The scene shifted.
Veda found himself standing in a sunlit hallway. Warm golden light spilled through open doors. The floor was polished wood. Family photographs hung neatly on the walls.
A small child, no more than three years old, ran past him laughing, his tiny feet slapping against the floor.
Arjuna chased after him, arms wide open, making playful monster sounds. The boy shrieked with pure joy and ran faster. Arjuna caught him effortlessly, lifted him high into the air, and spun him around.
"Papa! Papa! Again!"
"Again? You want more?" Arjuna laughed, a real, warm, unburdened laugh.
"Yes! More!"
Arjuna pulled the boy close and kissed his forehead. "You are my world, beta. You know that?"
The little boy giggled. "I am world?"
"You are my whole world."
Veda stood silently in the corner of the hallway, watching. His face remained stone, but his grey eyes followed every movement.
Young Veda floated beside him, quiet.
The years passed in painful flickers.
Age five.
The boy sat on the floor with wooden blocks, carefully building a tower. Priya sat beside him, smiling as she helped place the blocks.
"Beta, you are so clever. Look how high it goes."
The boy did not look at her. His small hands kept working. The tower wobbled. He held it steady.
"Papa said if I build tall, I will be strong."
Priya's smile faltered. "Papa is not here right now. I am here."
The boy simply added another block.
Age seven. Training ground.
Arjuna stood with a wooden sword. The boy held a smaller one. His arms were already trembling.
"Again," Arjuna said firmly. "Your stance is weak. Grip is wrong."
The boy adjusted. He raised the sword. Arjuna tapped his shoulder sharply.
"Too slow. Again."
The boy raised it once more. Arjuna tapped his wrist. The sword clattered to the ground.
"Again."
Tears welled in the boy's eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He picked up the sword and raised it again.
Arjuna nodded. "Good. You did not cry. That is strength."
The boy smiled, small, hopeful, desperate for approval.
Behind the fence, hidden behind a tree, Priya watched with clenched fists. Her knuckles turned white against the bark.
Age nine. Dinner table.
Priya placed a plate in front of the boy. "I made your favorite, beta. Aloo paratha. Extra butter, just how you like."
The boy glanced at the food, then at his father, who was reading a report without eating.
He pushed the plate away. "I am not hungry."
Priya's hands froze in the air. "But you love aloo paratha. You used to ask me every day."
"I said I am not hungry."
He stood up and walked away from the table.
Arjuna looked up briefly. "Leave him. He needs to focus on training. Food can wait."
Priya stood alone at the table as the paratha slowly grew cold.
Age twelve.
It was his birthday.
Priya walked into the training hall carrying a big, beautiful cake with careful steps. She had spent the entire morning making it, decorating it with his favorite fruits and writing "Happy Birthday My Sweetheart" in white icing.
"Beta…" she called softly, smiling with hope. "Happy Birthday, my sweetheart. Look, I made your favorite cake."
The boy, now twelve, stood in the center of the hall, covered in sweat, practicing a new sword form. His small body already carried many scars. Fresh bruises and old cuts marked his arms and torso. He had become the strongest student in his class, far ahead of others his age. But he was no longer a child. He was becoming a machine. Emotionless. Hollow.
He did not even glance at her.
"Leave," he said coldly, swinging the sword again. The movement was still imperfect. He growled in frustration and tried once more.
"Beta, just one slice. It's your birthday…"
"I said GO!"
His voice was sharp, almost venomous. He didn't even turn around.
Priya's hands trembled. The cake slipped from her fingers and fell to the ground with a soft thud. The beautiful icing smashed against the floor.
For a brief second, the boy's eyes flickered with realization. He had hurt her. But he quickly turned away, gripping the sword tighter.
He said nothing.
Priya stood frozen for a moment, staring at the ruined cake. Then she turned and ran out of the hall. She collapsed in a corner of the corridor, sliding down the wall as silent tears streamed down her face. She covered her mouth so no sound would escape.
Age thirteen.
Arjuna stood at the doorway of the training room, watching his son do push-ups. Two hundred. Three hundred. The boy's arms shook violently.
"Good," Arjuna said. "You are getting stronger. But strength without purpose is useless. Do you know why we train?"
The boy kept pushing. "To be strong."
"To be strong for what?"
The boy stopped and looked up at his father.
"So no one can hurt us."
