The horizon burned with the final embers of twilight, casting long shadows over a world teetering on the edge of transformation. The sky, a bruised canvas of purples and fading gold, loomed above a desolate expanse—an ancient battleground now reclaimed by silence. But that silence was fleeting.
Two figures stood, etched like statues of opposing fate.
One—a man in his middle years—stood still as stone, his form sheathed in a long, weather-worn cloak. The ends of the fabric fluttered like whispering spirits in the breeze, brushing against the hilt of a weapon veiled beneath. From his back, just visible as the wind caught the hem, jutted the head of a majestic trident—its prongs sleek and cruelly curved, each pulsating faintly with the hue of storm-touched amethyst. The purple stone embedded in its center throbbed like a heartbeat, resonating with silent fury.
The man's eyes, deep pools of tempestuous grays and flickers of stormlight blue, pulsed with raw voltage. Lightning, purple and volatile, cracked silently behind them. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. The very air bent in quiet reverence around him, thick with unspoken power.
Opposite him stood a younger man—no older than twenty-five. His expression was severe, carved from steel and stubborn pride. Though younger in years, the weight in his eyes betrayed trials beyond mortal measure. Upon his right hand shimmered a ring, plain in form but crowned with a golden shining stone. As his fingers twitched, the ground vibrated ever so slightly.
From thin air, weapons began to form.
Golden.
Ethereal.
Deadly.
A spear, a sword, a bow without string, a sickle wreathed in flame—one by one, they emerged from the shimmer of unseen portals, floating in perfect orbit around him. Light glinted off their surfaces, dancing like fireflies in a war-drum beat.
Young man (mocking, eyes narrowed): "You haven't aged a day since our last encounter, Vishwanath Natraj."
He took a step forward, golden sand crunching beneath his boots. His voice dripped with venomous amusement.
Young man (cold): "But your time has passed, old man. You're a relic, and relics have no place in the new world I'm forging. Your interference ends tonight. I need you gone—erased from this world for your crimes…"
His voice trailed into silence, but the weight of what remained unsaid hung like a guillotine between them.
The older man, unfazed by the venomous words, tilted his head with disinterest. The shadows of his cloak stretched across the ground like reaching hands.
Vishwanath (calm, thunderous): "Words are wind, boy. If you wish to erase me, you'll find I'm not so easily forgotten."
A gust of wind spiraled between them. The golden weapons around the young man began to rotate faster, their glow intensifying, like a constellation whirling toward collapse.
Young man (challenging, voice sharp): "You think you can dismiss me so easily?"
He raised his hand. The weapons responded in kind, their orbits becoming erratic, fiery trails streaking behind them.
Young man (furious): "I have delved into the depths of power you've only glimpsed in your dreams. My strength has grown beyond the bounds of your understanding."
A faint smirk crept along Vishwanath's lips, a gesture more of pity than amusement.
Vishwanath (wry): "Arrogance may cloud your judgment, but it does not conceal your inexperience. You wield your weapons with the confidence of youth, yet you lack the subtlety to grasp their true essence."
The tension exploded.
With a howl of kinetic force, the young man thrust his arm forward. A storm of golden weapons surged toward Vishwanath like celestial daggers, slicing through the air with sonic velocity. Each one carried the heat of creation and the precision of execution.
But Vishwanath moved like a shadow given form.
With a sweep of his cloak, his trident whirled into his grasp—its triple-pronged head singing with stored voltage. The purple stone at its center flared as he struck, deflecting a golden blade with a chime of metal on myth. Sparks rained down in a halo around him.
Another weapon came—he ducked, spun, and batted it away. Each movement was minimal, every motion perfectly calculated. He didn't just fight—he anticipated.
Vishwanath (mocking): "Is this the extent of your power? Mere illusions and bravado?"
Young man (growling): "I am Rudra!"
The name struck like a lightning bolt, echoing in the heavens above.
Rudra (shouting): "Remember it, old man, for it will be the name that ends yours!"
He clenched his fist, and the sky darkened as even more weapons formed. A golden whip cracked toward Vishwanath like a serpent of sunlight. He caught it mid-snap with the base of his trident, twisting it violently before dispersing it into sparks.
Lightning met fire. Ancient discipline clashed with untempered power.
Then—
A pulse.
A ripple of force swept through the battlefield, halting the storm of battle mid-motion.
Both men froze as an unseen presence carved silence between them.
From the veil of shadows emerged a third figure.
He walked with neither haste nor fear, his bare feet tracing glowing glyphs into the dust. His body was frail yet upright, skin pale as porcelain and marked with thin veins of light. His garments were tattered robes of unknown origin, rippling like mist, untouched by dirt or blade.
