From the outside, the world looked perfectly normal.
Morning traffic crawled through narrow streets. Horns argued with one another. People rushed
toward offices, colleges, and shops, chasing deadlines and small dreams. Tea stalls steamed at
corners. Laughter, frustration, routine—everything blended into the familiar noise of life.
Cities thrived on schedules.
People believed in systems.
And most importantly, people believed they were safe.
They were wrong.
Because beneath this orderly surface existed another world—not hidden underground, not carved
beneath the earth, but buried far deeper.
It was hidden in morality.
It was called the Underworld.
The Underworld was not a place.
It was an organization.
A shadow network woven into society so deeply that even governments mistook its movements
for coincidence. It controlled illegal trade, erased inconvenient truths, and decided who was
allowed to live quietly—and who had to disappear.
Power ruled everything here.
Not money alone.
Not influence alone.
But power beyond the natural.
Within the Underworld, individuals were ranked—classified by threat and capability.
E-Rank: Disposable foot soldiers.
D-Rank: Enforcers and muscle.
C-Rank: Operatives trusted with missions.
B-Rank: Commanders who ruled territories.
A-Rank: Monsters known only through whispers.
S-Rank: Legends.
People whose existence itself was a secret.
And above all of them loomed something older than crime, older than civilization.
The Ancients.
Long before modern nations existed, before borders and flags, ancient civilizations had touched
something they were never meant to understand.
Fragments of that knowledge survived—sealed in symbols, rituals, bloodlines, and relics.
Mesopotamian ruins.
Indus Valley seals.
Gupta-era temples.
Different cultures. Same source.
Power that did not fade with time.
The Underworld did not create these powers.
It stole them.
And that theft had consequences.
A man ran.
His breath tore through his lungs as he stumbled into a narrow alley soaked in darkness and rain.
His shoes slipped on wet concrete. His coat was torn. His hands trembled—not from exhaustion,
but from fear.
Behind him, footsteps followed.
Four figures.
Dressed entirely in black.
Their faces hidden.
Their movements silent.
The scientist clutched a black suitcase to his chest like a lifeline. Symbols were engraved into its
surface—ancient, unreadable, wrong.
"Stay back—" he shouted, his voice breaking.
They didn't answer.
One moment he was running.
The next, the alley fell silent.
The suitcase slipped from his hands and hit the ground.
The scientist collapsed against the wall, his vision blurring. He looked up at the shadows
surrounding him and laughed weakly.
"You think…" he whispered, blood staining his lips,
"…you can control the Ancients?"
His eyes hardened.
"You can't fight what was never meant to die."
The rain washed his words away.
The black-clothed men picked up the suitcase and vanished—leaving the city untouched, unaware,
and sleeping.
Vikram(MC) had always believed life was simple.
College. Classes. Exams.
Eat. Sleep. Repeat.
He lived with his grandfather in an old house near a quiet temple. His grandfather was a priest—
strict, disciplined, and deeply traditional. Every morning began before sunrise. Every day followed
routine.
And every conversation ended the same way.
"You are weak," his grandfather said bluntly one evening. "Your body is weak. Your will is weaker."
Vikram clenched his jaw. "Not everyone wants to live like a warrior."
His grandfather's eyes narrowed. "The world doesn't care what you want."
Vikram looked away, irritated. Tired. Lost.
Yet despite everything, he loved the old man. He was the only family Vikram had left.
That night, Vikram followed his grandfather to the temple—reluctantly, as always.
It was supposed to be peaceful.
The doors burst open.
Men in black flooded the temple like shadows given form. Screams echoed. Stone cracked. Chaos
replaced prayer.
Vikram froze.
People fell. Candles shattered. The sacred space turned into a battlefield.
And then—his grandfather stepped forward.
The air changed.
The old man's posture straightened. His presence deepened. Symbols carved into the temple walls
glowed faintly as if responding to him.
Vikram's breath caught.
This wasn't the man who scolded him every morning.
This was someone else.
His grandfather moved—not fast, not flashy—but precise. Ancient techniques flowed through him
like memory itself. Each step, each motion carried weight and intent.
For a moment… the attackers hesitated.
Then the ground trembled.
A single man entered.
No black cloak.
No mask.
Just calm eyes.
Silence followed him.
"This ends now," the man said.
What happened next lasted only seconds.
Vikram couldn't understand it—only feel it.
His grandfather fell.
Blood stained the temple floor.
The old priest looked up at Vikram one last time. There was no fear in his eyes—only urgency.
He tore a locket from his neck and threw it.
"Run," he whispered.
The locket struck Vikram's chest—and vanished.
Pain exploded through him. His heartbeat changed. Something ancient awakened deep within his
body.
Vikram screamed and ran.
Sirens came later.
Police sealed the area. Statements were taken. Stories were rewritten.
"Robbery gone wrong."
"Religious violence."
"No larger threat."
The truth was buried.
Vikram sat alone, numb.
Then a man approached him.
Tall. Calm. Scarred by experience.
"My name is Devraj," he said.
"And your father… was my closest friend."
Vikram looked up.
Devraj's eyes were heavy with memory.
"The Underworld killed him," Devraj continued. "Just like they killed your grandfather."
He paused.
"And now… they will come for you."
The locket inside Vikram pulsed—silent, ancient, alive.
The world above continued as normal.
But Vikram had seen the truth below.
END OF CHAPTER 1