The valley stank of death and iron. The cold wind that once danced lazily between the crags now dragged the metallic scent of blood across the battlefield. In the distance, the setting sun painted the clouds in streaks of crimson, as if the heavens themselves wept for what was unfolding.
Old man Paras stood in the middle of it all — a figure of defiance, a living mountain in the river of carnage. His robe was torn into shreds, his once-pristine festival sash now drenched in scarlet. His breathing was labored, deep and harsh, like the groan of a battered war drum. Every exhale came with a hiss of pain.
Yet his eyes…
They still burned.
Across from him, Cho staggered, his right arm gone — torn from his body in the earlier clash, the wound hastily bound in filthy cloth. His face was twisted in fury and humiliation, but his gaze betrayed something else — respect, perhaps, or maybe just fear.
"Old man," Cho growled, spitting blood, "you… should've died long ago."
Paras did not reply with words. He simply lifted his bow once more — hands trembling, muscles quivering from exhaustion, but his stance… his stance was still perfect. The stance of a man who had mastered the art so completely that even death could not erode it.
Then, from the jagged slope above, came the rumble.
The rest of the rakshas army was arriving.
A black tide surged forward — a monstrous swarm of steel and flesh, shields glinting in the dying light, war cries echoing off the cliffs. The earth seemed to groan beneath their weight. Forty-five thousand more soldiers. Paras did not need to count; his body could feel the pressure in the air, the same way a veteran hunter senses the moment before the prey's desperate leap.
Vid watched from behind a half-shattered boulder. His small frame was shaking uncontrollably. He had never seen so many enemies — never seen such hopeless odds. He pressed his back against the cold rock, hands over his ears to block the screaming and the ringing of steel. But it didn't work. The sounds forced their way in.
He peeked over the stone just in time to see Paras take a blade across the ribs.
"Paras-ji!" Vid's voice cracked, the call drowned instantly by the cacophony of war.
Paras staggered, nearly dropping to one knee, but with sheer force of will he pivoted, bringing his bow down like a club against the attacker's temple. Bone crunched, and the rakshas warrior fell limp. Another one was already there to take his place. And another. And another.
The old man fought like the storm itself — each arrow a lightning bolt, each swing of his bow a thunderclap. But his steps were slower now. His back bent slightly more. The weight of his years pressed on him, each movement costing more than the last.
Vid's breath caught. He had never seen someone fight on willpower alone before, never seen a man's body give out while his spirit refused to kneel. The boy's mind screamed at him to run — to hide deeper in the valley, maybe find a crevice where the battle could not reach him. But his feet refused to move. Something inside kept him anchored, watching.
Cho roared and charged again, his massive frame cutting through the sea of soldiers like a warship in the tide. His remaining arm wielded his jagged blade with a fury that made the air shimmer. Steel met steel as Paras caught the blow with his bow, the wood groaning in protest.
The two warriors locked eyes.
"You can't hold forever," Cho hissed.
"I only need… to hold… long enough," Paras replied, his voice rough but steady.
Then the swarm hit.
The rakshas soldiers closed in from every side, their armored boots pounding the ground like war drums. Spears jabbed from every angle. Blades swung at his legs, his back, his shoulders. Paras moved like a wounded beast surrounded by wolves — each step precise, each motion a desperate blend of offense and defense.
Vid could barely see him now, swallowed by the press of enemies. Every glimpse he caught between the bodies showed more cuts opening on Paras's flesh, more blood soaking into his robes. Yet there was never a single moment where the old man stopped moving.
Vid's heart hammered painfully against his chest. He's going to die… right here… right now.
A spear thrust aimed at Paras's spine — Vid almost screamed — but Paras twisted, catching the weapon with the crook of his bow, snapping it in half with a single jerk. Another attacker lunged, and Paras's arrowhead found the gap between the soldier's neck plates.
But even as he killed, more came.
Vid saw the old man's knees falter for the first time.
It was a small stumble — almost unnoticeable — but to Vid, it felt like the world itself had cracked. He clenched his fists so hard his nails dug into his palms.
"Why… why are you still fighting?" Vid whispered to himself. He didn't understand. Paras had to know this was unwinnable. That no man — no matter how skilled — could stand against tens of thousands alone.
