Ayothira once sang the name Indrajeet with reverence. Their estate had stood like a fortress of flame—its towers etched with divine runes, its vaults filled with relics older than the Celestial Court. But now, it was silent.
The marble halls were stripped for gold. The Flamekeeper's altar was shattered. Loyalists were hunted, scattered, or bribed into silence. The nobles called it justice. The sects called it balance. But the truth was simpler: fear.
Jagan watched from the shadows, cloaked in silence. He had fled the estate days before the final raid, guided only by instinct and a half-burned scroll left by his father. He trained in abandoned sanctuaries, learning to temper his body with elemental Qi. He fought astral beasts in forgotten valleys, mastering rhythm and terrain. His cultivation rose steadily—Stage 5, then Stage 6—but he never revealed it. To the world, he was a wandering orphan. To himself, he was a blade waiting to be drawn.
Karthi tunneled beneath the ruins, deeper than anyone thought possible. He built a forge powered by spiritual resonance, surrounded by machines that hummed with divine frequency. He studied forbidden scrolls, summoned elemental echoes, and crafted constructs that responded to thought. His cultivation was layered—spirit, summoning, invention. He reached Stage 5, then masked it with a soul veil. No one knew he was alive. No one knew he was building something.
The world believed the Indrajeet flame had died. But beneath the ashes, it burned brighter than ever.
And in the deepest corners of Ayothira, relics began to pulse. Seals trembled. The Eight Demons stirred faintly, sensing movement. The Shadow Vault, long thought to be a myth, whispered in forgotten tongues.
The brothers had lost everything. But they were not broken.
They were becoming legend.
---