Magic.
It flowed through everything — the skies, the rivers, the people.
Even in the quietest villages, children practiced simple spells like games. And in one such peaceful village, seven-year-old Viransh lived with his loving parents.
He was a curious boy. Brave, even when he shouldn't be. That morning, he ran off to play beyond the hill, chasing birds and clouds.
"Don't go too far!" his mother had warned.
"I won't!" he laughed back.
But fate didn't care for promises.
While Viransh laughed in the forest, they arrived — cloaked in black, wielding cursed katanas that glowed faint red.
They brought silence.
Then screams.
By the time Viransh returned, the sky was painted in smoke.
His smile faded as he saw the fires. The broken homes. The still bodies.
He dropped the stick he'd been pretending was a sword. And then… he ran.
He ran past the ruined gates, past the shattered well, until he saw them.
Soldiers. Still there. Laughing.
And beyond them — his home.
He hid behind a tree, frozen with fear, watching.
His mother — unmoving.
His father — still alive, crawling.
Viransh's hand clutched the strange katana he had found in the woods earlier.
He wanted to scream.
To run forward.
To stop them.
But all he could do… was watch.
When the soldiers were gone, he crept forward.
He fell beside his parents, shaking, sobbing, broken.
And just as he gave up hope…
His mother's hand moved.
Somewhere deep inside him, something lit.
Not hope.
Vow.
He would never forget this night.
He would never forgive.
"I will make them pay. No matter what I become."