"I won't let you escape this time..."
The words tore from the man's throat, thick with blood and desperation. His dark brown eyes burned beneath a mess of tangled, blood-matted dark hair. He was completely shirtless, his torso a map of brutal lacerations, deep gashes, and fresh crimson flowing from every corner of his battered frame. He was a man who had been fighting a war on his own for far too long. Yet, despite the lethal toll on his body, his grip never faltered on the jagged katana in his hand—its blade a terrifying, ominous red. He was barely standing, his knees trembling under the sheer weight of existence.
Standing opposite him was a figure of absolute, terrifying stillness.
He possessed a tall, athletic build, clad in a sleek, pitch-black military uniform topped with a long, sweeping black overcoat. His hands were rested casually inside his coat pockets. But his most jarring feature was his head; where a face should have been, the air warped and fractured, a localized glitch in reality obscuring his features entirely. He stood completely unfazed by the carnage before him.
"Are you still trying to stand up? How foolish. You humans truly are hopeless."
The glitched figure spoke. The voice was impossibly deep, utterly calm, and dripping with profound condescension as he looked down at the dying warrior.
"You should have understood by now... you stand absolutely no chance against me."
Instead of breaking, something inside the wounded man snapped.
With a guttural roar, a fierce, crimson aura—like a torrential wave of blood-red fire—burst violently around him. The sudden pressure was immense; the earth shattered beneath his boots, and above them, the heavy, dark sky splintered with a sudden crack of silver lightning.
"You..." the man growled, his voice dropping to a furious, demonic whisper. For a split second, his eyes flashed a blinding, predatory red. "You don't deserve to live anymore... You don't deserve those powers...!"
"It is for me to decide what is mine, and what is not," the glitched man replied, his tone remaining entirely flat and expressionless.
Driven past the point of reason by pure, unadulterated rage, the wounded warrior lunged forward. He poured every remaining drop of his life force into his legs, shattering the ground beneath him as he propelled himself ahead. He blurred into a single, lethal streak of crimson light, cutting through the air straight toward the entity.
But it was entirely futile.
"Seriously. It's embarrassing."
With effortless, micro-precise movement, the glitched man slipped right past the trajectory of the strike. In the blink of an eye, a flash of cold steel cleaved through the air.
The blade cut straight through the warrior's torso.
The man's strength vanished instantly, his life snuffed out in a single, unceremonious stroke. As his body fell, the entire world began to dissolve. The battlefield bled away, collapsing into a void of absolute, oppressive darkness.
Then, out of the void, two hollow, abyssal eyes gleamed with an eerie light.
"HAHHHHH!"
The boy shot upright in his bed, his breath hitching violently in his throat.
The moonlight filtering through the window illuminated his bare back, completely drenched in cold sweat, his muscles tense from a phantom battle. He sat there for a long moment, the heavy silence of the room slowly replacing the roaring fires of his mind.
As he lowered his head, his gaze sharpened. Beneath his messy hair, his eyes came into view—unusual, striking dark brown irises centered by piercing silver pupils.
"That dream again..." he muttered, his voice low, hollow, and utterly exhausted.
I am Armaan. I'm sixteen years old, currently navigating my way through the eleventh grade.
Not too long ago, my family—my dad, my mom, my older sister, and I—lived a quiet, ordinary, and incredibly peaceful life here in Howrah.
But peace is a fragile thing. It rarely lasts. One night, my dad disappeared without a trace, leaving behind nothing but questions. I never saw him again.
Ever since that night, the peace we took for granted vanished, replaced by an unsettling silence.
"This dream has basically become my alarm clock," I muttered, glancing at the digital clock on my desk. It read exactly 5:00 AM.
Defeating the urge to crawl back under the covers, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. Looking in the mirror, my reflection showed an athletic but lean build—somewhere right in the middle of skinny and bulky. I had a sharp, defined jawline, messy dark brown bed-head, and those strange dark brown eyes with silver pupils.
Stretching my arms over my head, I pulled off my sleep shirt, revealing a well-defined six-pack. For my specific body type, maintaining that kind of definition didn't take an absurd amount of effort, just consistency.
I threw on a comfortable tank top and shorts, grabbed my phone, and headed downstairs. After slipping into my running shoes, I put on my headphones and hit play on Michael Jackson's Beat It. The energetic rhythm immediately filled my ears, blocking out the early morning quiet.
Stepping out into the cool morning air, I knocked out a quick set of jumping jacks to get my blood flowing, and then I took off.
After pacing myself through the familiar, quiet streets for a while, I finally reached the riverbank near a local ferry ghat. Sweat was beaded heavily along my hairline. My focus remained entirely locked on the path ahead, a single stray drop of sweat clinging to the edge of my left eyebrow.
Anyway, that's enough from me. Passing the narration to the author.
He closed his eyes for a long second, blinking the sweat away.
But when he opened them, the sharp focus was gone. The scenery of the riverbank blurred slightly in his periphery, and the look in his eyes shifted, turning deeply tired and annoyed.
"Argh, somebody stop this old man."
The whisper came from a boy standing right next to Armaan.
He was about an inch shorter, had a noticeably skinny build, neatly combed hair, and wore a pair of spectacles. This was Samar Shaw—Armaan's childhood friend and best friend. To be exact, Samar, Armaan, and one more boy made up a tight-knit trio, though the third member of their group was nowhere to be seen just yet.
"Practically speaking, my soul left this planet five minutes ago..." Armaan muttered, his eyes dripping with pure annoyance.
Up on the stage, the man in question—the school principal—finally adjusted the microphone. "Alright kids, I won't take up any more of your time. Thank you."
The relief was instant, but the response was entirely robotic. Every single student in the courtyard chimed in with a forced, practiced chorus: "Thank you, sir."
Yeah, this was just a typical morning assembly of an Indian school.
The two boys trudged toward class.
"So, Armaan," Samar said. "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, the third boy of their tio— 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 find the reason behind my dad's disappearance and want to make sure nothing like that happens again... In short words, I want to protect everyone." Armaan said expressionlessly, looking at his hands.
His voice lacked any dramatic flare, but the weight behind the words was heavy. His gaze remained locked on his open palms, as if measuring the strength he currently possessed against the monumental task he had just set for himself. It wasn't about being a hero; it was a quiet, unyielding vow to never be helpless again.
Farmaan sighed.
"A noble cause...You want to protect everyone, right? I'll help you with that by training you to become the Rakshak we are talking about. And who knows? That might end up helping you with your father's mystery," Farmaan said calmly.
His tone was entirely level, devoid of any grand promises or dramatic excitement, yet there was an undeniable weight to his proposal. He looked at Armaan with a steady, calculating gaze, offering a clear path out of the helplessness that had anchoring the boy down for so long.
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