Arjuna placed a rare hand on his shoulder. "Exactly. The world respects only power. Kindness is for the weak. One day you will be the strongest. No one will ever look down on you like they looked down on me."
The boy's eyes shone with determination.
Outside the door, Priya listened silently. She pressed her palm against the wall but did not enter.
Age fifteen.
The boy stood before a mirror. His body had changed, broad shoulders, thick arms, cold eyes, and countless scars covering his skin. He no longer smiled. He had forgotten how. He was no longer human. He was a machine built for one purpose only: to become strong enough to earn his father's approval.
Priya knocked softly on his door. "Beta, I made tea. Your favorite."
No answer.
"Beta?"
"I am busy."
Soft footsteps walked away.
Age seventeen.
Priya sat alone in the dark kitchen long after midnight. Arjuna was away on a mission. The boy was still training.
She held an old photograph in her hands, her son at age four, laughing with a missing front tooth, arms wrapped tightly around her neck.
She traced his smiling face with trembling fingers.
"I still remember your laugh," she whispered. "Do you?"
No one answered.
She put the photograph away, washed the dishes, folded the laundry, and waited.
The boy came home past midnight. He walked straight to his room without looking at the living room where his mother sat in darkness.
She watched his shadow pass under the door. Then the light went out.
Priya remained seated until sunrise.
Veda floated above it all, hands clenched tightly at his sides.
Young Veda spoke softly beside him.
"A family does not break in a single day. It breaks in the meals not shared. The words not spoken. The hands not held. The boy did not stop loving his mother. He simply forgot she existed. Because his father's voice was louder. His father's approval became the only sun in his sky."
He looked at Veda.
"Arjuna did not become cold overnight. He became cold one silence at a time. He believed he was protecting his son by turning him into a weapon. He cut out his own love, piece by piece, thinking it was mercy."
Veda stared at the frozen image of Priya sitting alone in the dark.
"Some flowers do not wither," Young Veda said quietly. "They are watered with silence until they forget how to bloom."
Veda continued to watch in silence as the years blurred forward once more.
The training ground appeared again. This time the boy was older, fourteen, fifteen, his body already covered in countless scars. He punched the wooden training post with raw knuckles. Each strike split the wood further. He kicked, spun, and fell hard onto the dirt. Blood trickled from his split lip. Without hesitation, he pushed himself up and started again. Punch. Kick. Fall. Rise. Repeat.
Over and over.
Like a machine that did not know how to stop.
Both Vedas watched him, the hardened assassin and the ancient Young Veda, floating above the scene.
Suddenly, the boy stopped mid-punch. His chest heaved. Sweat and blood dripped from his face. Slowly, he turned his head and looked directly at them.
At him.
Veda's eyes widened in shock.
The boy walked closer. Step by step. Until they stood face to face.
Two versions of the same person. Same body. Same face. Same grey eyes. But completely different souls.
They stared at each other like mirrors reflecting broken glass.
Veda's breath caught.
Then he looked to the side.
A small child, no older than five, stood there holding the older boy's hand. The little one looked up with innocent, hopeful eyes, the same eyes Veda once had before everything turned cold.
The eighteen-year-old Veda, the original owner of this body, looked down at the child version of himself and smiled. A small, tired, but genuine smile.
In that moment, his body began to darken. Shadows crawled over his skin like living ink until he became nothing but a dark silhouette.
The background shattered.
The training ground disappeared.
Now they stood in a vast, pure white emptiness. No walls. No ground. Just infinite white light.
The eighteen-year-old Veda stood before him, calm and quiet.
He opened his mouth and spoke.
Veda could not hear the words.
But his own eyes widened in shock. His body trembled. For a long moment he simply stared, processing what he had just been told.
Then he closed his eyes.
When they opened again, his voice came out low and heavy.
"…Yes."
The eighteen-year-old Veda smiled, a sad, understanding smile. Then his form slowly dissolved into particles of light and vanished into the air.
Veda was left standing alone in that vast white emptiness.
Young Veda sat cross-legged in one corner of the white void, watching him.
"It's funny, isn't it?" Young Veda said softly. "After everything… all that pain, all that training, all that silence… the boy still said that to you."
Veda turned to look at him.
Young Veda rested his chin on his palm, ancient eyes calm.
Veda stared into the empty white space where the other version of himself had vanished.
"So… he was still a human," Veda whispered.