But it was his forehead that drew their gaze.
Engraved into the very skin, as if placed by destiny's hand, was a white mist-colored stone. It pulsed with tranquil light, neither violent nor weak—a symbol of balance.
He raised one hand, and the winds obeyed. His voice, calm yet commanding, rang with the memory of collapsed civilizations.
Stranger (firm, composed): "Cease this madness."
The voice cracked reality like glass. Rudra blinked. His weapons slowed, hovering around him uncertainly.
Stranger (warning): "Your quarrel risks more than your own fates—it imperils the delicate weave of nature itself."
Rudra scowled, his pride wounded by the interruption.
Rudra (snarling): "And who might you be to dare interrupt? A wanderer clad in rags, presuming to lecture me?"
His weapons rotated again, itching to strike.
But the man did not flinch.
He lifted both arms skyward. From the heavens, a great disc of silver descended—slow, regal, ancient. It glowed with a light so pure that the stars themselves dimmed in reverence.
The land beneath them trembled. The storm paused in the sky. Even Rudra's creations faltered.
Vishwanath's grip on his trident loosened, his eyes wide—not with fear, but respect.
Vishwanath (surprised, reverent): "You wield the Narayana…"
His voice dropped to a whisper.
Vishwanath (softly): "The ancient artifact of equilibrium… I had not thought it still existed."
The man did not smile. He simply lowered his arms and spoke, as one who had no need to raise his voice.
Stranger (stern): "It does. And it falls upon you to remember your place. The world is not a plaything for your ambitions."
Vishwanath gazed at the disc, the truth in those words sinking deep. The battle had shifted. This was no longer about pride. This was about preservation.
He looked to Rudra, then to the sky, and made his choice.
Vishwanath (decisive): "We must heed his warning."
He turned, cloak trailing behind him as the storm began to withdraw with him, absorbed back into his core.
Rudra's face twisted into fury.
Rudra (spitting): "Coward!"
Then he stepped forward, voice thunderous with wrath.
Rudra (shouting): "I will achieve Manthan! I will not be stopped. Not by him, not by you!"
He flung his weapons aside in rage, golden sparks bursting across the sky.
Rudra (growling): "Go then, Vishwanath. But know this—our reckoning is not over. I, Rudra, will finish what you all started!"
With that, he vanished into the darkness, his silhouette consumed by the storm.
Only the third man remained, silent beneath the moonlight. The wind played gently with the edges of his robe. The silver disc hovered high above, guardian of balance.
He looked toward the stars, and then, to no one in particular, spoke softly to the air.
Stranger (thoughtfully): "So it begins again..."
The silver disc slowly dissolved into stardust. Drauni stood alone, staring at the path where Rudra had vanished.
Stranger (murmuring): "Had the Mother Queen's curse befallen the entirety of that clan… perhaps these harbingers of chaos would have never risen. Born of spite, of pain... they are shadows of a curse left unfulfilled."
The battlefield was quiet now, save for the wind weaving through the dust of shattered pride and buried intentions.
He breathed slowly, the white mist-colored stone on his forehead glowing with soft, rhythmic pulses.
Drauni (weary): "How long can I, Drauni, stand against the tide? The sands of time slip through my fingers, and with each grain, I feel it—the stirrings of a new era. An epoch of ruin… of reckoning."
As the night's drama unfolded in distant lands, where powers clashed and destinies were questioned, the scene shifted to a tranquil corner of the world. Here, in his hometown, 'Lucknow, India', nestled within the embrace of familiar streets and the gentle hum of life's simpler cadences. Pralay himself lay in the embrace of sleep, his chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of dreams. Around him, life stirred softly; the chirping of birds, the rustle of leaves, and the distant murmur of the village preparing to greet the day.
His home, a modest space adorned with remnants of childhood and the scattered tools of his trade, hinted at a life of simplicity and routine. Yet, among the ordinary, there lay an air of the unspoken—a collection of ancient texts on lore and legends, a map with corners worn from use, and a single, unassuming ring that seemed to pulse with a life of its own.
As Pralay continued to slumber, the world outside moved forward, unaware that within this unremarkable setting lay the seeds of a destiny that would one day rise to meet the tides of change. For now, those seeds lay dormant, but the soil of fate is fertile, and time has a way of nurturing the most improbable of blooms.
And so, as the first light of dawn began to pierce the veil of night, it cast a solitary beam upon Pralay's resting form. It was a subtle hint, a gentle nudge from the universe, that the one who lay there, seemingly insignificant in his quiet corner of the world, was destined to awaken not just from sleep, but to a purpose that would echo through the ages—a purpose that would bring about an end and a beginning, woven together in the enigmatic dance of creation and annihilation.
[End of Chapter]