"I-I will not let you run...."
The person in sight is a man whose upper body part is shirtless full bruises and stained in blood. He has dark brown hairs.
He is against a demonic figure who has marks all over his body, about 7 feet in height, he was wearing a kimono, white in colour. He had one horn extended from one end of his forehead.
"You are too weak to defeat me mortal, I've befalled God's and you being a mere human can't even place a scratch on my body."The Demonic figure speaks in al voice with a faint smile." Now, allow me to provide the the noble privilege to die and live a peaceful afterlife, human. "
SLASHHHH
The man is dead.
" Arghhh... Again his long speech... "A boy, neary 16 years old and about 5'6 in height said who had fair skin, slender body and was wearing specs. He was wearing a school uniform including white shirt and navy blue pant with navy blue tie.
" Why does not he run out of words... Mannnn... "said a boy also 16 years old with neither bulky nor slender body, nearly 5'9 in height. He was also wearing tha same uniform as the shorter one.
They both were standing in a line in the morning assembly of a school in a city.
" So, that was all for my speech today, kids. And I'm pretty sure you all are drained by now." said the principal and concluded his long speech.
" Thank you sirrr.... " All the students said in dead voice.
"Ugh... Finally... His two words came to a end" said the shirt boy while they were standing the stares on there way to the classroom. "By the way... Armaan, did you bring your maths project?"
"Wait-what? Maths project? Today was the day of its submission?" Armaan said as he was shocked by sudden change of topic. "Samarrrrr... I'll kill you! Why didn't you remind me yesterday?" he said as he frowned and smacked Samar on his back.
"Hehe, I thought you knew, afterall... You are out monitor." Samar said this with a grin on his face. "But since you cannot give it today, so I'll also not submit it..." he said feeling proud of his words.
"Don't change the topic, dummy" Armaan said and again punched Samar's head.
Armaan and Samar are friends since class 7th when their school reopened after the lock down due to a pandemic. It was just a matter of 2 days for them to get along as they were new to this school. In present, they both are in class 11th class and are still sitting together with one more friend Roumit whome they met in class 11th.
Roumit is a year elder than them both and nearly the same height as Armaan. He is whiter than both and bulkier than both of his friends. He is the one with real glasses though.
"Hey, Roumit, brought your maths project?" Armaan asked to Roumit who was peacefully sitting on the bench reading his physics book.
"Yeah, I brought it and I know that I can't submit it because some stupid punk has not brought it. "Roumit said impositioning his glasses from the middle.
Armaan smirked and said," Well I was out of the class when the teacher had announced it doing some stuff given to me by hindi ma'am, and some idiots didn't even think of informing it to me. "
Than Samar surrounded his arms around Armaan's neck and said "Forgive our sin, oh great monitor." in a teasing manner.
"Just shut uppp...." Armaan said as he removed Samar's hand and let out a heavy sigh.
During lunch period a girl with small face, grey eyes and long dark brown hairs approached Armaan.
"Hey Armaan, umm... Did you bring your English literature project? Actually ma'am said me to submit them and hand them over to her." she said as her face turned a little pink cause she liked Armaan from the day he saved her from some upperclassmen who were forcing her to go out with them. She is the monitress of the class with Armaan.
Armaan, who was drinking mango juice was this much surprised that he spit all his juice from his mouth to Samar's face. "D-Did you say English literature project, Alya?"
Alya, who was shocked by his reaction first calmed down and than said "Yes, teacher announced the submission date the day before tomorrow but may be you were absent that day, so I'll talk to her for you..."
"Huh? Really? Thank you Alya, you are a life saver, I mean it..." Armaan said as his mouth curved into a smile.
"W-well you owe me one... Never mind" she turned into a huff and rushed out of the classroom.
"Huh? What happened to her?" Armaan asked and than shifted his death stare to Samar and Yuvraj who were trying their best to resist a eye contact.
It was 11 PM. The moon hung lazily in the cloudy sky, occasionally peeking through the mist that swirled over the narrow streets of Howrah. Armaan's footsteps echoed faintly as he walked back from his coaching institute. He was late—only because the entire batch had celebrated their teacher's birthday with cake, snacks, and laughter that stretched into the night.
He adjusted the strap of his backpack and kept walking when suddenly… a heavy chill kissed the back of his neck.
A low growl sliced through the silence.
He turned.
Out from behind a crumbling boundary wall emerged a danawa.
