The man stood with his eyes closed, his very presence pressing against Om like a crushing weight.
His clothing was unlike anything of this era. He wore robes styled as if from centuries ago, a silken dhoti that gleamed faintly in the fading light. When he finally opened his eyes, Om felt his breath catch.
Golden irises, bright as molten sunlight, bore down upon him. The sheer aura radiating from this man was overwhelming, suffocating. Even without striking a single blow, Om knew this figure could end him with ease.
Still, Om refused to cower.
He spat blood to the side, his body trembling, and began crawling toward his fallen sword.
The man clicked his tongue in mild annoyance.
"Still trying to fight? Even after hearing a two-hundred-decibel sound? At your stage, surviving it should have been impossible. Yet here you are, alive. Your teammates, too. And even in this state, you reach for your weapon."
His golden eyes narrowed. "What kind of monsters are you?"
Om's fingers brushed the hilt of his sword. He forced himself upright, leaning heavily on the blade for support. His eardrums still rang with unbearable pain, but through the haze he caught the man's last words.
With blood staining his lips, Om smiled faintly.
"That's a question… I should be asking you."
Again, the man clicked his tongue.
"If Grandfather had not ordered me to keep you alive, I would have killed you where you stand."
The words carried no bluff. Om felt the truth in them.
The man tilted his head skyward. His gaze sharpened, and his tone grew graver.
"The guy in the school will know about the convergence taking place here. Time is short."
He stepped closer. Om tightened his grip on his sword and used every shred of strength he had left to swing. The man caught the blade with one hand. To That man 's shock, a thin line of blood appeared on his palm.
He immediately let go, retreating a step with a faint scowl.
This sword… it cut me?
There were only a handful of things in the world that could injure him—and this weapon was one of them.?
Om, gasping, lifted his sword once more for a horizontal slash. But before he could bring it down, the man struck him across the head with a precise blow. Not enough to kill—just enough to knock him out.
Even unconscious, Om's hand refused to release the hilt.
The man stared at him, irritation flashing across his features.
"Tsk. I have to carry all of them now."
Far away, near the Gurukul forest…
A bearded man sat in deep meditation within the school's inner sanctum. His eyes snapped open suddenly, sensing a disturbance. Rising from his mat, he walked quickly to an ancient chamber glowing with Sanskrit inscriptions carved into the walls—verses and phrases that shimmered faintly, forming a complex formation.
The chamber acted like a living computer, revealing the entire forest and every participant within.
The bearded man's eyes widened—not in shock, but in fury.
"Who dares… attack Gurukul itself?"
His voice shook the chamber. Without hesitation, he abandoned the formation, storming out into the corridors.
Students he passed bowed respectfully. "Good morning, Principal."
He gave only a curt nod, eyes burning red, and leapt from the balcony
Time passed.
Within a cave at the highest peak of Gurukul's forest, Om stirred.
His ears still throbbed with pain, his entire body heavy and weak. Forcing his head to turn, he saw his companions—Ghato, Rudra, Arun—all still unconscious, their chests rising and falling slowly. Relief washed over him. They were alive.
Om tried to crawl toward them, but his limbs refused to cooperate. Exhaustion shackled him in place. He shifted his gaze instead, taking in the cave. Sunlight filtered weakly from cracks overhead, the sky outside painted orange. By his estimate, he had been unconscious for nearly two hours.
A shadow moved.
Om turned his head to see a soldier in strange attire, the same design as the eagle-man from before. The man carried a long spear, his expression unreadable. When he saw Om awake, he lifted him with ease, hoisting him by the shoulders.
Om lacked the strength to resist.
They walked for ten minutes through twisting corridors of stone until the path widened into an ornate hall.
Om's eyes widened. The space was not primitive—it radiated regality. Carved pillars lined the walls, and golden banners hung above. On both sides sat rows of armored retainers, silent and disciplined.
At the far end of the hall, high above on an elevated throne, sat a figure crowned in gold. His fingers bore rings of the same metal, his neck heavy with ornaments. His golden eyes gleamed with a divine sharpness—the same as the eagle-man.
This was their king.
The soldier set Om gently on a chair that appeared at the king's gesture. Bowing deeply, the guard withdrew, leaving Om alone in the throne's presence.
The king chuckled lightly at the sight of Om's battered body, a grin lingering on his lips.
For a long while, he said nothing, simply staring. The silence was crushing. Om, forcing himself to speak despite the ache in his chest, finally asked:
"Who… are you?"
The king's grin faded. His expression hardened, his voice carrying both pride and fury.
"My name is Sampati. God of the Eagles. Brother of Jatayu, who fell to Ravana while trying to save Sita Devi from abduction in treata yug "
The revelation struck Om like thunder.
The eagle had not merely been a beast. It was a god in human form—one tied to the epics of ages past.
And now, that god was seeing him with anger and resolve to kill no matter what