And yet…
Paras's words from before echoed in his mind. I am an army of myself.
The thought made Vid's throat tighten. He could still hear his mother's voice in the memories buried deep — her telling him to find Lord Vishwa, her promising that Vishwa would protect him. But Paras had told him something different. Something dangerous. Something powerful.
"Be your own solution… be the saviour you want the gods to be."
The air shook as Cho crashed into Paras again, their weapons locking, sparks flying. Paras's teeth were bared now, more in defiance than pain. Cho drove him back step by step, until Paras's heel struck a dead soldier's body and he almost toppled.
The surrounding rakshas soldiers howled, sensing weakness. They surged in. Paras spun, loosing three arrows in rapid succession, each finding a throat, each buying him another breath. But his shoulders drooped, his legs trembled.
Vid's nails dug deeper into his palms, and a strange heat spread through his chest. He didn't know what it was — anger, fear, or something else entirely — but it burned hotter with every drop of blood that fell from Paras's body.
The boy didn't realize he had stepped out from behind the rock until the cold wind hit his face.
Paras saw him. Even in the chaos, his eyes flicked toward Vid, and a faint smile — or maybe a grimace — crossed his lips.
"Stay… back," he rasped, before twisting away from another blade.
But Vid didn't move back. He just stood there, watching the man who was holding back an ocean of death with nothing but his will. Watching him fight even when the body was screaming to stop.
Something inside Vid shifted.
He didn't know how long Paras could hold. He didn't know if the old man would survive the next few minutes. But he knew one thing — if he lived past today, he would never again be the boy who only hid.
He would remember this moment forever.
The dust over Dand Valley had grown so thick it turned the afternoon into a hazy twilight. The air itself seemed to pulse with the echoes of screams, clashing steel, and the sickening thud of falling bodies. It smelled of iron and ash—an atmosphere of endings.
Vid's small fists were trembling, not from fear alone but from the unbearable frustration knotting in his chest. His cheeks were streaked with dirt and dried blood, though none of it was his own. The 16-year-old boy stood amidst the ruins of the once-bustling main street, the stones beneath his bare feet warm with the blood of fallen men.
His throat burned as he shouted into the chaos. "Why? Why can't I do anything?" His voice cracked.
He snatched up a jagged rock and hurled it with all his strength toward the ranks of Rakshas soldiers, the stone vanishing into the dark tide of armored bodies. Another followed, then another, each one thrown with the raw, childish stubbornness of someone who refused to accept his own weakness.
Somewhere between his second and third throw, a rough hand grabbed his shoulder. "Boy!" a voice barked, sharp with urgency.
Vid spun to find himself staring into the weathered face of a villager—a man who had lost an eye in an earlier skirmish. His grip was iron-hard, born of desperation.
"You're coming with me," the man said.
"No! Let me go! Paras needs me!" Vid thrashed, his voice rising into a shrill note of defiance.
The man didn't bother arguing. He simply hooked an arm around Vid's torso and lifted him clear off the ground, dragging him toward the narrow alley that led to the valley's eastern ridge.
"Paras's orders," the man grunted between breaths as he half-carried, half-dragged Vid. "Said no one stays. Said we'd only slow him down."
Vid's eyes widened, tears blurring the sight of the battlefield. He craned his neck to look back over the man's shoulder. Through the shifting haze, he caught a glimpse of Paras—an old figure bent but unbroken, his tattered robes fluttering in the hot wind, his staff braced against the earth as though it were the only thing holding him upright.
"Paras!" Vid shouted, voice cracking with desperation. "I can fight! I can help!"
But the old warrior didn't turn. His gaze was locked on the black wave of more than forty-five thousand soldiers that still filled the valley floor, the enemy's banners fluttering like vultures' wings.
The villager's boots pounded against the dirt, carrying Vid further away, but the boy strained his ears for one last sound of Paras's voice.
It came, faint but unshaken. "Go, boy. Live."
And then, Vid was gone from the field, swallowed by the ridge's winding path.
Paras stood alone now. Alone, yet not alone, for the ghosts of the fallen seemed to press close around him. His chest rose and fell with labored breaths, each inhale tasting of copper and smoke. His limbs ached; deep cuts ran along his arms and back, his robes shredded into strips that fluttered like dying flames.
