The air was thick with monsoon haze.Raindrops ran down the marble statues of forgotten gods, their eyes dimmed by centuries of dust and neglect.Beneath their shadows walked a young man — barefoot, drenched, and silent — his name was Arjun Varad, the son of a simple craftsman, yet the bearer of a destiny older than civilization itself.
He had walked for three days straight, guided not by maps, but by a voice that had begun to whisper in his dreams a week ago — a voice that said:
“Rise, Yodha… the light calls you.”
At first, he thought it was madness.But that whisper had weight, like thunder hiding inside a prayer.It echoed even when he was awake — in the rustle of leaves, in temple bells ringing far away, in the rhythmic hum of rain.By the third night, he couldn’t ignore it anymore.
Now, his feet carried him to the Shrine of Aatma Naad, one of the oldest temples in the techno-ruins of Bharat-Loka — a place where the divine and digital overlapped.
The old city around the shrine was silent. Neon signs flickered in Sanskrit code. Hovering lamps floated between collapsed towers covered in vines.In this new age, faith had become rare, but the echoes of gods still lingered — in energy, in algorithms, in forgotten circuits that hummed like hymns.
Arjun stopped at the cracked archway. Lightning illuminated the ancient carvings — Vishnu with his conch, Shiva with his Trishul, Durga slaying a serpent that looked strangely mechanical.He felt a pulse under his feet — the ground itself breathing.He didn’t know it yet, but this was the heartbeat of the world’s first Divyaastra, long buried beneath the shrine.
Arjun entered the sanctum. His steps echoed through the hollow corridors, each one awakening lines of old holographic mantras on the walls.As he moved forward, those mantras shimmered — turning from Sanskrit letters into patterns of living light that danced around him.For the first time in his life, he felt the gods watching him.
He reached the inner chamber where a lone monk sat cross-legged, surrounded by ancient devices — half machine, half relic.The monk opened his eyes. They glowed faintly with divine energy.
“You’ve come,” he said softly. “The Yodha who was promised.”
Arjun frowned. “Who are you? How do you know me?”
“I am no one,” the monk replied. “Just a servant of those who still listen.”
He gestured toward the wall. A massive sigil flickered into view — a circular yantra of golden energy, humming softly.At its center floated a small metallic sphere, no bigger than a fist — yet it radiated heat like a star.The monk nodded toward it.
“The first Divyaastra awaits your touch. But remember — it will not awaken by strength. It will awaken by truth.”
Arjun stepped closer. The sphere pulsed, light growing in rhythm with his heartbeat.The whisper returned, clearer now — not in his mind, but in the air itself.
“Will you bear pain that is not yours, for those who will never thank you?”
His throat tightened. He thought of his father — who had died trying to save strangers during a storm; of his mother, who had told him that kindness was not weakness.
“Yes,” Arjun whispered. “If pain is the price for light, I’ll pay it.”
The Divyaastra flashed white-hot.The room trembled as Sanskrit code erupted across the walls like flames.The monk shielded his face.Arjun’s hand burned, a sigil carving itself into his palm — a glowing mark shaped like a lotus and a flame intertwined.
Then — silence.The sphere dimmed.But inside Arjun’s chest, something awakened — a warmth that felt like purpose.
“You are chosen,” the monk said quietly. “But every choice invites its shadow. Remember that, Arjun Varad.”
Outside, the rain had stopped.Arjun walked out of the temple, his new mark still glowing faintly.In the distance, thunder rolled over the horizon like drums of war.
From the far-off hills, a woman watched him through the mist — her cloak torn, her eyes hollow but kind.Mira.
She whispered to herself:
“So, the gods have chosen another one... like him.”
Her voice trembled slightly. The memory surfaced again — a memory she had tried to bury for years.
[Mira’s Memory Fragment #1 — “The Protector”]
She remembered the day she first met Raghav.He was standing in the middle of a burning village, holding a shield made from scrap metal, protecting children behind him while flames tore through houses.He wasn’t strong then. He was scared, coughing from smoke, trembling — but he didn’t move an inch.When she tried to pull him away, he smiled and said,
“If I move, someone dies. So, I’ll stand till the fire bows.”
That was before the blade.Before the whispers.Before he became Ashura.
Mira clenched her fists, tears mixing with rain.She watched Arjun disappearing down the road toward the east — toward the same destiny that had once destroyed Raghav.
“Please,” she whispered to the gods, “don’t let him fall the same way.”
Thunder answered.
As Arjun continued his journey, the mark on his palm flickered.He felt it — a faint echo in the distance, like another heart beating in perfect rhythm with his own.He didn’t know that somewhere across the ruined lands, Raghav’s blade pulsed at that exact moment — the Dhvaja-Khanda awakening, sensing the rise of its opposite.
Light and shadow had both stirred.And the world of men — and gods — would never be the same again.
[End of Page 1 — Chapter 1: “The Path Begins”]