The hum of the hospital monitor flatlined, a shrill, final note in the otherwise quiet room. Tomba, a boy of seventeen, drew his last breath, his body ravaged by a relentless cancer. His room was a shrine to his true loves: shelves overflowing with vibrant manga volumes, posters of epic shonen heroes adorning the walls, and a worn-out laptop flickering with the latest anime episode. His last waking thoughts had been of another world, a fantastical realm where heroes rose, monsters roamed, and destiny called. He yearned for an isekai, a second chance.
Then, there was light. Not the harsh glare of a hospital lamp, but a soft, golden luminescence. Before him stood a being of immense, gentle power, swirling with the colors of the universe yet somehow distinctly Manipuri in its aura. Pakhangba, the primordial serpent god, smiled, his voice resonating not in Tomba's ears, but in his very soul.
"Tomba, child of dreams. Your spirit is pure, your yearning great. You wished for another world, and another world you shall have. Not of distant lands, but of your own land, reborn. Go. Live. Learn."
A jolt, like lightning infused with ancient earth, coursed through him. He felt his body solidifying, strengthening, a vibrancy he'd never known. And with it, a peculiar gift: the ability to instantly comprehend and perfectly replicate any skill, any art, any knowledge he witnessed or intensely desired. He could simply learn.
Tomba awoke amidst the verdant embrace of a primeval Manipuri forest. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and unfamiliar blossoms, the cacophony of unseen creatures filling his ears. He was no longer a sickly boy, but a sturdy young man, draped in simple, hand-woven garments. This was Manipur, but not the one he knew. This was ancient Kangleipak, a land steeped in legend and raw, untamed beauty.
His first days were spent observing, learning. He watched a weaver effortlessly braid intricate patterns from wild fibers, and moments later, his own hands moved with the same practiced grace. He saw a hunter track a deer, his movements fluid and silent, and found himself replicating the technique, his steps falling noiselessly on the forest floor. The forest, once a mere backdrop, became his classroom.
But whispers followed him, tales carried on the wind by passing traders and wary villagers. The name "Keibui Keiroiba" sent shivers down his spine. Half-man, half-tiger, a monstrous terror of the wild. He remembered the old cautionary tales from his grandmother, of their ferocity and insatiable hunger. He instinctively sought to avoid any encounters, navigating the dense jungle with renewed caution.
One day, observing from a hidden vantage point, he witnessed a breathtaking display. Two warriors, their bodies lean and muscled, moved with a lethal grace he'd never imagined. One wielded a Thang (sword) and Ta (spear) in a terrifying dance, deflecting, thrusting, and parrying with impossible speed. The other navigated attacks with empty hands, a flurry of precise strikes and evasions known as Sarit Sarak. These were the martial arts of Manipur, rich with history and deadly precision. Tomba's eyes widened, a familiar spark igniting within him. This was it. This was his manga come to life.
He spent weeks in seclusion, watching, mimicking, practicing. His gift allowed him to absorb the complex footwork, the precise angles, the visceral power. He mastered Thang-Ta, Sarit Sarak, and other lesser-known forms, his body becoming a living weapon, each movement infused with the collective wisdom of generations.
As he trained, he heard more tales – not just of beasts, but of legendary weapons, weapons of immense power, said to be imbued with the spirits of ancient heroes. A spear that could pierce mountains, a bow that never missed, a sword that cleaved through illusion. But there was a catch, a vital piece of lore passed down through generations: no one could wield these weapons unless their "yek" – their specific bloodline or clan – was compatible. It was a divine lock, ensuring only the rightful heir could awaken its power. His quest became clear: find his own yek, and with it, his legendary weapon.
His search led him deeper into the wild, far from human settlements. He traversed ancient paths, climbed mist-shrouded hills, and navigated treacherous rivers. One evening, drawn by the scent of woodsmoke and the murmur of voices, he stumbled upon a clearing. What he saw defied every tale, every warning.
