Ashvik's sword had slipped from his hand. His back bled freely, the deep gash soaking into his robes. The world around him blurred from pain and smoke. His breaths came ragged. He could feel his body shutting down.
But not yet. Not while his wife and son still lived.
The six assassins began to close in, stepping over the corpses of their fallen. They moved as one, blades raised, eyes devoid of mercy.
Shaurya cried out behind him. "Father!"
Isha's voice was trembling. "Ashvik… please…"
Ashvik lowered his head, blood dripping from his brow onto the floor. And then—he whispered an ancient word. Something shifted in the air. The ground cracked beneath him.
A gust of unnatural heat surged outward, forcing even the assassins to halt mid-step. Embers stirred around his feet. The marble blackened. Flames curled along his arms, dancing like serpents across his body.
Shaurya stared in awe. "He's… glowing."
Ashvik opened his eyes. They were no longer human. They burned like two miniature suns.
"Final Form: Purging Sun." he murmured. A sigil flared into existence beneath him—ancient, circular, glowing red with divine fire.
The assassins hesitated—then rushed him all at once.
Ashvik thrust both his hands. A column of flame erupted.
It wasn't just fire—it was pure incineration, born of wrath, forged from divine lineage. The inferno exploded like a dragon's roar, engulfing all six assassins in a split second. The ceiling cracked from the heat. Paintings and stonework melted. Even the air screamed.
The assassins didn't even have time to cry.
They turned to ash in mid-motion, their swords clattering to the ground moments before the metal liquified.
For a moment, the hallway was a furnace of death.
Then silence.
Ashvik dropped to one knee, smoke curling from his body. His skin was scorched, armor cracked and steaming, but his eyes were clear. He had nothing left to give—but he had bought them time.
Crimson embers danced like fire spirits through the midnight air, swirling in the choking smoke that smothered the once-glorious halls of House Malhan. The ancestral palace—once a symbol of nobility, magic, and honor—was now a crumbling inferno. Tapestries burned, stone cracked under heat, and the air was filled with the screams of flames.
Shaurya stared at the devastation. His father—a warrior, a lord, a shield of fire—had stood alone against death and incinerated it.
Ashvik smiled faintly. "Told you… I still had one left."
Naren stepped in at that moment, shielding the boy from the rising smoke, just as Isha staggered to her husband's side.
"My lord," Naren said, voice steady despite the chaos. "We must leave now otherwise, we will get caught in fire."
Ashvik's gaze swept the wreckage—the burning paintings of ancestors, the shattered throne, the crushed sigils on the floor. His jaw clenched with fury.
"Take them and go. I'll buy you time," he growled.
"No," Naren said sharply. "You are no longer a lord. You are a father, and your life is no longer yours alone."
Ashvik looked at Isha, who nodded, tears glistening in her eyes.
"…Very well."
Behind them, a stone panel in the floor opened with a loud groan. A secret entrance—one of the forgotten tunnels beneath Malhan Palace, built generations ago.
They descended quickly. The air grew cold. Moss lined the ancient walls, and the only light came from magical grimoires floating ahead, summoned by Naren's command.
Kanak Das, granddaughter of Naren who had grown up in the servants' quarters. Loyal, intelligent, and already wise beyond his years. She moved beside Shaurya and gripped his hand tightly. Shaurya looked back one final time. He saw the red skies above the burning palace. The land of his birth. His home. His legacy.
It was gone. His throat clenched. His fists trembled.
"I'll come back," he whispered to no one. "Someday… I'll take it all back."