Not long after the errand boy was sent, the door opened again.
Tarun arrived first, followed closely by his wife, Kreena.
The moment they stepped inside and saw Rudrahan lying on the sofa, the atmosphere shifted.
"What happened?" Tarun asked quickly.
Maitreyi tried to speak, but her voice broke halfway. Words didn't come out properly.
Kreena moved forward immediately, placing a hand on her shoulder.
"It's alright… calm down," she said gently.
"Everything will be fine."
Maitreyi nodded weakly, though her eyes didn't leave Rudrahan.
Nearly half an hour later, the door opened once more.
Dharan entered, slightly out of breath, with a local doctor behind him.
The errand boy followed them in.
Before anything else, Tarun turned to the boy.
"Go call Sahach," he said.
"And then stay at the shop. Don't leave it empty."
The boy nodded and ran again.
Maitreyi didn't wait.
She rushed toward Dharan, her voice trembling, words breaking as they came out.
"Rudra… he came… asked for snacks… then the fan… it wasn't working… and then—fever… he just… fainted…"
Her sentences didn't connect.
They didn't need to.
Dharan placed a hand on her shoulder.
"I'm here," he said quietly.
Then, with a small gesture, he signaled the doctor.
The doctor stepped forward and began examining Rudrahan in silence.
The room grew still.
No one spoke.
Only the faint sound of Rudrahan's uneven breathing remained.
A few minutes later, the door opened again.
Sahach rushed in.
He stopped the moment he saw Rudrahan.
The usual energy in him disappeared instantly.
"…What happened?" he asked, looking at his father.
Sahach was the kind of boy people didn't take seriously at first. He talked too much, moved too fast, and often acted before thinking.
It was easy to call him careless—maybe even an idiot.
But that only lasted until someone actually paid attention.
In class, he always ranked first. Not because things came easy to him, but because he refused to fall behind. If others stopped, he kept going. Loud, stubborn, and relentless.
Physically, he wasn't much. Average in sports, nothing special.
Unlike Rudrahan, who moved like everything was already decided.
Even his face still carried a softness—black hair falling messily, features not yet fully grown into themselves.
But his mind—
was sharper than most people realized.
After hearing what happened, Sahach went quiet.
That alone felt strange.
A few moments later, the doctor stood up and called Dharan aside.
He whispered something.
Dharan's expression changed.
"What?" he said, louder than he intended.
"Are you sure?"
The room tightened.
Everyone felt it.
But the most shaken—
was Maitreyi.
"Is… is Rudra okay?" she asked, her voice trembling.
Before her worry could grow further, Dharan turned back.
"It's good news," he said.
Sahach blinked.
A memory flashed in his mind.
A few years ago, his mother had said the same words before going to the hospital.
The next morning—
he had a younger sister.
The memory ended.
"…Is he going to be a mother?" Sahach asked seriously.
Silence.
Everyone slowly turned to look at Tarun.
"…Why are you all looking at me?" Tarun said.
Then—
smack
"Read the room, you fool."
"Ow—!"
The doctor cleared his throat.
"Your son has awakened his Astra Sūtra," he said calmly. "The fever is part of the body adapting. It's normal at this stage."
For a moment—
no one reacted.
Then it sank in.
"He'll be fine," the doctor continued.
"I'll leave some medicine—only use it if the fever worsens. For now, let him rest. Give him sugar water… or lemon water with salt if needed."
He adjusted his bag.
"I'll return tomorrow to check on him."
Dharan nodded and walked him out.
After some time, Tarun and Kreena took their leave as well, taking Sahach with them.
The house grew quiet again.
Night settled.
Rudrahan's breathing stabilized.
The heat remained—but it was no longer rising.
In the dim light, Dharan and Maitreyi sat nearby.
Silent for a while.
"He told me," Dharan said eventually, "that he would choose the warrior path… if he awakened."
Maitreyi didn't look at him.
"Does he have to?" she asked softly.
"Does my child have to live like that… always in danger?"
Dharan didn't answer immediately.
"…Do you remember the knife?" he said instead.
She did.
"At first, I thought he'd become a cook,"
Dharan continued faintly. "But when I taught him to cut wood…"
He paused.
"The strength wasn't enough. But the cut… it went halfway through the log."
Silence.
"I think…" he said quietly, "he was meant for weapons."
Maitreyi's hands tightened.
"If we keep him here," Dharan added, "we're only holding him back."
The words felt heavy.
Even to him.
"He'll choose his path," he said. "And we'll choose to support him."
He stopped.
"...So don't cry."
Silence followed.
Then—
Maitreyi spoke softly.
"…Then why are you crying?"
Dharan didn't answer.
He couldn't.
Meanwhile—
Rudrahan was no longer aware of the room.
He was trapped.
Not outside… but inside his own body.
Pain spread through him in waves, not sharp at one place, but everywhere at once. It felt like every muscle was being pulled apart and forced back together, again and again. Not breaking—but changing.
Something was moving inside him.
Not violently.
But forcefully.
As if it didn't want to be seen.
As if it was trying to stay hidden.
Yet, it kept expanding.
His body struggled to keep up.
Every fiber resisted… and then gave in.
Even with his eyes closed—
he could see clearer.
Not images.
But awareness.
The faintest movement of air felt loud.
He could hear the wind outside, not just as sound, but as direction, as flow.
Every small shift in the room reached him.
His skin became too sensitive.
The touch of the bed against his back—
felt heavier than it should.
Sharper than it should.
Everything was too much.
And then—
suddenly—
everything went still.
Darkness.
He couldn't move.
But he could think.
Inside that darkness—
there was something.
Two things.
They were the only things visible.
Faint.
Unclear.
But…
they shined.
Not like light.
But like something that should have been brighter… if it wanted to be.
The surrounding space remained hidden.
Unreachable.
Only those two shapes remained.
Rough outlines.
Unfinished.
Yet—
they felt familiar.
Too familiar.
As if—
they had always been there.
Just waiting.
End of chapter