---
The sky above the barren plains burned like a wound.
Two silhouettes clashed in a world of ash and light. One set of eyes gleamed sapphire — cold, measured — while the other flared crimson, horns rising from its brow like a crown of coals. When they struck, the air shattered; every sound became a distant, hollow echo.
> Blue-Eyed Shadow: "You cannot hide in darkness forever."
Horned Shadow: "I am not hiding anymore."
A final collision swallowed sound and vision alike. And then—
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Kedar's hand slapped the alarm in reflex. The red digits blinked 6:45 a.m.
He pushed himself upright and for a moment simply watched the dust motes swim in sunbeams. Kedar's hair was the color of dark earth — unruly, always half-sticking up from sleep. His eyes, usually a soft brown, often looked tired but steady; people said his face carried the honest roundness of someone who grew up laughing, not fighting. He was of average height for his age, lean where he needed to be but lacking the bulk that would make him a natural fighter. A faded scar ran along his left knuckle — a souvenir from a childhood fall his mother still complained about.
> Why that dream again? he thought.
On his desk sat a small, dusty trident replica — a toy from bedtime stories his father used to tell. The stories had thrummed through Kedar's childhood like a heartbeat. When his father left for Dhūma Parvat three years ago, a piece of that heartbeat had gone with him.
His mother fussed in the kitchen, voice equal parts scold and worry.
> "KEDAR! You'll miss school again!"
She placed a plate of slightly burned parathas before him. Her hands were calloused from work, and her eyes lingered on the mountain line in the distance as if reading a wound. Dhūma Parvat rose there, a jagged silhouette wrapped in mist — the place the newspapers now whispered about: research accidents, unsolved disappearances.
Three years earlier, his father had not returned from Dhūma Parvat. The town had called it a tragedy; Kedar called it a hole that never stopped wanting filling. He remembered the last words his father left him.
> "Courage matters more than strength, beta. When you need it, you'll know."
Guilt had become a quiet companion since then.
---
School and Small Bruises
At school, Kedar wore kindness like a second skin. He was quick to help: carry a heavy textbook, stand between a bully and a smaller child, offer a smile when someone faltered. That kindness didn't shield him from hurt — bullies found the soft place to press.
A tall boy shoved him in the corridor.
> "Hey, Kedar! Hero-boy!" the bully jeered.
Kedar took the shove like he took most things — with a small, patient smile. He was not built like a fighter: not broad in the shoulders, not a tower in the ring. He was wiry, with quick hands and an unshakable jaw.
That night, when the news came of another disappearance on Dhūma Parvat — a researcher this time — something in Kedar snapped. He could no longer hide behind intention. Action was the only language his fear understood.
---
Kalaripayattu — First Steps
Kedar found himself at the Kalaripayattu hall by dawn the next day. The building smelled of oil and old wood; weapons hung like sleeping birds on pegs. The instructor — a man with a shaved head and hands like rope — eyed him coldly.
> "You've come late," the instructor said.
"I've been late my whole life," Kedar answered, and the words were a promise.
Training was harsh. Kalaripayattu moved through the air in a language of balance: low stances, sudden strikes, fluid footwork. Kedar stumbled, fell, and rose until soreness became a familiar friend. He practiced until the scar on his knuckle burned and his breath came in short, stubborn pulls.
It was in that hall, between sweat and wood, that he met them.
---
Meeting the Transfers
When the next wave of students arrived, three stood out like new colors on a plain canvas.
Aryan — a slim boy with a shock of black hair and sharp, calculating grey eyes. He moved with the nervous precision of someone always thinking two steps ahead. His hands were always busy — a small toolkit hung at his belt. Aryan's voice was quiet but quick, a mind that fit into machines and circuits like a key.
Shakti — a girl with glossy midnight hair tied in a loose braid, eyes warm and wide like the first day of monsoon. She carried herself with a relaxed power; when she laughed the whole yard felt lighter. Her build was compact and strong — not bulky, but deceptively powerful. There was an ease in her movements, as if every stance was a promise to protect.
Anant — tall, composed, with skin the color of polished teak. His hair was short and tidy, and his gaze sharp and unyielding. Anant moved like a practiced wind: precise, controlled. He wore the quiet confidence of someone used to being the standard others measured themselves against.
They were transfer students from a different district, here for the same reason: a research program, a chance to train, maybe something more. They clustered near the training mats, taking in the hall like predators taking stock of a new range.
Kedar felt both awkward and oddly buoyed. For the first time since his father disappeared, he wasn't entirely alone in his resolve.
---
The Night That Changed Everything
Weeks of practice made his body harder, his reflexes quicker. He learned to anticipate, to bend, to plant his feet like roots. The hall's humming presence became a second home.
One evening, walking home through an alley dim with orange light, he heard a scream. Two men were dragging a girl toward a darker corridor. The instinct that had been drilled into him — protect first, think later — burned up through his chest.
> "Let her go!"
The men turned, surprised, then cruel. They beat him down. Kedar tasted iron and grit, felt his ribs buckle beneath each strike. Darkness crept at the edges of his vision.
Then the world narrowed to a single bright point. Heat rose under his skin. Steam curled from his clothes. His vision washed red, and a drum of power sounded in his ears.
He rose.
The metal pipe one man brandished bent under his blow like bendable cane. The two assailants hit the ground, groaning. The girl stumbled away, sobbing.
By the time the police came, Kedar sat on the curb, steam hissing from his shoulders, eyes burning a fierce red. He collapsed before anyone could reach him.
---
Hospital and the Whispered Warning
He woke in the sterile white of a hospital room. His mother's hand traced the back of his head as if anchoring him to the world. The Kalaripayattu teacher stood at the foot of the bed, face drawn tight.
> "He has awakened it," the teacher said quietly, and the words carried weight like a stone dropped into still water.
Far away, on the fog-rolled slopes of Dhūma Parvat, a light flared in an ashram window. An old man — a sage whose presence seemed to be stitched from smoke and silence — opened his eyes as if calling up a name from sleep.
> "Then the boy has awakened him," the sage whispered.
It was not joy. The phrase held the same hollow as a bell tolling at midnight. The sage's voice threaded through the mountain, small and certain.
> "Train him," he told the teacher. "Or the darkness will swallow him."
---
Resolve
Kedar lay very still, feeling the heat of his body cool to a dull ember. The scar on his knuckle throbbed as if remembering the training hall. His lungs tasted of hospital air and something older — a promise, a fear, a responsibility.
> I will not be taken by this world again. If Dhūma Parvat took my father, then I will become someone who cannot be taken. I will learn. I will guard. I will stand when others cannot.
Outside, mist crawled down from the mountain like a slow tide. Inside, the small trident on his desk caught the light and flashed like a question.
This was only the beginning.