the baby's chest. The storm outside seemed a world away.
"Arjun," he murmured, the name felt strange and sacred on his tongue.
He watched the boy for a long moment, a shadow of both sadness and hope in his eyes. "Sleep well, little prince," he whispered into the quiet room. "A world of mysteries awaits you, but for tonight, you are simply home."
...