Om's body sagged in Raj's arms, unconscious but breathing. His chest rose and fell in fragile rhythm, as though each breath fought to keep him tethered to life. Sweat clung to his pale skin, his once-glowing marks now gone, leaving only a boy who had pushed too far.
Sara dropped to one knee beside him, placing trembling fingers against his wrist. The silence stretched before she exhaled in relief.
"He's fine… only unconscious. His body is in shock from the strain."
Raj didn't answer. He only bent down, hooked his arms under Om, and lifted him onto his back in one smooth motion. Om's weight pressed into him, but Raj bore it effortlessly, adjusting so the boy's head rested against his shoulder. Piggybacking him, Raj began to walk without another word.
From behind came the sound of claws clicking against the floor. Dawon padded forward, scarred and lean, his golden eyes fixed on his unconscious master. The lion's massive frame moved with surprising silence, his head lowered, almost brushing Om's dangling arm. It was not the beast of the forest anymore—it was something closer to kin. Every step Raj took, Dawon followed, as if unwilling to let Om leave his sight.
The corridor stretched ahead, metallic and cold, a stark contrast to the chaos within the gate. Their footsteps echoed softly. For a time, none spoke. The air felt heavy, almost reverent, as though each of them carried the weight of what had just transpired.
Finally, Narad broke the silence. His voice was calm, but his gaze never left Raj's back.
"Mr. Raj… what is your current strength?"
The question made Sara lift her head slightly. She didn't speak, but her eyes betrayed her curiosity. She, too, had wondered, though she hadn't dared to ask until now.
Raj didn't answer immediately. His boots struck the metal floor in a steady rhythm, each step resounding like a drumbeat. For several moments, he walked in silence, carrying Om as though the boy weighed nothing.
When he finally spoke, his tone was unnervingly casual.
"Right now… all the hideouts of the League in our nation are gone."
The words crashed into them like a thunderclap.
Sara froze mid-step. Narad's breath caught ever so slightly, his eyes sharpening.
"…What did you just say?" Sara whispered, as if the world itself might shatter if she repeated it too loudly.
The League of Evil. The shadow organization that had haunted nations, stood on equal footing with the W.I.A., and evaded destruction for decades. Elders, armies, and even combined forces of multiple nations had tried and failed to trace their hidden sanctuaries.
And yet Raj had just declared, with unnerving ease, that they were gone.
Sara's heartbeat quickened. Narad, ever the composed man, narrowed his eyes and studied Raj's back, as though searching for cracks in his words.
But Raj only shifted Om's weight on his shoulders and kept walking.
Dawon growled lowly, not at them, but at something in the air—a primal instinct stirred by Raj's aura, one that carried the weight of slaughter and silence.
Narad finally spoke again, voice steady but edged with caution.
"You mean to say… every single one of their hideouts? The network that has eluded the W.I.A. for generations? Gone?"
Raj's lips curved faintly, though he didn't turn his head.
"Yes. All of them."
Sara swallowed hard, her throat dry. She had seen Raj fight before—had witnessed the sheer destructive power of Yama's inheritance. But to imagine him dismantling the League's hideouts alone… it bordered on the impossible.
Her mind raced. How much blood had he spilled? How many hidden fortresses had fallen silent in the dead of night without anyone knowing?
The silence stretched, broken only by the sound of their footsteps and Dawon's claws.
Sara couldn't stop herself this time. She stepped forward, her voice tight, almost trembling with both fear and awe.
"Mr. Raj… then can you tell us… just how strong are you now?"
Raj finally turned his head slightly, crimson eyes glinting in the sterile lights of the corridor. For a heartbeat, Sara felt as though she were standing not before a man, but before the embodiment of inevitable death.
His smirk was faint, but chilling.
"I still don't know my limits."
He paused, adjusting Om gently as though the boy's comfort mattered more than the weight of his words. His gaze sharpened, and his next words fell like a blade.
"But the one who attacked Om in the forest that night—" His voice dropped low, the air around them thickening. "…he's gone."
Sara's breath hitched. Narad's eyes darkened. Dawon growled again, the sound vibrating through the corridor, as though echoing the finality of Raj's words.
Raj continued walking, unshaken, as though the annihilation of an organization that had haunted nations for decades was nothing more than a task completed.
Behind him, Narad and Sara exchanged a look. Neither spoke, but in that silence, both understood one thing:
Raj had become something far more terrifying than the League itself.
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.
.
The infirmary was silent.
All the stretchers, machines, and glass cabinets had been moved aside, leaving only a single bed in the center of the room. Sterile white sheets were tucked neatly over the boy who lay there, chest rising and falling in shallow rhythm.
Om.
The room around him smelled faintly of disinfectant, that sharp tang of alcohol and steel that clung to medical wings. The only sound was the soft mechanical hum of the ventilation system, and even that seemed muted, swallowed by the thick quiet. Outside, the facility moved with its usual order—soldiers training, researchers monitoring systems—but within this room, time itself seemed to hold its breath.
Om's bandaged arms rested limply on either side of him. The bruises and wounds hidden beneath were the testament of his struggle—another battle survived, another burden carried.
The silence deepened.
Then—
A faint crackle.
The lights overhead flickered once. Twice. The sterile white glow pulsed unnaturally, the air tingling with static as though a storm had crept into the very wires of the facility.
