The name dropped from the man's lips like a thunderclap.
Ashwathama.
Bhagya's breath caught. His mind raced, flipping through fragments of Shambhala's ancient scriptures—the whispers of legends he and Vishnu had read under the dim glow of sacred lamps.
Ashwathama.
One of the Seven Immortals.
A man cursed to walk the earth until the end of Kali Yuga.
"No…" Bhagya's voice cracked with disbelief. In his heart, he wanted to believe—but wasn't sure he should.
"You… you're Ashwathama? That can't be true. Stop lying!"
The man's expression didn't flicker. Slowly, with deliberate calm, he removed his hat and goggles, peeling away the last barriers between them. Bhagya's lungs seized. Each breath came shallower, sharper—like his body wanted to escape the truth, like every inhale dragged him closer to collapse.
When he was done, Bhagya's breath hitched again.
His hair was ghostly white, falling in uneven strands over his shoulders. His face carried a strange, ageless charm, as though time itself had been forced to bow before him.
But it wasn't his face that froze Bhagya.
It was the forehead wound.
A brutal, ancient scar split his skin—deep and merciless—like it had been carved by divine punishment itself. A thin line of blood trickled from it, fresh as though it had never healed in centuries—never allowed to.
Ashwathama's voice was low, but it cut like steel.
"This wound… is the price of my curse. I don't need to prove who I am. The world already knows."
Bhagya wiped his mouth with the back of his trembling hand, his chest heaving so violently it hurt.
"Ashwathama…" he whispered. "The scriptures… they never said you'd feel like this."
The sight of the wound—raw, unhealed, dripping dark blood—made Bhagya's stomach twist again. It wasn't just gore. It was as if the wound radiated something beyond death—a curse that pressed against his lungs and coiled around his heart. He vomited with full force, feeling like his stomach was about to explode.
Lifting his head slowly, he tried to steady his breath, but his thoughts spun in a spiral of terror.
This is one of the Seven Immortals? No… this is worse than any nightmare. Why does it feel like just looking at him will break me?
Ashwathama tilted his head slightly, his calm voice slicing through the heavy silence.
"It seems you know about me. I don't know how—scriptures, old tales, whatever—but listen, kid, the curse I carry… it makes even the strong feel like they're choking on their fear."
He turned to Rina.
"You don't have to hold it in. Your cheeks are puffed up from resisting the urge to vomit."
Rina's face turned pale. She clamped a hand over her mouth—then lost the battle.
"Uahhh—!"
She doubled over, vomiting onto the sacred floor.
Ashwathama, surprisingly gentle despite his terrifying aura, reached out and patted her back.
Bhagya wrinkled his nose and stepped back, covering his mouth.
"Gross!"
Rina wiped her mouth and shot him a glare.
"Gross? Gross?! You just puked all over the floor earlier, and now you're calling me gross?!"
"Tch… mine wasn't that bad," Bhagya muttered.
"Huh?" Rina snapped. "Says the person who looked like he was about to die."
Before their argument could escalate, a calm but sharp voice sliced through the room.
"Both of you, enough."
It was Ashwathama. The authority in his tone silenced them instantly.
Rina turned red, bowing slightly.
"I-I'm sorry, Papa. I… I couldn't control it when I saw your—" She stopped herself, realizing what she almost said. "No! I don't… I don't mean to disrespect you! I swear!"
Her voice trembled with fear, like she knew something terrible awaited if she said the wrong thing.
Bhagya cut in, his voice rising.
"If you're truly immortal, then why didn't you save Father?!"
Ashwathama's gaze lowered.
"Because I couldn't. If I fought Kira with my full strength, and he got serious… he would have wiped out the entire city just to beat me."
Bhagya's thoughts reeled at the revelation.
How is he so strong that even immortals like Ashwathama fear him?
Ashwathama continued after a pause.
"Your father… was a strategic sacrifice to keep Kira from going that far."
Bhagya's lips quivered. He stared at his toes.
"Huh… sacrifice?"
Ashwathama sat down slowly, his voice steady but weighted.
"I'm sorry, kid… but there was no other way. I was working as a spy among the bounty hunters to gather information. I knew Vishnu was going to die. I thought Kira was on your side—that together you'd defeat the hunters, and no one would die. But I was wrong. In the end… I was just a catalyst helping fate reach its conclusion."
Bhagya snapped.
"What are you saying? You've got to be kidding me! He—he would've been saved if you hadn't kidnapped me! And now you're saying that you knew it? How? You're not God! Only God would know that! You're lying!"
He wanted to believe none of it.
Liar.
That's all he is.
He didn't know the future—he let Father die. He tricked me. They both did. I need to get out. I can't trust them. They're not good people.
Bhagya bolted for the exit, his small feet pounding against the floor. He ran through every hallway of the house, searching for an entrance, any way to escape. But there was none.
Why is there no exit or window in this house? I have to be quick, or they might catch me and sell my organs too.
He searched desperately, but every hallway led back to the same corridor.
The bedroom. Again and again.
A loop.
What's happening? Have I been trapped in some kind of illusion? Why is it always this room?
Exhausted, he returned to the bedroom where he'd first awakened. He collapsed to the floor, sobbing.
"Father! Where are you? Why aren't you with me?! Mom, where are you?! Why am I here?!"
His voice broke into raw screams, tears falling like rain.
Footsteps approached.
Rina walked toward him, her presence heavier than the flames in the hall. Her aura pressed against his chest like an invisible wall. Bhagya's breath hitched.
As she neared, panic exploded in him.
"You… what do you want from me?!" he screamed. "Do you want to kill me? Torture me?!"
The fear overwhelmed him. He curled into himself, burying his face between his knees.
But instead of attacking, Rina knelt beside him. Her small arms gently wrapped around his neck.
"W-what are you doing?" he asked, his voice shaking.
She didn't answer immediately. She just held him tighter, resting his head against her chest. Then, softly, she spoke.
"Bhagya… everyone suffers. Some people hold onto their pain and drown in it. But some fight back—they rise, and they make sure that pain never wins again."
She stroked his hair gently.
"You were a great son. I'm sure your parents would be proud of you. Don't stop here. You have to move forward."
Her voice faltered, but she went on, her tone trembling.
"I once had a family, too. A mom… and a dad. But my dad left us. Mom worked hard, every single day… but fate didn't care. She was killed, right in front of me… because we couldn't pay a debt. I was just a little girl. Alone. But Papa saved me. He brought me here. And I cried, just like you. I wanted to give up."
She looked into his teary eyes, her eyes glistening.
"But I learned something. Crying doesn't erase the past. The only way is forward. You have to rise, Bhagya. Find your path to rise."
Bhagya's cries grew louder, his tiny body trembling from the sheer weight of her words.
Across the room, Ashwathama sat in silence, his gaze unreadable.
I hope she can do for him… what I could never do for myself, he thought.
The rise of the broken… against fate