The laughter that broke from his lips was low at first, almost inaudible beneath the roar of the enemy ranks. Then it swelled, raw and reckless, a sound that carried across the valley like the bark of a dying wolf daring the pack to finish the job.
"I," he said, his voice carrying even through the din, "Paras… will make a bloodbath here."
The soldiers shifted uneasily. Some muttered curses under their breath, while others tightened their grips on spears and swords. This was not the boast of a man trying to frighten them—it was a promise.
From the front line stepped a tall figure clad in jagged, black armor, his helm shaped like the snarling face of some ancient beast. The aura around him burned like molten metal.
"I should have been born earlier," the armored warrior said, his tone almost wistful despite the carnage around them. "Earlier, when you were at your prime strength. I, Ke'dil'cho, would have challenged you then. But today…" He rested his hand on the hilt of a massive, curved sword whose edge shimmered with a sickly red glow. "…today will be enough."
Cho's blade lifted, its crimson light growing brighter, feeding on the heat of his killing intent.
"Rakshas Knight Technique—Blood Flame Slice!"
The words cracked like a whip across the battlefield. The moment they left Cho's lips, the sword erupted into a gout of liquid fire, blood-red and burning with unnatural heat. It hissed as it cut through the air, scorching the earth in its wake.
Paras's lips curled in a grin. His knuckles tightened around the haft of his staff. "Festival Storm—The Flame of Hope."
From deep within him, from the very core of his being where his will had been tempered by decades of battle, the energy flared. It was not the boundless chakra of his youth—age had thinned those reserves—but what remained was distilled, sharpened into something fierce and unwavering.
A swirl of golden light burst from his staff, spiraling upward before splitting into dozens of streaking arcs. They danced through the air like lanterns on the wind, but each carried within it the raw force of Paras's Astra, the ancient art he had honed across a lifetime. The ground beneath him cracked from the sudden surge, dust spiraling outward in a shockwave.
The two attacks met.
The Blood Flame Slice tore through the air like a burning comet, but the golden arcs of the Flame of Hope crashed against it in a storm of light. The impact was deafening—thunder trapped in a valley, shattering stone and sending soldiers sprawling from the force alone.
Fire and light clashed, twisted, and erupted into a column of heat that seared the sky.
And through it all, Paras stood, his body shaking from the strain, his breath ragged. He could feel his heartbeat pounding in his ears, each thud a reminder that his body was reaching its limits.
But his eyes never wavered from Cho.
The air reeked of iron and smoke.
Vid's lungs burned as he stumbled over the dirt, his eyes stinging—not just from the acrid haze, but from the tears that kept forcing their way out. The battle behind him was still raging, the earth trembling with each clash of steel and the guttural roars of men and monsters alike.
He didn't want to leave.
He couldn't leave.
But his body had betrayed him—he was too small, too weak, too slow.
He could still see Paras in his mind's eye, standing alone against the monstrous tide, battered and bloodied, yet unyielding. The image crushed him.
His knees buckled, and Vid collapsed beside a broken wall. His hands clenched so tight that his nails bit into his palms.
"You fool… You're useless."
The words weren't from anyone else—they were his own voice, spitting venom at himself.
He remembered his father's laugh. His mother's voice humming as she cooked. The echo of children's laughter in the narrow alleys of their home.
All gone.
He remembered how.
The fire. The screams. The chaos. The night when the Rakshas stormed their town. His father had fallen first, trying to fight with nothing but a farming blade. His friends had vanished into the smoke. And his mother—his mother—had grabbed his face, her palms shaking, her eyes filled with tears that refused to fall.
"Son, you know I am a devotee of Lord Vishwa… Find him. He is the solution. He will protect you."
Those were her last words before she shoved him into the back alley, standing between him and the monstrous soldiers, holding only a kitchen knife.
She hadn't come back.
Vid's nails scraped at the dirt.
And then Paras's voice echoed in his mind, a voice far less gentle but no less fierce.
"Be your own solution. Be the saviour you want some random god to be."
It hurt because Paras was right. Yet in this moment, Vid felt like nothing but a child. He wanted to scream. He wanted to shatter the world.
So he did the only thing his trembling body could—he screamed until his throat burned, grabbing chunks of rubble and hurling them at the ground. The stones shattered, but nothing else changed.