It was a village, built of sturdy wood and thatch, nestled beside a gurgling stream. Children laughed as they chased each other, women tended cooking fires, and men crafted tools. But these weren't humans. Some had the unmistakable stripes of tigers on their skin, though their faces were undeniably human. Others bore the feline glow in their eyes, or the subtle twitch of powerful tails. This was the Keibui Keiroiba tribe. They weren't solitary monsters; they were a community.
He watched for days, hidden. They lived simply, honorably. They hunted, but never excessively. They cultivated, but never exploited. And they were wary, always wary, of the outside world. He learned their unspoken rule: they sought no harm, but if provoked, if one of theirs was harmed, they would retaliate tenfold, with a terrifying, primal fury.
Stepping into their midst was terrifying, but his curiosity, fueled by his new understanding, pushed him forward. He emerged from the trees, hands open, voice calm. "Greetings, Keibui Keiroiba," he said, using the name he'd always associated with dread.
Silence fell. All activity ceased. Eyes, some human, some distinctly predatory, turned to him. A growl rumbled through the clearing. A few young warriors, lean and powerful, stepped forward, their forms subtly shifting, muscles bunching.
"Speak, human," one snarled, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Why trespass?"
Tomba explained his journey, his gift, his respect for their way of life. He spoke of his own understanding of strength, learned from their own lands. Some were skeptical, hostile. One particularly fierce warrior lunged, claws extended. Tomba, without thinking, flowed into a defensive Sarit Sarak sequence, deflecting the attack, twisting the warrior's arm just enough to incapacitate him without injury. He moved with a speed and precision that startled even the onlookers. Another warrior attacked, then another, but Tomba, utilizing his diverse martial arts knowledge, countered each one, never striking to kill, only to subdue, to show his capability.
Finally, an elder, his stripes faded with age, stepped forward. "Enough!" His voice commanded respect. He looked at Tomba, a strange glint in his eyes. "You are different, human. You fight not with malice, but with purpose. You seek understanding, not conquest."
The chief, a formidable but wise Keibui, eventually befriended Tomba. He saw in him a spirit unburdened by the fear and prejudice that plagued humans. Tomba spent weeks with them, learning their ways, their lore, their deep connection to the forest. He became an honorary member, a bridge between worlds.
His journey continued, guided by whispers and ancient maps found in long-forgotten caves. He met others, just as in his beloved mangas, but uniquely Manipuri. Instead of the stocky, bearded dwarves, he found the Arf – small, nimble beings with an innate mastery of earth and metal, their hands shaping weapons and adornments of unparalleled beauty and strength. He learned their secrets of forging, of enhancing materials with spiritual properties. And instead of ethereal elves, he encountered the Lais and Lairembis, the spirits of the land and water, figures of grace and power, who danced under the moonlight in sacred groves, their wisdom imparted through riddles and visions. Tomba learned to communicate with them, to understand the subtle energies that permeated the world, to seek guidance from the unseen.
With each encounter, his worldview expanded. He realized that the "monsters" and "beasts" of human tales were often just misunderstood peoples, living by their own complex codes, their own fears, their own hopes. He sought his yek, his legendary weapon, not as a means to conquer, but as a way to understand his own place in this vibrant, diverse world.
One agonizing day, the balance shattered. A small Keibui Keiroiba child, adventurous and curious, wandered too far from their village and became lost. Humans, fearing the creature of legend, found it. They killed the cub, then others they encountered, bringing their lifeless bodies back to their village as trophies, a testament to their "bravery" against the perceived threat.
The news reached Tomba, tearing through his adopted family like a poisoned arrow. Fury, cold and blinding, consumed him. He raced towards the human village, a blur of righteous rage. He found the warriors celebrating, hoisting the tiny, striped bodies.
"What have you done?!" Tomba roared, his voice shaking the forest around them.
The warriors, startled, turned on him. "Get out, boy! This is our victory! We purged the beasts!"
