Before he was Ashvapati, he was a nameless child, wandering the streets of Vayu Mandala. A beggar, an outcast, a forgotten soul in the grand city ruled by the Jyotirath Triad. His origins were unknown, and his existence was a burden to those who passed him by. No one spared him a glance, save for the occasional kick to drive him away.
He did not remember parents. He did not remember warmth. Only hunger. Only survival.
But unlike other beggars, he was different. He was not frail. He was not weak. He was an Ashvarath.
Ashvaraths were myths, whispers carried by travelers and dreamers. Beings said to be born from the storm itself—part man, part beast, with strength beyond comprehension. But myths did not beg in the dirt. Myths did not starve. And so, he was treated as nothing more than a wild animal, an overgrown child with strange features and unnatural strength.
The first time he realized what he was, he was 11 years old.
The Kshoniraajas had come.
The Kshoniraajas were not men. They were titans—fifteen feet tall, their bodies carved from flesh as dense as stone, their footsteps shaking the very earth they walked upon. They were the undisputed rulers of the deep mountains, rarely venturing into human lands. But when they did, destruction followed.
Seven of them descended upon the city that day. Seven towering beings with hands large enough to crush a man in a single grip. The Triad's warriors fell before them like twigs snapping underfoot. No blade could pierce their skin. No walls could halt their advance. The people of Vayu Mandala screamed and fled, knowing that salvation was beyond them.
The nameless child did not flee.
He did not know why he stood his ground, only that something within him refused to bow. Something ancient. Something primal.
When the first Kshoniraaj's massive hand came down to swat him away like an insect, he moved. Instinct took over, and his muscles—ones that had never been trained, never been tested—responded with terrifying precision.
He leapt, soaring higher than any man could, and drove his fist into the titan's knee.
A crack echoed through the streets. The Kshoniraaj howled, staggering back. The crowd gasped.
And the battle began.
For hours, he fought. Seven against one.
Their strikes could have shattered mountains, but he was faster. He ducked, he dodged, he struck. He tore through them with raw, untamed power, his fists breaking bones, his movements like a storm given form. He did not have a weapon—he did not need one. He brought down the first. Then the second. Then the third.
By the time the seventh Kshoniraaj fell, his body was broken, bruised, and bleeding. But he stood victorious.
The people of Vayu Mandala looked upon him in awe. They called him Ashvapati—Lord of Beasts.
But no crown was placed upon his head. No throne was offered to him. He was still a beggar.
And so, he disappeared, fading back into the streets, his legend already growing.
Years passed.
Strength alone was not enough to survive in the world. Ashvapati, despite his power, was still nothing more than a shadow, scouring for scraps, fighting off those who dared challenge him. Until one day, Upendra's men found him.
They had heard the stories. The boy who had defeated the Kshoniraajas. A beast in human skin.
They did not offer him food. They did not offer him shelter. They offered him a place among them—a weapon to wield, a monster to unleash.
He accepted.
Under Upendra, he was given structure. Training. A purpose beyond mere survival. He became the warlord's enforcer, his brute force. His name alone struck fear into those who opposed Upendra's rule.
And yet, despite his position, he did not respect Upendra. He fought for him, but he did not follow him. Power and dominance did not impress him. Strength was not enough to earn his loyalty.
Then, one day, a man named Arya entered the pit.
Arya was unlike the others who had fought in Upendra's arena. He did not fight for greed. He did not fight for glory. He fought because he had to.
Ashvapati saw it in his eyes—the same fire he once had, long ago, when he stood against the Kshoniraajas. Unyielding. Unbroken.
And so, when Arya took down over thirty men in a single fight, Ashvapati was sent in.
The fight was short.
Arya was fast. Skilled. But against Ashvapati's raw power, he was still human.
A single strike was all it took. One blow.
Arya fell unconscious, his body collapsing into the dirt. The beast had won.
But for the first time in years, Ashvapati felt something stir within him. Not satisfaction. Not dominance. Curiosity.
And so, when Arya finally stood over Upendra's fallen body, Ashvapati stepped forward.
The shadow moved. Fast.
Before the crowd could react, before Arya could prepare himself, Ashvapati attacked.
The ground trembled beneath his feet. The pit felt small—too small to contain his speed, his force. Arya dodged, barely, but he was being pushed to his limit.
Blow after blow, Ashvapati tested him, driving him to the edge of exhaustion. Then, at the last moment, just as Arya prepared for the final strike, Ashvapati stopped.
The silence was deafening.
The crowd, frozen in shock, gasped as Ashvapati raised Arya's arm.
A new champion was crowned.
And as the people roared, as the weapons of Upendra's men struck the ground in welcome, Ashvapati spoke.
"You sit here because you won. And because I let you win."
His voice was deep, unyielding. There was no reverence, no submission. Only a challenge.
And as he vanished into the shadows, Rudra whispered to Raghav, voice trembling with awe and fear:
"That's... the legendary Ashvapati?"