Aryaman did not know whether he was falling… or floating.
There was no wind. No sky. No earth.Only an endless twilight, a vast ocean of dusky grey that stretched in all directions. Time felt suspended here, stretched thin like silk about to tear. His body drifted weightlessly, pain beating somewhere distant—muted, as if happening to someone else.
A faint ripple passed through the void, distorting the horizon.
Then a voice—calm, cool, unhurried—rose behind him.
"A fish cannot recognize the ocean it swims in."
Aryaman turned sharply.
A figure stood a short distance away, not approaching, not receding—simply there, as if the void had always belonged to him. His skin was blue, not the crude blue of dyes or paint, but the deep serene blue of a river reflecting a full moon. His robes shimmered faintly, pale like morning mist that refused to settle.
In his hand, he held Vajra.
Aryaman's breath hitched. The sword pulsed with a low golden beat, as if alive, as if breathing with him.
"Who… who are you?" Aryaman whispered, voice thin, childlike. "Where am I? Did I… die?"
The stranger tilted his head slightly, studying him with eyes that held neither judgement nor pity—only undeniable truth.
"You would have," he said softly, "had I not intervened. Death was already curling its fingers around your throat."
Aryaman swallowed hard. So he was dying. The memory hit him like a jagged wave—Varun shouting, Lakshmika's blade flashing, Vajra humming, then agony ripping through his stomach and the forest tilting sideways into black.
He lowered his gaze, shame burning bitter in his throat.
"I tried to protect them," he murmured. "I didn't want to run. I had no choice."
The Deva's expression did not soften. If anything, the air around him cooled.
"No choice?" he repeated. "Or simply no discipline? You attempted to pour your life into a blade forged for Indra's command. A reckless act of a reckless child."
Aryaman's chest tightened. He felt small, not belittled but revealed, as though this being saw the truth beneath his bravado, beneath his excuses.
The Deva flicked his wrist and tossed Vajra toward him.
The sword spun in slow, perfect rotation—its runes tracing arcs of gold in the air—before landing firmly against Aryaman's palm. The hilt felt warmer than before, thudding faintly as if greeting him, remembering him.
"Keep it close," the Deva said. "Its legacy is older than your fear."
Aryaman clenched the blade."Please… at least tell me your name."
The faintest smile touched the Deva's lips—an echo of a smile more than a real one.
"A fish cannot name the ocean."
The void behind him folded like cloth being drawn shut.He stepped back once… twice…And on the third step, he vanished completely.
His radiance dimmed.The silence cracked.The world snapped.
THE BREATH OF LIFE
Air exploded into Aryaman's lungs as if he had been underwater for far too long.
He choked, gasping, hand clawing instinctively at the forest floor. Leaves crumpled under his fingers. The scent of rain-soaked earth filled his nose. His head throbbed, his stomach burned like fire still licking the wound.
Thunder rolled above the canopy, echoing through the woods like distant drums.
The Black Hollow jerked mid-flight, its shadowy mass rippling. It turned—slowly, disbelievingly—to face the boy who should have been dead.
"…Still alive?" its gravelly voice rasped, strained and limited, like vocal cords that weren't meant for words.
Aryaman tried to rise. Pain exploded across his abdomen, nearly dropping him again. His legs trembled violently. His vision swayed.
But Vajra was firm in his grasp, humming with a quiet assurance.
He stood.
Not tall.Not strong.But standing.
The Asura hovered lower, its hollow eyes glinting with something between curiosity and annoyance. It drifted left, then right, studying Aryaman like a puzzling mistake.
"You weren't the one I came for," it muttered. "My task lies elsewhere. The threads pull me toward another."
Aryaman blinked, disoriented. "Another… what?"
The shadow tilted its head, as though deciding whether a dying human deserved an answer.
"You are only a loose thread," it said simply. "Your death was a convenience, nothing more."
A shiver crawled down Aryaman's spine.
The Asura continued, its voice rougher now:
"I have no time left to waste on you. Fate bends strangely tonight."
It drifted backward, dissolving into the thicker shadows between the trees. Its form thinned into a smear of black, stretching like smoke drawn toward an unseen altar.
"Live, then," it hissed. "If fate wishes it."
And just like that, it vanished into the forest—leaving behind only the faint, acrid scent of corrupted spirit.
AFTERMATH
Aryaman remained perfectly still for a moment.
Not by choice—his body simply refused to move another inch.
The adrenaline that had held him upright finally broke. His breathing became uneven, the pain in his abdomen returning like a flooding tide. He sank to his knees, clutching his wound with trembling fingers.
Rain began to fall.
Soft. Cold. Cleansing.
Droplets pattered against Vajra's blade, running down the steel in thin rivulets. The sword's glow dimmed slowly, fading from bright gold to a flickering ember to nothing, yet the hilt felt denser now—heavier with meaning rather than weight.
Aryaman lowered his head.
The forest around him felt too big suddenly. Too alive. Too full of secrets he wasn't ready to face.
"Who… am I really?" he whispered into the rain.
Only the trees heard him.Only the wind answered—silent, shifting, unknowable.
But high above the canopy, hidden behind dark clouds and restless thunder, a calm, watching presence lingered.
Not intervening.Not speaking.
Just waiting.
As though this wounded, stubborn boy had finally stepped onto a path written long before his first breath.