"Beasts?!" Tomba cried, his eyes blazing. He moved, a whirlwind of Thang-Ta and Sarit Sarak, faster than they could comprehend. He disarmed them, threw them aside, never killing, but incapacitating with brutal efficiency. He was no longer just learning; he was fighting with the accumulated martial wisdom of centuries, driven by a primal need for justice. He retrieved the small, lifeless bodies, cradling them gently.
He carried them back to the Keibui Keiroiba village, his heart heavy. The silence there was heavier than any roar. The tribal chief, his face a mask of profound grief, ordered a solemn burial.
Tomba, still seething, demanded, "Why? Why do you not retaliate? They murdered your children!"
The chief looked at him, his ancient eyes filled with a sorrow that transcended anger. "Tomba, child of fierce heart. They act from fear. They have forgotten the words of the Great Lai, the ancient truths. They have forgotten that all beings, whether furred or scaled or bare-skinned, are children of this land, meant to survive together. Humans have lost their way, chasing shadows of fear. But not us. Our belief is our strength, our restraint our wisdom. We will mourn, we will remember, but we will not become what we despise."
In that moment, Tomba truly understood. He had sought monsters and found family. He had feared difference and discovered unity. The lines between human and "beast," between fear and understanding, blurred and dissolved. They were all just beings, living and striving, some lost in their fear, others holding steadfast to ancient wisdom. His journey for a weapon transformed into a journey for truth, and he knew, with chilling clarity, that the greatest power was not in the blade he sought, but in the understanding he had found.
The world, Tomba learned, was a fragile thing, balanced precariously on the precipice of an ancient prophecy. Not the petty squabbles of kingdoms or the endless pursuit of power, but a deeper, cosmic dread. Within a year, the true demons, beings of primordial chaos, would awaken and descend upon the lands, consuming all – humans, beastmen, and every other vibrant species. His Yek, his very bloodline, hummed with a forgotten truth, a legacy intertwined with the coming doom. To fulfill it, he needed to find the weapon, the one artifact specifically attuned to his essence.
He shed his identity, his familiar life, and embarked on a solitary journey. His path was clandestine, for he knew there were others – wielders of what they believed were unique, powerful weapons, seven in total, each a distorted echo of a divine truth. They hunted him, not for the demons, but to eliminate competition, to cement their own supremacy. Yet, as Tomba traversed sun-baked plains and shadowed forests, a different reputation preceded him. Wherever he went, disputes softened, famines eased, and a quiet sense of hope bloomed. He offered a kind word, a helping hand, a shared meal, never lingering long, always moving. People began to call him Lamnganba – the bringer of happiness and goodwill.
The struggles were relentless. He navigated treacherous terrains, avoided the scouts of the powerful weapon-wielding factions, and honed his instincts. Sometimes, he felt the faint, metallic thrum of their presence, a distant threat confirming their relentless pursuit. Time was slipping away, the prophecy's shadow growing longer.
Then, deep within a forgotten valley, nestled amidst a grove of ancient, petrified trees, he found it. The weapon. Not an elegant blade or a refined staff, but a sword. The sword. It was colossal, its hilt thick as a tree trunk, its blade wider than Tomba's chest, impossibly heavy, he thought. A gasp escaped him, a mix of awe and disbelief. Yet, when his hand closed around the grip, a surge of raw power coursed through him. The weight vanished. The sword felt like an extension of his own arm, light as a feather, responsive to his merest thought. This was it. The weapon meant for his Yek.
As his fingers tightened on the hilt, a torrent of visions flooded his mind, a lifetime compressed into a singular, overwhelming experience. He saw a man, Khamba, the sword's previous wielder. Khamba, who stood alone against a tide of grotesque, shadowy figures – the demons. He saw battles of unimaginable scale, Khamba's blade a blinding blur, protecting humanity, beast-kind, spirit, and arves. He saw the loneliness in Khamba's eyes, the isolation of his crusade, yet never a flicker of despair. Khamba fought for love, for the pure, unyielding love of his people, until his very last breath. He died, leaving the massive sword exactly where the gods had first bestowed it upon him – for this was no ordinary weapon. It was the first, the true, the only weapon given by divine inception, a gift to a pure heart to combat the coming darkness. The kingdoms, in their greed and misunderstanding, had tried to copy it, to replicate its divine power for their petty wars, but their replicas were imperfect, mere shadows of the original. They had never truly understood its true purpose, nor its full, terrifying power.
