*August 19, 1986, Mumbai, India*
The monsoon had broken over Mumbai, turning the city into a watercolor of gray skies and silver rain, but inside the Mehra Building, the air was electric with triumph. Two weeks after its release on August 5, *Maharana Pratap: The Legacy* had shattered expectations, earning **80 lakhs** at the box office—a record-breaking opening for a historical epic in 1986. From the dusty towns of Rajasthan to the bustling metros of Delhi and Madras, the name **Maharana Pratap** was on every tongue. Newspapers screamed headlines:
**"PRATAP CONQUERS THE BOX OFFICE!"**
**"A HINDU WARRIOR RISES AGAIN!"**
**"80 LAKHS IN 14 DAYS – A NEW BENCHMARK!"**
In Raj Mehra's fourth-floor office, the celebration was quieter but no less triumphant. The sea beyond the panoramic windows churned under storm clouds, rain streaking the glass like tears of pride. Raj sat behind his teak desk, a crisp white kurta hugging his god-like frame—enhanced by the JS-1 Medicine and Sun God Body, his skin luminous, eyes sharp as a hawk's. Across from him sat **Arjun Singh**, the director of *Maharana Pratap*, his face no longer etched with the tension of budget fights but glowing with vindication.
Raj slid a **cheque for 10 lakhs** across the desk, the paper crisp, the ink bold. "For you, Arjun," he said, his voice smooth but commanding. "A bonus. You earned it."
Arjun stared at the cheque, his fingers trembling slightly as he picked it up. In 1986, **80–95% of Bollywood directors made entire films on 10–20 lakhs**. This was not just a bonus—it was a **fortune**, a validation, a **lifeline**. "Sir…" he whispered, voice thick, "this… this is more than I've ever been paid for a film. I—I don't know what to say."
Raj leaned back, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Say you'll make the next one even better. So—what's the plan? *Maharana Pratap: Part 2*?"
Arjun shook his head, folding the cheque carefully into his pocket like a sacred relic. "No, sir. *The Legacy* is complete. Pratap's story ends with his death—it's finished. I don't want to stretch it. I want to do something new first… then maybe another period film later."
Raj raised an eyebrow, his enhanced charisma making the room feel smaller, heavier. "So you're not doing a sequel. Fair. But you've got offers, right? Bollywood must be knocking."
Arjun's face darkened, his jaw tightening. "Offers? Yes—from small banners. 10 lakhs, 15 lakhs, 20 at most. Low-budget trash. I approached the big studios—Eros, Rajshri, Yash Raj—but they won't touch me." He laughed bitterly, running a hand through his graying hair. "In the industry, I've been **blacklisted**. They call me a **Hindu fascist** because I showed a Hindu warrior as a hero and the Mughals as invaders. They say I'm 'dividing the nation.'"
Raj chuckled, a low, dangerous sound that echoed in the quiet office. "Expected. Bollywood is **fully controlled**—by communists, by Muslim lobbies, by secular hypocrites who scream 'unity' but silence any Hindu voice. They don't want **pro-Hindu narratives**. They want *secular* heroes who apologize for existing. You made a film about **valor**, about **dharma**, and they hate you for it."
Arjun nodded, his eyes meeting Raj's—two men who understood the game. "Exactly, sir. They say I'm 'communal.' One producer told me, 'We can't fund hate.' Hate? I showed **history**!"
Raj leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "If you want to make a film—**any film**—I'll back you. Full budget. No interference… much." He smirked. "Just get a **damn good story**."
Arjun exhaled, relief flooding his face, but then he shook his head. "Thank you, sir. Truly. But… no. Not yet. You take **too much control** in the process. The last film—you changed scenes, added dialogues, pushed the budget. It worked, yes—but it wasn't **my** film anymore. I want to try again on my own terms. If I fail, I fail. If I succeed… then I come back to you."
Raj laughed, a genuine, booming sound that filled the office. "You think I made it **worse**? Look at the result—**80 lakhs in two weeks**! The battle scene you hated? The monologue you fought me on? That's why people are crying in theaters. That's why kids are chanting *'Jai Mewar!'* in the streets."