That was when a shadow fell over him.
A villager—one of the last still breathing—grabbed his arm.
"Come. Now."
"No! Let me go!" Vid kicked, but the man's grip was like iron.
"Paras's orders," the man hissed. "He told me to get you out alive."
Vid's chest tightened. He didn't want to be protected. He wanted to fight beside Paras, to at least die standing. But the man dragged him away, and Vid's resistance only slowed them down. The further they went, the more silent the town became. No cries. No footsteps. Only the roar of battle far behind them.
Paras had stayed.
Paras was alone.
Back on the ruined streets of Dand Valley, Old Man Paras stood against an ocean of bloodthirsty soldiers—more than forty-five thousand Rakshas warriors, their armor glinting under the dull, dust-filtered light.
His breathing was heavy. His limbs felt like molten lead. His blood dripped freely onto the cracked stone.
Yet he laughed.
"Forty-five thousand… and you think you'll leave this place alive?" His voice carried over the din, raw and feral. "No. This place will be your grave. I, Paras, will make a bloodbath here."
Across from him, Cho straightened, his left arm hanging limp and mangled from their earlier clash. Despite his injuries, the Rakshas general's grin was wide.
"I should have been born earlier," Cho said, voice deep with genuine regret. "When you were in your prime, I—Ke'dil'cho—would have challenged you. And maybe then, I would have fallen with honor."
Paras chuckled darkly. "You think I'm weak because I'm old? You'll see, Cho. The years don't take away everything."
Cho's eyes narrowed. He stepped forward, planting his sword into the ground for a moment. Both hands gripped the hilt. The air around him began to shimmer with heat.
"Rakshas Knight Technique—Blood Flame Slice!"
The air screamed as the massive arc of crimson fire erupted from his blade, slicing forward like a wave of molten death. The soldiers behind him roared in anticipation.
Paras didn't flinch. His feet dug into the earth. His blood-slick hands traced a pattern in the air—old, deliberate, and impossibly precise.
"Festival Storm…" His voice deepened, a growl that became a roar. "The Flame of Hope."
A swirling cyclone of golden-orange fire erupted around him, sparks whipping into the air like a thousand miniature suns. The two waves—one of blood-red destruction, one of golden defiance—collided in the center of the street.
The explosion was blinding.
For a heartbeat, the world was nothing but white light and roaring sound.
Then came the shockwave—tearing through walls, flinging bodies aside like ragdolls, and turning the ground to molten glass where the flames touched.
Paras stood at the epicenter, a lone figure wrapped in a storm of fire, his eyes blazing brighter than the inferno itself.
The night wind tasted of iron.
Vid's chest burned with every breath as the villager dragged him away from the battlefield. The world behind him roared with clashing steel and the bone-rattling cries of war. Tears streamed down his dirt-streaked cheeks. He wanted to run back, to stand beside Paras, to swing a sword even if his arms broke from the weight — but his body was nothing but a trembling husk.
"I'm not strong enough… not yet," Vid muttered between sobs. The sound tore out of him like something dying. In frustration, he grabbed stones from the ground and hurled them blindly, as if the rocks could somehow reach the enemy miles away.
The villager — a man with a weathered face and eyes that had seen too many funerals — said nothing. He just tightened his grip on Vid's shoulder, hauling him like precious cargo, as if the boy's life meant more than the burning town they left behind. The air was heavy with smoke and the stench of blood, each breath tasting like a memory Vid wished he could erase.
Paras stood alone. The once-vibrant streets of Dand Valley were silent but for the rhythmic march of over forty-five thousand Rakshas soldiers. Behind them, Cho's towering figure loomed, his blade catching the glint of firelight.
Paras's stance was weary but unbroken. His breathing came ragged, his body a patchwork of deep cuts and bruises. Blood leaked from his side with every exhale, yet his eyes burned with the stubborn fire of a man who refused to kneel.
He looked at Cho, then at the sea of soldiers, and took a slow step backward, deliberately putting distance between himself and the enemy lines. His lips curled into a grin that didn't belong on a man so close to death.
"Good," Paras rasped, his voice a strange mix of exhaustion and joy. "More room to paint the ground red. I, Paras, will make a bloodbath here tonight."