The vision faded, leaving Tomba with a profound sense of destiny and the crushing weight of responsibility. He gripped the sword, its immense power now a part of him. But he was not left to contemplate it for long.
From the surrounding trees, a flash of steel, a rush of air. Six figures, five men and one woman, all wielding their own distinct, though visibly inferior, weapons, converged on him. These were the hunters. They had tracked him to the sword's resting place. The fight began, a brutal, relentless assault that stretched for three and a half days. Tomba, armed with the rediscovered divine blade, became an unstoppable force. His strength, far from waning, seemed to grow with each passing hour, fueled by the weapon's inherent will to defend. The copied weapons clanged against the true blade, their blows deflected with ease.
On the third day, as the sun began its slow descent, exhaustion finally claimed one of his attackers. It was the girl, her movements sluggish, her leg twisted at an unnatural angle. Seeing her falter, the five men, driven by their own desperate desire to escape and their callous ambition, abandoned her. They scattered into the deepening twilight, leaving her broken and vulnerable.
Tomba watched them go, a cold fury rising within him. To abandon one's own! He turned to the girl, expecting to finish the fight, but her weapon had fallen from her grasp, her eyes filled not with defiance, but with pain and a weary resignation. She braced herself for the death blow.
But it never came. Instead, Tomba knelt. His anger at the betrayers was immense, but his heart, shaped by his years as Lamnganba, compelled him to act. He meticulously gathered herbs from the surrounding earth, crushing them into a poultice. With gentle hands, he tended to her mangled leg, binding it with strips of cloth torn from his cloak.
They talked through the long night, under the watchful gaze of the twin moons. She spoke of her life, her clan, the flawed pursuit of power that had led them all astray. Tomba, for his part, offered no grand pronouncements, but listened with a quiet empathy that began to chip away at the hardened shell around her heart. She saw not the dreaded rival, but a compassionate soul, a true healer. By the time the first streaks of dawn painted the sky, a strange, undeniable warmth had blossomed within her. She was falling for him. Tomba, ever focused on his quest, remained oblivious to the stirring of her affections.
Just as the sun crested the horizon, voices echoed through the valley – her clan, calling for her, their raiding party closing in. Tomba knew he couldn't be found. The girl was still asleep, exhausted by the night's ordeal and the healing herbs. Without a word, he rose, the immense sword now sheathed on his back, a formidable silhouette against the burgeoning light. He melted into the trees, disappearing as silently as he had arrived.
Moments later, her clan leader, her father, burst into the clearing. The girl stirred, waking to the commotion. Seeing Tomba gone, a pang of sadness mixed with a profound understanding pierced her. He had left to avoid conflict, to spare her and her people. Her love for him, born of compassion and a shared vulnerability, deepened irrevocably.
She explained everything to her father, about the fight, the betrayal, Tomba's kindness, and the colossal sword. Her father, a wise and seasoned leader, listened patiently. Later, he declared an end to the hunt for Lamnganba. "It was faith," he stated, his eyes distant, "the path revealed." He had always harbored a distaste for their relentless pursuit of power, the dangerous mimicry of divine gifts for mortal warfare. He knew the prophecy, and the stories of Khamba – the man who received the sword from the gods not for conquest, but for his pure heart and his deep love for all people, to protect them against the very demons now stirring. Tomba, he realized, was not their enemy, but the world's last hope.
Tomba, meanwhile, continued his journey, the mighty sword now a part of him. He still traveled in the shadows, still evaded the jealous remnants of the other weapon wielders. But now, the hum of the sword was joined by another, growing resonance – the unmistakable thrum of ancient evil. The demons were awakening. He could feel it in his bones. The year was almost up.
To be continue... Thanks for reading