Om did not stir. His breathing remained steady, lost in the veil of unconsciousness.
Suddenly—
Lightning split the silence.
It wasn't the thunderous roar of a storm, but a sharp, snapping flash that erupted across the ceiling. Sparks danced across the metal, crawling like living veins of light. The hum of the infirmary monitors died out, leaving the air heavy with a low, electrical thrum.
At first, it was nothing more than current—bright threads snaking in the air.
But slowly, impossibly, the lightning thickened.
It gathered in a single spot above Om's bed, twisting, compressing. The bolts bled into a faint crystalline shimmer, as though light itself had been carved into shards.
One by one, broken pieces of crystal drifted into the air, weightless, turning slowly in the unseen current. They gleamed faintly with an otherworldly glow, fractured but not chaotic. A formation was being shaped.
The shards spun. A rhythm emerged, almost like a heartbeat—steady, inevitable.
The fragments drew closer, aligning, locking into patterns no human mind could design. It was not creation, but remembrance. Something ancient, forgotten, was piecing itself back together.
And then—
From those floating shards, a figure began to emerge.
The shape was human. A boy.
A reflection.
The last of the crystalline shards locked into place, and there it stood, hovering a step above the ground—a perfect clone of Om.
But it was not Om.
The eyes glowed faintly, too sharp, too alive, carrying a depth no human gaze could hold. His movements were precise, deliberate, as if every particle of his being was under absolute control.
The figure lowered its head, gazing at the unconscious boy lying on the bed. The faintest curve touched its lips—not warmth, but familiarity.
And then it spoke.
Its voice was steady, mechanical, yet threaded with something softer, something dangerously close to human.
[I'm back.]
The words did not echo in the room, yet they lingered in the air like the aftertaste of lightning.
The crystalline body fractured again—this time not into chaos, but into light.
The clone shimmered, folding in on itself, condensing into a sphere of golden radiance. The ball of light hovered for a heartbeat, pulsing with rhythm, before sinking soundlessly into Om's forehead.
There was no wound, no scar. Only a faint golden shimmer across his brow—then it vanished.
The infirmary fell silent once more. The lights steadied. The air cleared.
But within Om's consciousness, a storm had already begun.
.
.
.
.
Om floated.
There was no bed beneath him, no bandages, no room of white walls. Only the endless expanse of void.
A vast nothingness stretched in every direction. No stars. No ground. No horizon. Just the infinite depth of space—black and silent, yet strangely alive.
Om sat in lotus pose, his body weightless, suspended in the dark. His chest rose and fell in quiet rhythm, his mind slowly stirring as though waking from a dream.
At first, he felt only emptiness. Then—
A warmth.
Something familiar, something that had been with him once, long ago, yet had left him to fight alone. It wasn't flesh, wasn't blood, but it pulsed like a companion returning from exile.
Om's eyes opened.
In the void before him, light flickered—golden threads weaving into form. The light pulsed once, twice, until it finally coalesced into a presence.
A voice—steady, clear—resonated across the emptiness.
[How was the battle, Master?]∆
Om's pupils narrowed. His lips parted, but no sound came at first. His body trembled faintly, and then, finally, he spoke, his voice hoarse but firm.
"…Zero."
From the light, a faint humanoid outline appeared. Not entirely flesh, not entirely thought, but something in between. Its form wavered between clarity and abstraction, a being of pure consciousness clothed in shifting light.
Zero.
For a long time, Om simply stared.
Finally, Zero broke it.
[Why didn't you wait for me?]
The voice carried no arrogance, no apology. In fact, no emotions at all.
Om exhaled slowly, his eyes sharp despite the exhaustion that weighed on his soul.
" I'm depending too much on you. I wanted to know how fair I'm again someone like Mr. Raj?"
Zero's form wavered, but the voice remained steady.
[I know you didn't get to battle him last time. But master, we are one.]
The golden light pulsed, stronger, brighter.
[ What I am now… is closer to the truth of what I was meant to be. ]
Om's gaze darkened. He did not bow, did not soften. "And what exactly are you meant to be?"
The void trembled faintly, as if reacting to the weight of the question.
Zero's voice was quieter this time, but each word struck like a drumbeat.
[ I am the bridge. Between what you were given, and what you are destined to claim. ]
Om's chest tightened. The words stirred something deep inside, something that had been clawing at him since the day of inheritance—the broken fragments, the cryptic symbols, the endless sense of incompletion.
For the first time, Om lowered his gaze, staring at his own hands floating before him in the void. His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Then… you're the key to the truth behind my inheritance."
Zero did not deny it.
The golden light swelled, enveloping Om, as though the void itself bent to this reunion.
[And you, Master… are the only one who can bear it.]
The void shivered. Cracks of white light spread faintly in the distance, like fractures in reality itself. Om's body tensed instinctively, but Zero's voice steadied him.
[Rest now. When the time comes, I will show you.]
Om's lips pressed together. His body trembled faintly, torn between anger, relief, and the endless hunger for answers. But in the end, he closed his eyes.
The void pulsed once more, golden light weaving into him, binding.
And then—
Silence.
Only Om remained, floating in lotus pose, his consciousness wrapped in both darkness and the faint glow of light that had returned to him.
But suddenly Om woke up.
"Sighhh!, so it was just a dream."
[ Master, you fought without me? ]
" Zero? You really are back."