Cho chuckled — a deep, vibrating sound like boulders grinding together. "Old man… if only I had been born earlier, when you were in your prime," Cho said. "I, Ke'dil'Cho, would have challenged you then… and perhaps I might have respected you more."
Paras just laughed, coughing up flecks of crimson.
Cho raised his massive sword high, the air around it igniting in a shimmering crimson blaze. "Rakshas Knight Technique—" he roared, "Blood Flame Slice!"
The air split with the heat of the swing, a wave of burning energy rushing forward like the wrath of a volcano.
Paras tightened his grip on his battered spear. His eyes narrowed, the pain momentarily forgotten. "Festival Storm—" he bellowed, "Flame of Hope!"
Two mighty forces collided in a deafening explosion, red and gold light twisting into a violent storm. The blast tore through buildings, shattered stones, and sent corpses tumbling like ragdolls.
Far away — another land.
While Dand Valley burned, the Mathur Empire glittered under moonlight, untouched by war. In the grand hall of the Vrinda Continent's capital, marble pillars rose like the bones of giants, their shadows stretching across a throne carved from obsidian.
On that throne sat Kanq, Emperor of the Vrinda Continent — a man whose presence seemed to tilt the air itself. His robes shimmered with threads of silver, and his golden crown reflected a cruel smile.
"I will rule the entire world," Kanq declared to the ministers gathered at his feet. His voice was calm, but it carried the weight of an oath. "Every kingdom will bow before me. I will be the king of all."
The ministers, heads bowed in reverence, nodded as if the outcome was already decided.
Kanq leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Send the orders. We will conquer everything."
Cho stepped forward, his sword dripping with the aftermath of the clash. "You've earned it, Paras. An honorable death… not the slow decay of time, but the death of a warrior."
Paras straightened his spine despite the weight of his wounds. "I'm ready," he said simply. His mind was clear. He thought not of himself, but of Vid… of the stories told to him as a boy.
"They say," Paras muttered, more to himself than anyone else, "that when all hope in the world is gone, when kings drown in greed for land, gold, and women… when war rises and justice falls… then from the ashes will rise one who will set the balance right."
Vid, unconscious in the villager's arms miles away, dreamed of that very figure — Lord Vishwa, the savior born in the darkest hour.
Cho's blade began its descent.
But before it could fall, a whistle cut through the battlefield — high, sharp, and unnatural. A streak of light tore across the night sky, glowing not with flame, but with something older, purer.
An arrow.
Paras blinked. This was no ordinary shot. He knew the shape of power-forged arrows — wood infused with chant and magic, carved with runes to pierce armor and spirit alike. But this… this was something else. The arrow didn't strike the ground. It flew straight upward, into the heavens.
And then —
The sky split open.
A hole yawned wide above them, swirling with energy like a wound in reality. From that wound burst a dragon of pure light, its scales shimmering with every color of dawn. The creature roared, a sound that was not heard but felt — in the bones, in the heart, in the memory of every man present.
The dragon dove toward the Rakshas army, its body fracturing into hundreds — no, thousands — of arrows mid-flight. Each shaft burned with a radiance so fierce it turned night into day.
The soldiers had no time to scream. The arrows struck with unerring precision, cutting through armor, splitting ranks, turning the disciplined lines into chaos. The ground shook under the barrage, dust and blood mingling in the air.
Paras shielded his eyes from the light, his heart pounding. "It's not me…" he whispered in awe. "This power… I know this power."
A voice rang out over the battlefield — calm, cold, and absolute.
"Step back, Paras. You've done enough."
From the far edge of the valley, a figure emerged through the smoke. He wore armor that gleamed like forged moonlight, each plate etched with sigils older than the kingdoms themselves. His hair was black as night, his gaze sharp enough to cut through lies. Across his back was a quiver that seemed bottomless, and in his hand — the bow that legends whispered about in taverns and war camps.
The soldiers who recognized him froze in terror.
The strongest commander of the Bomi Empire.
The demi-god archer whose arrows never missed.
The man who turned battles into massacres.
Vick'belson.
He walked forward with the slow confidence of one who had already calculated the enemy's defeat. Every step was deliberate, his boots crunching over the bodies of the fallen. The air seemed to bend around him, the scent of ozone clinging to his presence.
