The evening sun bled into Bhaktapur's skyline, painting rooftops and pagodas in shades of gold and crimson. Vendors shouted over the clamor of horns and chattering crowds. Prayer flags fluttered like whispers of forgotten gods.
Seventeen-year-old Arya darted through the bustling market, weaving between tourists and locals alike. His hoodie clung to sweat-dampened skin, sneakers scuffing against red-brick streets. Behind him, two thugs pushed through the crowd, shouting curses.
"Catch that thief!"
Arya's pulse quickened. This wasn't his first run-in with the gang, but this time was different. This time, it wasn't just cash he'd lifted—it was something else. Something alive.
Inside his pouch, a faint blue glow pulsed like a heartbeat. Every step made it thrum harder. He'd barely seen the object before snatching it—just enough to know it wasn't ordinary.
"Damn it," Arya muttered, vaulting over a vegetable cart, sending onions rolling. The shopkeeper yelled after him, but Arya didn't stop. He leapt onto a low ledge, swung himself over a railing, and ducked into a narrow alley.
The thugs were close. Too close.
Lightning flickered far away over the Himalayas, thunder rumbling like a growl. Arya skidded to a stop in front of a moss-covered archway. The stone door before him bore an ancient carving of a trident, worn by centuries of rain. Nobody came here anymore—not since the priests declared it cursed.
Arya's lips twisted into a grin. "Perfect."
He shoved the door open and slipped inside. Darkness swallowed him whole.
The air was cold, damp, and heavy with the scent of incense long faded. Arya lit a match, its flame flickering against cracked murals depicting gods locked in battle with monstrous demons. He descended worn stone steps into a circular chamber.
At its center stood a pedestal, also shaped like a trident. The pouch on Arya's chest vibrated violently. He dropped it, and the object—a crystal shard carved with divine patterns—rolled onto the pedestal.
It began to hum.
"What the hell…" Arya whispered, taking a cautious step back.
The ground shook. A deafening boom echoed through the chamber as light erupted from the pedestal, bathing Arya in electric-blue radiance.
Suddenly, he was airborne, suspended by unseen force. Lightning arced across his body, wrapping him in glowing chains. His hoodie burned away at the edges as his hair floated upward.
A mandala of light formed beneath him, and the ancient carvings on the walls flared alive. A voice—not human, not mortal—spoke directly into his mind:
"Bearer of the storm… awaken."
Visions flooded his mind:
• A colossal god wielding a flaming trident, striking down armies of Rakshasa demons.
• A gate of darkness cracking open beneath snow-capped peaks.
• A monk with glowing white eyes standing alone against a tide of shadows.
Arya screamed, gripping his head. "Wh-what's happening to me?!"
Just as suddenly as it began, the energy vanished. Arya collapsed to the ground, gasping. The pedestal was gone—replaced by a glowing trident mark seared into his palm.
From the darkness, unseen eyes observed him. A cloaked figure with a single red eye whispered:
"The heir has awakened… but far too soon."
Far away in the frozen cliffs of Mustang, prayer flags snapped violently in an unnatural gust. A young monk named Tara opened her glowing white eyes from deep meditation.
"The storm has begun," she murmured. "And Narak… will soon follow."
Arya staggered out of the shrine into the stormy night, unaware that every step now carried the weight of gods and demons alike.