Its body was twisted—over 8 feet tall, a hulking beast of cracked obsidian-black skin that shimmered like coal under moonlight. Its arms were far too long, ending in clawed, dagger-like fingers. Veins of glowing red coursed through its body like lava beneath a crust. A crooked horn sprouted from one side of its forehead, and its mouth—too wide to be human—was filled with rows of uneven, jagged teeth dripping with black slime. Two yellow, lidless eyes glared at Armaan.
And then it pounced.
Armaan's instincts kicked in—sharp and fast. He ducked. Rolled. Jumped back. Each time, he narrowly missed the deadly claws. He had no weapon, no powers—but something deep inside him responded to danger like second nature.
The monster roared and lunged one last time—
But vanished mid-air.
Armaan stood panting, heart racing.
But then—BOOM!
The rooftop beside him cracked as the danawa leapt from it like a panther, this time catching Armaan mid-run and pinning him down.
It opened its mouth wide—ready to devour.
"Jwala Shakti.... Second Pulse.... VAJRA JWALA!" echoed a commanding voice.
Suddenly, a blazing arc of crimson fire slashed through the air.
SHHHHHINKK!
The danawa froze, split down the middle, and crumbled into glowing ash.
Armaan looked up, stunned.
A man stood before him in a black uniform. His long jacket fluttered in the wind, with "RAKSHAK" written in bold Hindi on his back. A glowing, silver logo shimmered on the left side of his chest—a stylized flame inside a shield.
He had sharp features, a faint scar over his jaw, and burning orange eyes that matched the flicker of his blade. His black hair was tied back, and the hilt of his weapon was still smoldering.
"You alright?" he asked Armaan calmly, extending a hand.
Armaan nodded slowly, still in shock.
The man's gaze lingered. "You've got potential," he said. He pulled out a small scroll and handed it to Armaan. "Go here. It's a village, 25 kilometers from Howrah. Someone will be waiting."
"Wait—who are you?" Armaan asked. "What is all this?!"
The man smiled faintly. "I'm a Rakshak—a protector. You'll understand everything... once you get there."
And with that, he vanished—leaving behind nothing but silence and ashes.
The Next Day
Armaan stood at the door, backpack in hand.
"Mom, I'm going out with my friends for a while," he lied.
"Okay... Have fun!" she shouted from the kitchen.
He grinned nervously and left.
An hour later, he reached the village—a mix of modern and traditional life. Paved roads, some concrete buildings, and lush greenery all around. The address led him to a simple two-story house—cement walls, a small iron gate, faded blue windows, and a clay-tiled roof. No cars, no guards. Quiet.
He entered.
FWIP! FWIP! FWIP!
NEEDLES!
Dozens shot from hidden slots in the walls. Armaan ducked, rolled, dodged—but one grazed the side of his face near his eye, leaving a tiny red line.
"AHH! Seriously?! What the hell is this?!" he yelled.
A calm chuckle followed.
An old man stepped out from the shade of a pillar. He had long white hair and a flowing white beard, and wore a loose kurta-pyjama with a shawl draped over his shoulder—simple and dignified.
"Good reflexes," he said. "You must be Armaan."
"Yeah, and you must be crazy! What kind of psycho throws NEEDLES at a guest?! What's next, fireballs? Exploding laddus?"
The old man chuckled again. "I'm Farmaan Akram. And that 'psycho' who saved your life was Rahul—a Rakshak."
Armaan blinked. "Rakshak again? What even is that?"
Farmaan's expression softened as he looked into the distance for a moment. "He was my student once... a stubborn one, but full of fire." Then he smiled faintly and muttered to himself, "Rahul has got good eyes. He saw the spark in this boy too."
Armaan raised an eyebrow. "What did you say?"
"Nothing," the old man waved it off, then turned serious again."Rakshaks are the unseen saviours of mankind. We fight Danawas and Shaitans that roam the shadows of this world. After harsh training, a Rakshak awakens the power hidden in his soul and earns the right to wield an Aether Blade—a sacred sword fused with the spirit of its original wielder."
Armaan asked, "Why me? What does all this have to do with me?"
Farmaan's eyes softened.
"Because you have fire in you... not just skill, but purpose. Let me ask you one thing, what is your goal, Armaan? "
Armaan's voice became quiet.
"I want to kill the one who murdered my father."
Silence followed. Even the birds had gone still.
Farmaan sighed.
"A noble cause... but remember—vengeance burns fast and dies. A Rakshak doesn't fight just to avenge. He fights to protect. You must learn both."
Armaan looked up. "Will you help me find my father's killer?"
"I'll train you to find him yourself," the old man replied.
Armaan nodded slowly, but in his mind, a smug thought lingered:
"This old man is kind... and looks weak. How hard can this be?"
Little did he know...
The next few months would break him in ways he never imagined.