Arjun smiled despite himself, rubbing the back of his neck. "You're right. Damn it, you're always right. But still… I need to prove I can do it without you holding the reins."
Raj waved a hand, gracious in victory. "Fine. Go. Fail gloriously. When you're ready, my door's open. And keep that cheque—it's yours, no strings."
Arjun stood, bowing slightly. "Thank you, sir. For everything." He paused at the door. "One day, I'll make a film that even **you** can't improve."
Raj grinned. "I look forward to it."
The door clicked shut. Silence returned, broken only by the rain drumming against the glass.
Raj leaned back, staring at the ceiling, his mind already racing. *Maharana Pratap* was a triumph—not just financially, but **culturally**. It had **awakened** something. Pride. Identity. A hunger for stories that didn't apologize. But Bollywood wouldn't change. The system was rigged. The gatekeepers—producers, critics, award juries—were entrenched. The Lotus Awards had been his first strike. Now? He needed a **new battlefield**.
His gaze drifted to the blank notepad on his desk. An idea sparked—**original fiction**. Not history. Not adaptation. A **new world**. Something that blended Indian mythology with raw, visceral fantasy. Something that would **grip the soul**.
He picked up a pen.
And with his **S-Class Writing Talent**—a gift from his reincarnated mind, honed by decades of unseen mastery—he began to write.
---
### **Title: ASURA: BLOOD OF THE AWAKENED**
*(Working Draft – Chapter 1)*
> In the **Age of Fractured Skies**, when the veil between worlds tore like wet parchment, the **Devas** and **Asuras** has fought on the earth and they become extinct becuase God Shiva was angered by there war. Many innocent Asur and Devas Died due to this war. Then God Shiva anhilated them.
>
> But their **blood** remained.
>
> Hidden in the veins of human.
>
> Waiting.
>
> At the age of **six**, every child in **Bharatvarsha** underwent the **Awakening Ritual**. A single drop of blood on the **Altar of Karma**. A flash of light. A **mark** on the palm.
>
> And power.
>
> Some awakened as **Suryavanshi**—children of light, blessed with fire, speed, divine sight.
> Others as **Chandravanshi**—shadow walkers, illusionists, silent killers.
> And a rare few… as **Asuras**.
>
> Not all Asuras were evil.
> Not all Devas were good.
>
> But when the **Otherworldly Creators**—beings of void and hunger—tore open **dungeons** across the land, spilling **abominations** that devoured flesh and soul…
>
> Humanity needed **both**.
>
> **Arjun Valmiki**, a boy from a forgotten village, awakened with the **Mark of Rakshasa**—an Asura lineage thought extinct.
> His power? **Bloodforge**.
> He could **absorb** the essence of slain beasts… and **forge** it into his body.
>
> But the **Deva Council** branded him a **threat**.
> The **Asura Clans** hunted him as a **weapon**.
> And the **Creators**?
> They wanted his **soul**.
>
> In a world where **dungeons rose like tumors**, where **children trained to kill before they could read**, and where **loyalty was a blade sharper than steel**…
>
> **One boy would rise.**
>
> Not as a hero.
> Not as a villain.
>
> But as **the Awakened**.
---
Raj wrote for **six hours straight**, the rain outside fading to a drizzle, then silence. Page after page filled with ink—world-building, characters, magic systems, political intrigue. He drew from **Indian epics**, **Vedic cosmology**, **Tantric mysticism**, and the raw, brutal logic of survival. The **Asuras** were not demons—they were **warriors of passion**, fierce, proud, flawed. The **Devas** were not gods—they were **bureaucrats of light**, rigid, hypocritical, decaying.
The **dungeons** were not random—they were **portals**, engineered by the Creators to **harvest human potential**. The **Awakening** was not a gift—it was a **draft**, a call to war.
By midnight, he had **50 pages**. A prologue. A world. A boy with **red eyes** and a **mark that bled shadow**.
He leaned back, exhausted but exhilarated. His hand ached, but his mind burned.
This wasn't just a novel.
This was a **mythos**.
A **weapon**.
A **revolution**.
He smiled into the dark.
"*Asur*… both the organization and the story," he whispered. "Let the world awaken."
Outside, the city slept.
Inside, a new legend was born.