The battlefield reeked of blood and ash.
Flames crackled through what remained of the village, devouring timber, prayer flags, and memory. Smoke drifted low and thick, curling like a serpent around the broken bodies of the fallen. And amidst it all, Parashu stood trembling, his knees buried in mud now stained with more blood than rain.
The sigil etched into his chest pulsed faintly—like the heartbeat of a dying star.
His axe was wedged into the earth. His fingers, slick with blood, barely clung to the hilt. Breathing hurt. Thinking hurt worse. Every breath felt like a nail in his lungs.
Too many. Too fast.
His body bore the marks of a dozen wounds—slashes across his ribs, a jagged tear on his shoulder, burns along his back. The Air Flesh technique had delayed death, but time had abandoned him now. It was no longer a question of whether he'd fall—but when.
A Kara soldier broke through the smoke, blade raised high. Parashu forced himself up—legs buckling—dodged on instinct, and countered. His axe found the man's throat, but there was no strength left for follow-through. He stumbled.
And they kept coming.
Boots thundered toward him. One struck his chest with brutal force. He hit the ground hard, stars exploding behind his eyes.
Then a shadow eclipsed what little light remained.
A tower of flesh and iron stood over him—the Kara general.
Seven feet tall. Shoulders like stone gates. A rune-marked hammer rested in his grasp, dripping blood like an hourglass of war. His eyes glowed with the hollow light of the Void—dead stars burning in bottomless sockets.
"You?" the general said, voice thick with contempt. "You're no heir. Just another corpse that forgot to lie down."
He raised the hammer.
Parashu didn't move. There was no strength left. His eyelids fluttered.
And then—
The world cracked open.
A blinding wave of golden energy erupted like lightning torn from the heavens. The general staggered, roaring as light ripped through the dark. Fire and smoke reeled backward like startled animals.
And from the heart of the blaze, he emerged.
Master Vishma.
His robes had burned away, revealing skin inked with ancient glyphs—writings older than kingdoms. His eyes glowed a piercing white. His staff floated beside him, encircled by golden symbols spinning like distant moons.
"That boy," Vishma said, his voice ringing with sacred fury, "carries the blood of the First Line. You will not lay another hand on him."
The Kara general snarled. "Old man. You should've died with your village."
"I did," Vishma murmured. "But death sent me back… for this."
He raised his palm.
The ground screamed.
Pillars of divine light erupted in spirals, spearing toward the sky. Where they landed, Kara soldiers disintegrated—armor melting, bones reduced to ash. The earth cracked. The heavens trembled.
And Parashu, lying broken in the mud, could only stare.
Vishma is no man anymore, he thought. He's become a storm wrapped in memory.
But even storms end.
Because still—they came.
---
On the eastern barricade, Veerath stood alone.
His blade was drawn. Blood ran down the side of his face, but his stance was steady. The wall had fallen behind him. Unit C was broken. Screams filled the air, drowned only by the roars of Kara beasts tearing through the lines.
And then he saw them.
A group of children. Huddled beneath a shattered cart. Forgotten. Exposed.
And a squad of Kara soldiers bearing down on them.
No one else stood in the way.
Except Veerath.
He breathed in. Deep. Calm. A warrior's breath.
"I was born to avenge," he whispered, "but I'll die to protect."
He charged.
Steel sang.
One soldier fell, throat sliced. Another's knee buckled under Veerath's weight. A third went down to a reverse spin that tore muscle from bone. He moved like a flicker of light caught in a storm—fast, erratic, beautiful in its violence.
But the tide surged on.
A spear tore into his side. He barely flinched. Another blow cracked his shoulder. Still he fought.
And when the last child ran free—he dropped.
Knees to earth. Blade still clenched in bloody fingers. Eyes wide open.
And he smiled.
"Not today," he rasped. "You don't win today."
Then silence claimed him.
---
Back at the shrine's entrance, Master Vishma staggered.
The divine fire within him had dimmed. His body, mortal once more, bent under the weight of spent magic. Still he stood.
But the Kara general did too—scarred, furious, unrelenting.
"You burned bright, old man," he spat, "but all flames die."
He raised his hammer for the final blow.
Parashu, barely conscious, reached out.
Too far.
Too slow.
The hammer fell.
But it never struck.
A blade intercepted it mid-swing.
And a voice followed—low, guttural, thunder soaked in rage.
"You're early for a funeral."
Asura had come.
And beside him loomed a larger figure—shirtless, serpent tattoos writhing across coiled muscle.
Daksha.
The ground shook beneath their steps. The air stilled.
The Kara army paused.
Hope had returned—not as a whisper, but as a roar.
The battle was far from over.
But the war had just begun.
---