He stopped beside Paras, not looking at him, eyes fixed on Cho. "Ke'dil'Cho," he said evenly, "you've lived too long."
Cho grinned, his blood-red aura flaring. "Vick'belson. I was hoping the rumors weren't lies."
Vick'belson raised his bow, drawing an arrow that hummed with energy. The string pulled back without effort, though Paras knew each pull was enough to shatter bone in lesser men.
"Then hope no more," Vick'belson said. "Tonight, those rumors become your last memory."
The battlefield went silent. Even the dying seemed to pause, as if the world itself held its breath for what came next.
The villagers had carried Vid far beyond the shattered gates, his consciousness flickering in and out like a dying candle flame. In his half-dreaming haze, visions of Lord Vishwa's return played in his mind—an ancient prophecy, whispered by elders, of a savior who would descend when the world's justice lay in ruins.
But back in Dand Valley, reality shook with a different kind of thunder.
The sky still swirled from the strange rift the arrow had torn. Out of it roared a colossal energy dragon, each scale blazing with liquid fire. Its wings tore the clouds apart as it circled the battlefield, and then, with a deafening roar, it split into a thousand burning arrows that rained upon the ranks of Paras' enemies.
They were precise—merciless. Not a single one struck a villager or ally. Only the invading lines felt their wrath.
Through the fading mist of the dragon's disintegration, the figure emerged. He was towering, broad-shouldered, clad in golden-black armor that glowed faintly as though alive. On his back hung a halberd taller than most men, and his presence alone made the air heavier.
Vick'belson.
The Demi-God Commander of the Boomi Empire.
The Boomi soldiers surged behind him, an unstoppable tide of steel and discipline. Their banners fluttered crimson and black, the sigil of the twin falcons cutting through the smoke.
Paras' lips curled into a grin.
"Long time no see… dramatic as always."
Vick strode forward, boots cracking the scorched ground. He didn't return the grin—his eyes were already scanning the battlefield like a predator.
"Paras… you've aged."
"And you," Paras replied, wiping blood from his jaw, "still make an entrance like you own the world."
Vick didn't answer. He simply stepped past Paras, planting the haft of his halberd into the ground so hard that it sent a shockwave through the valley floor. The Boomi army instantly fanned into position—archers lining the ridges, cavalry forming a spearpoint formation, infantry locking shields in a perfect wall.
Cho, still gripping his mighty sword, spat to the side. "Another challenger?"
Paras raised a hand. "Not this time, Cho. This fight… belongs to him."
The old warrior stepped back, wincing from his wounds, and made no move to rejoin the fray. His breathing slowed as he leaned against a broken wall, watching.
Vick's voice was a low rumble, carrying over the clamor of war.
"Boomi steel… forward."
The first wave struck like a hammer against glass. Cho's front lines shattered under the disciplined push, shields splintering as Boomi's infantry forced their way in. Above, the archers loosed volleys in perfect rhythm, cutting down any attempt to flank.
Vick moved through it all like a god among men. His halberd carved arcs of death, each swing taking down multiple foes. With every strike, the earth itself seemed to quake, sending tremors through the enemy ranks.
Cho's lieutenants charged to meet him, six in total—seasoned killers who had fought in a hundred skirmishes. Vick didn't slow. The first came at him from the left—one flick of the halberd, and the man was gone, armor and body split in two. The second tried to strike from above—Vick caught the blow with the haft and slammed the man into the dirt so hard it left a crater.
The other four hesitated.
"You see now?" Paras murmured from his vantage point, his voice almost proud despite the pain. "He's not here to fight a battle. He's here to end it."
Within minutes, the entire entrance to Dand Valley was a boiling sea of bodies and clashing steel. Smoke and fire curled into the sky. Yet through it all, Vick's advance never faltered—each step forward another nail in Cho's coffin.
And then, when the resistance began to crumble, Vick pointed his halberd toward the heart of Cho's forces.
"Boomi… break them."
The army surged like a living beast, crashing through what remained of the enemy line. Cho's men began to fall back, their morale shattered under the relentless onslaught.
Paras closed his eyes briefly. "Your turn, old friend. Don't let them see the sun again."
And Vick'belson—the Demi-God—pressed forward, a storm given flesh.