"I... I won't let you escape!"
His voice shook with fury and pain.
Before him stood a towering demon — seven feet tall, skin etched with sinister sigils that shimmered faintly in the wind. A long white kimono clung to its inhuman form, its curved, jagged horn rising from its forehead like a crown of death. Its eyes glowed with chilling arrogance.
Across from it, a man — shirtless, bruised, bloodied, but defiant — stood trembling, fists clenched, breath ragged. His dark brown hair was plastered to his face by sweat and blood.
"You are far too fragile to oppose me, mortal," the demon rumbled. "I've slain gods. You are nothing more than a heartbeat away from death. Now... accept the honor."
SLASH.
The man collapsed.
A beat of silence.
Then—
"Arghhh! There he goes again!"
A groan shattered the illusion.
Two boys, 16 years old, stood in a school assembly line, surrounded by a sea of uniformed students.
One of them, short and slim, fair-skinned with square glasses, let out a tired sigh. "How does sir never run out of words?"
"Mentally, I left this planet ten minutes ago," muttered his taller friend beside him — 5'9", medium build, dark brown hair barely combed.
The principal droned on with exaggerated theatrics, ending his speech with a chuckle. "So, kids, remember: discipline is the key to success. Thank you!"
A chorus of deadpan "Thank you, sir" echoed like a funeral dirge.
The two boys trudged toward class.
"So, Armaan," said the shorter one — Samar — "did you bring the maths project?"
Armaan froze. "Project? That's today?! SAMAR! YOU—"
He smacked Samar's back.
Samar laughed. "Relax, I'm not submitting mine either. Let's both go down together."
"Why am I friends with you..." Armaan groaned.
The two entered their classroom, greeted by Roumit — slightly bulkier, bespectacled, a year older.
"Maths project?" Armaan asked.
Roumit glanced up from a physics book. "Yeah. But since someone forgot, guess we're all sinking together."
Armaan scratched his head. "Not my fault! I was running errands for Hindi ma'am when the announcement happened."
Samar draped an arm over Armaan. "Forgive our sins, O Class Monitor."
"Get off me," Armaan muttered.
Lunch break.
Alya — the quiet monitress with long brown hair and grey eyes — approached Armaan nervously.
"H-Hey, did you bring your English literature project? Ma'am told me to collect them."
Armaan, mid-sip of mango juice, choked and spat it onto Samar's face.
"Y-You WHAT?!"
Alya blinked.
"You weren't here that day. I can talk to ma'am for you if you want..." she said shyly.
"You're a lifesaver, Alya! Thank you!" Armaan beamed.
She flushed, turned quickly. "Y-You owe me one! I-I mean... never mind!"
She darted off. Armaan stared after her, confused.
Samar and Roumit were suddenly very interested in the ceiling.
The moon gleamed through mist.
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.