The creature lunged, claws raised to split him in half.
Aarav's hand moved before his mind caught up. The pencil tore across the page, jagged, desperate. A single line. A reflex.
And the line rose.
From the sketchbook, light spilled outward. The line became a wall — crude, glowing, unfinished at the edges like a half-drawn shape. The rakshasa's claws slammed into it, sparks flying, the sound like steel on stone. The wall cracked but held.
Aarav froze, breath ragged.
"What—what the hell—"
"Keep going!" the robed man barked.
The rakshasa roared, shoving harder. The wall bent, groaned, splintered. Aarav's hand shook, pencil scraping across the page again, wild strokes tearing paper. Another shape leapt free — a spear, sharp and jagged as if drawn by a child, but real. Heavy. Burning.
The spear dropped into his other hand. Aarav nearly dropped it from the weight. His arms weren't built for this. But instinct moved where his body failed. He thrust forward.
The spear tore into the rakshasa's shoulder. Black fire hissed from the wound. The creature shrieked, stumbling back, its molten eyes burning hotter.
For a heartbeat, silence hung in the air. Aarav stared at his own hands — one clutching a spear made of graphite lines and light, the other still gripping the sketchbook like it was life itself.
The world tilted. He felt drained, like each stroke had ripped energy straight out of him. His vision blurred at the edges.
The rakshasa wasn't dead. It grinned wider, blood sizzling down its chest. "Better," it growled. "You are him."
It lunged again.
Before Aarav could draw another line, the saffron-robed man slammed his staff into the ground. Fire erupted in a circle, searing the rakshasa mid-stride. The beast screamed, swallowed by flames, and collapsed into ash.
The man turned sharply to Aarav. "You should not have been able to hold against it, not yet."
Aarav collapsed to his knees, the spear dissolving into sparks, the sketchbook falling limp at his side. His chest heaved like he'd run a marathon.
"I didn't… I didn't want this."
The man crouched beside him, eyes calm but firm.
"Want it or not, it has begun. You've taken your first stroke. The war will not ignore you now."
Aarav stared at the ashes blowing across the street, mingling with the dust and trash of ordinary life. The vendors, the chaiwala, the kids nearby — all stood frozen, eyes glassy, as if they'd never noticed. Slowly, like nothing had happened, they blinked and carried on, shouting, laughing, pouring tea.
Nobody saw. Nobody knew.
Except him.
And for the first time, Aarav wasn't sure if the visions had ruined his life… or just revealed what it really was.