Chapter 3 Survivors
And so began their first night as parents—not with the peaceful rest they had planned, but with a desperate flight through streets overrun by monsters. Dhruv led the way, the ancient sword now an extension of his arm, cutting down any creature that threatened his family.
The sun rose hesitantly on the second day, its light dimmed by a veil of smoke and ash that hung heavily in the sky. Dhruv stirred first.
His body ached from the previous night's brutal battle, and his hands bore dried streaks of blood—some his own, some from the creature he had slain. Yet, despite it all, he felt alive.
Meera still slept, her arms wrapped protectively around Rudra, who remained nestled against her chest, breathing calmly. For a moment, Dhruv simply watched them—his world reduced to these two fragile hearts amid the wreckage of humanity.
A distant sound stirred him.
A low groan.
A scraping of broken wood.
Something—or someone—was moving outside.
He gently shook Meera.
"Wake up, love," he whispered. "We have to move."
She opened her eyes slowly, disoriented and asked, "Is it morning?"
"Yes," he said, rising to his feet and retrieving the ancestral sword from where it leaned against the temple wall.
"And danger doesn't sleep."
They packed quickly, wrapping Rudra in cloth to protect him from the cold. The infant remained unusually quiet, as though even he sensed the tension in the air.
Outside, the village was a graveyard of stone and smoke.
They stepped through the shattered gate of the ruined temple and into the desolate streets. What was once a thriving village now lay in shambles—walls cracked, roofs caved in, blood smeared on cobblestones.
And the smell. Gods, the smell.
Death had become the perfume of Earth.
Suddenly, a shriek pierced the silence.
"Screeeeaaakkh!"
Dhruv reacted instantly.
"Behind me!" he barked.
A four-legged beast, jagged like cracked obsidian and twice the size of a horse, emerged from the shadows of a collapsed shop. Its eyes were pits of molten yellow, and its jaw split vertically, revealing two rows of grinding, insect-like teeth.
Dhruv charged.
"CLANG!"
His blade met the creature's claws in a spray of sparks.
"SLASH!"
He pivoted, drawing a long cut across its side. It roared and pounced, claws tearing through the air.
Dhruv ducked low and drove his blade upward in a fluid arc—
"SHINKK!"
The sword burst through its skull with a final 'crack'.
The beast collapsed in a heap, black ichor spilling across the ground.
Meera, holding Rudra, exhaled in relief.
From behind a broken cart, a voice croaked, "D-Dhruv?"
Dhruv froze; sword still raised.
"Jatin?" he said, eyes wide.
A young man limped into view, his clothes torn, face cut and bruised. Behind him followed two women, one carrying a small child. They looked exhausted, starved, but alive.
"You're not dead," Jatin said with disbelief.
"I saw your house. I thought…"
"We barely made it," Dhruv replied.
"Come. You're safe now."
Within the hour, more survivors were found—hidden in cellars, trapped under debris, or barely fending off monsters. In all, Dhruv and Meera gathered seventeen people by the end of the day, including three children.
That night, they sheltered in a half-collapsed granary, with Dhruv standing watch at the entrance. One of the villagers, an older woman named Dadi Kaushalya, limped over with a bowl of makeshift stew.
"You saved us, thank you" she said softly.
"No," Dhruv replied. "We're saving each other."
The wind howled outside, carrying distant screeches of roaming beasts. But within their shelter, a flicker of warmth had returned. Not just from the fire, but from the realization that they were not alone.
As the group settled in for the night, Dhruv sat beside Meera, who cradled Rudra in her lap. The baby looked up at his father with unblinking eyes, filled with calm.
Dhruv reached out and touched Rudra's tiny hand.
"We live today, son," he whispered.
"Tomorrow, we fight again."
Meera leaned her head against his shoulder and whispered in soft tone "Whatever comes, we face it together."
Outside, under a sky of swirling auroras and distant lightning, the second night of their new world began.
And Dhruv, now protector of more than just his family, watched the darkness, sword at his side, ready for what would come next.
They were not alone on their flight. Other survivors joined them—neighbors, strangers united by the singular goal of survival.
For the next five days, the group moved from ruin to ruin, scavenging supplies and avoiding monsters. Dhruv became their shield, their vanguard, slaying beasts with the ancestral sword.
Sometimes Meera joined, guiding the wounded, offering comfort. Rudra, remarkably silent and watchful, never cried. Not once.
Each night, they gathered under broken roofs and whispered prayers to gods that had long gone silent.
Until the sixth day.
A cold wind swept over the hills as they climbed into the mountains beyond the village.
The survivors followed closely behind him, their steps careful, exhausted. After six days of roaming through ruins, fighting off nightmarish creatures, and scavenging for meager supplies, their spirits were frayed.
Rudra, still wrapped tightly against Meera's chest, slept soundlessly, his small face pressed into her heartbeat. Meera trudged on beside Dhruv, her eyes sunken, but never leaving her child.
The forest was thick, untouched by flames, and deeper within, Dhruv spotted something strange: a black stone spire, half-buried in moss.
He stopped and murmured "There's something here."
"What do you see?" Jatin asked, squinting ahead.
Dhruv pointed to a black stone jutting from the hillside, mostly swallowed by roots and moss. "That."
They descended carefully, each step stirring sleeping foliage. As they approached the stone, a strange pressure filled the air. Not oppressive—just... watchful. The kind of energy one feels when entering a temple or standing in the eye of a storm.
The group gathered, parting with vines and clearing the earth. Beneath the overgrowth lay the mouth of a cave.
Symbols were etched along its edge—ancient, Sanskrit script glowing faintly.