---
The night was heavy with silence, broken only by the soft crackle of torches and the rustle of leaves in the dark. Inside the chieftain's quarters, the village leader stood near the open window, arms folded behind his back. A tired breeze swept through, carrying the distant bark of dogs and the whispers of a troubled village.
Behind him, his assistant watched uneasily.
"Hey, you," the leader spoke without turning. "I'm giving you a new command. From this moment on, keep your eyes on Parashu. I want to know what he's thinking, what steps he's planning to take—every movement, every whisper."
The assistant stiffened, then stepped forward. "Why did you let him live?" he asked bluntly. "We should have ended him, just like the others. He's dangerous. If not today, then one day... he'll be the death of us all."
The leader turned slowly, his expression unreadable. But his eyes—old, weathered, and sharp—held something more than anger. Something sacred.
"Someone special to me once said that every soul exists for a reason. A reason that only they can fulfill—no one else." He paused, as if the memory ached in his chest. "I never truly understood what they meant. Until now."
He took a step forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I finally know why I still draw breath. I was meant to find him. The true heir of Clan Vetala. The man who can protect all of us when the time comes."
The assistant's eyes narrowed. "You believe he's the one?"
The leader didn't blink. "Not just the one. He is the rightful bearer of a name long forgotten."
He stepped back into the shadows.
"He is the next Maharathi."
---
Far from the leader's quarters, beneath the pale moonlight near the hidden shrine, Parashu sat in the dirt, drenched in sweat and blood. His body ached from endless training, bruises blooming across his arms and chest. The earth around him was marked by battle—deep gashes in stone, splintered logs, scorched grass.
Master Vishma watched in silence, his arms crossed, eyes narrowed—not with judgment, but calculation.
Then, Parashu broke the silence.
"What... what do you mean the child was killed?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Vishma nodded slowly. "Yes. That's right."
Parashu's eyes narrowed as he noticed something strange—sweat glistening on Vishma's brow, something he'd never seen before. "Why are you perspiring?" he asked, unease creeping in. "We're talking about the village leader, aren't we? He's still alive... isn't he?"
The Master turned slightly away, as if the question itself had weight.
"It was a difficult conflict," he said after a long pause. "And this... is not the time to speak of it."
"But why is he alive? How?" Parashu demanded.
Vishma's eyes narrowed.
"Do not forget the White Stork."
Parashu blinked. "The White Stork? That mythical creature? It... it actually exists?"
Vishma gave a solemn nod. "Yes. The White Stork is not just a myth. It is the symbol of rebirth. But their power only thrives when they are with their family. Once separated, they begin to weaken. And if they attempt to revive someone after that... they die."
Parashu's breath caught in his chest. "So... a White Stork gave its life to save our village leader?"
Vishma looked directly at him, his voice suddenly softer—almost reverent.
"When you help someone without expecting anything in return," he said, "your Creator will find a way to help you. No matter what. Or how. That's what the White Stork believed."
A silence settled between them.
"But now," Vishma added, rising to his full height again, "is not the time for tales or sorrow. You must focus. Your training is your only priority."
Parashu stood slowly, legs trembling, hands clenched into fists. "Why now? Why push me this hard when the past is still so full of questions?"
Vishma stepped forward, pointing toward the training circle etched into the ground. "Because truth is not a luxury. It is a weapon. And only the strong are allowed to wield it."
Parashu exhaled sharply, dropping into stance.
Vishma nodded. "Again. Air Flesh. No hesitation."
The movement came swift and raw. Parashu's foot cut through the air, the force of it snapping leaves from the nearby branches. But it wasn't perfect—not yet.
Vishma appeared behind him in a flash, landing a strike against the back of Parashu's leg, dropping him to the ground.
"You flinch," Vishma growled. "You still think too much. The Air Flesh technique is not power. It is release. Let the pain move through you. Let the rage guide it."
Parashu coughed and rose again, setting his feet, tuning out the ache in his bones and the ghosts in his mind.
This time, he didn't think.
He moved.
The wind cracked—sharp and fierce.
Vishma's eyes glinted in the moonlight. "Better."
The hours passed in brutal silence, broken only by the sound of strikes, breath, and correction. And when it finally ended, Parashu dropped to the ground, chest heaving like a drum of war.
Vishma knelt beside him.
"You want to know what to believe in?" he asked. "Believe in your blood. The Vetala blood does not beg for fate. It claims it."
Parashu stared up at the stars, his body battered, his mind burning.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
The fire inside him had already answered.
---
TO BE CONTINUED