Pushing open the heavy mahogany doors of the Council Hall, the Elders emerged one by one, their expressions carved with quiet strain. No one spoke at first, yet the silence itself carried meaning. Defeat has a way of revealing itself—not through words, but through posture, through the slight heaviness in one's step, through the reluctance to meet another's gaze.
To one side of the corridor, three figures slowed almost instinctively—Mansi Delal, Sukumar Talukdar, and Habib Biswas. Men of influence, wealth, and authority, yet at this moment, all three shared the same unspoken discomfort: they had been overshadowed.
Mansi was the first to break the silence. "Disgraceful," he muttered, his voice low but trembling with restrained anger. "Not a single descendant of the Delal family in the top three. And yet…" He exhaled sharply, as if the names themselves offended him. "First—Nafiz Forazi. Second—Rubina Chaprashee. Third—Forhad Hossain."
Habib's eyes narrowed, not in open frustration, but in calculation. "Sudden success is rarely sudden," he said evenly. "Families do not rise overnight without assistance. Information, resources… perhaps even access before the exam. But without proof, we remain blind—and conveniently silent."
Sukumar had remained quiet until then, listening, weighing, observing. Unlike Mansi's frustration or Habib's suspicion, his gaze carried something colder—intent. When he finally spoke, his tone was calm, almost detached.
"Then perhaps we are asking the wrong question," he said. "Instead of wondering how they rose… we should decide how to ensure they never rise again."
Both men turned to him, their interest sharpened.
Mansi frowned slightly. "Speak plainly."
Sukumar did not rush his answer. His eyes drifted briefly—not to the men beside him, but to the empty corridor around them, as if measuring the space itself. Only after a moment did he lean closer.
"Pure spirits are rare," he said. "Too rare to rely on."
Habib's gaze sharpened. "You're suggesting artificial creation?"
"Not artificial," Sukumar corrected softly. "Adulterated."
He lowered his voice further, though no one stood close enough to hear. "We take wild boars. Break them down—physically, mentally. Starve them until instinct replaces will. Then we begin feeding them iron… gradually, relentlessly… until their bodies adapt, until flesh and metal begin to blur."
Mansi felt a flicker of unease but did not interrupt.
"When they reach the point where they can no longer sustain life," Sukumar continued, his tone unchanged, "we harvest what remains and refine it into a usable spirit."
There was a pause. A longer one this time.
"And the cost?" Mansi asked finally.
Sukumar gave a small, almost indifferent shrug. "A shortened lifespan for the user. A few years, perhaps more depending on compatibility." Then he looked directly at him. "But tell me, Mansi—how many children, driven by ambition, would refuse power for the sake of a future they cannot even see clearly?"
The answer did not need to be spoken. The silence that followed was enough. The decision, though never formally agreed upon, settled between them like something inevitable.
Their conversation continued in lower tones as they made their way into the courtyard, where their carriages awaited. The vast grounds of the palace stretched before them, a reminder of the structured hierarchy they lived within—families holding territories, resources flowing through carefully maintained channels of power.
Just as they reached their respective vehicles, Habib's hand moved subtly toward the ring on his finger—a Communication Spirit.
There was no visible activation. No glow, no sound.
And yet, something changed.
Mansi stiffened almost imperceptibly. Sukumar's breath caught for a fraction of a second. It was not a sensation one could describe easily—it did not feel like hearing. It felt like intrusion. Like a presence slipping past the boundaries of the mind, threading through thought itself.
Then Habib's voice came—not through the air, but directly within them.
"Tonight," it said, measured and precise. "Third hour past midnight. The secret room."
A brief pause followed, as if allowing the words to settle.
"No witnesses."
Both men looked at Habib instinctively. His lips had not moved.
"Summon Monir Chaprashe," the voice continued within their minds, colder now. "And Foysal. We need him. To break the Ahmed bloodline… we require Ahmed blood."
Habib's gaze shifted subtly toward the palace gate, where Azgaar had departed not long ago.
"Did you notice?" the voice continued. "Even after the meeting ended, he remained inside with Humayun Kabir. That is not coincidence."
Mansi signaled silently with his eyes—security?
The answer came immediately.
"I will handle it."
Not reassurance. Control.
Moments later, the connection ceased as abruptly as it had begun. The three men exchanged brief, knowing glances before boarding their carriages. With a crack of whips, they departed in separate directions, leaving behind a courtyard that appeared, at least on the surface, calm once more.
But the calm did not last.
From the shadowed edges of the palace pillars, two figures stepped forward—so quietly that it felt less like an entrance and more like a reveal. They had been there all along, concealed not by distance, but by presence so faint it escaped notice.
"The Boar Spirit," the first said softly. "A crude method… but effective."
The second nodded. "We cannot recreate the original. That is beyond us. But fragments… diluted power… even that is sufficient."
The first figure lifted his gaze toward the sky.
For a brief moment, the sunlight shifted. Not dramatically, not enough for most to notice—but enough to feel wrong. A faint crimson tint bled into the edges of the world, as if something unseen had brushed against reality.
Then he spoke a single word.
"NOĒMARCH!"
The word did not echo.
It replaced sound.
The shadows of the palace pillars elongated unnaturally. Even in the harsh afternoon sun, it felt for a split second as if the sun had turned black. The sounds of the wind ceased, replaced by a strange, mechanical silence.
As if something far beyond the sky had turned its gaze… downward.
The second figure lowered his head slightly, his voice carrying a quiet reverence.
"The Primordial Dominion of Thoughts…"
And just as suddenly as they had appeared, both figures were gone. Not vanished in motion—but absent, as though the world had quietly corrected itself by removing them.
✦✦✦
4:00 PM.
The inner sanctum of the Talukdar Palace.
Standing on a vast marble balcony, bathed in the pale afternoon sun, was Linara Talukdar. She looked less like a human and more like a deity from a foreign land.
Against her milk-white skin, a cascade of silver-white hair flowed down her back, shimmering in the breeze. Through the messy bangs falling over her forehead, a pair of pink-red eyes peered out.
This rare eye color and the luster of her hair declared that the blood in her veins was anything but ordinary. Her physique was mature for her age; even in the standard Masterer uniform, her curves radiated nobility and latent power.
Seated before her was the Head of the Talukdar Family—Sukumar Talukdar.
On the table lay an expensive wooden box. Sukumar opened it. Inside sat a small crystal bottle glowing with a faint blue aura.
"This is the 'Iron-Bone Fusion Elixir'," Sukumar said in a grave voice. "Siddik created this using a special method. Drinking this will make your bone structure twice as dense and hard as a normal human's. In the upcoming Physical Exam, no one will be able to shake you."
Linara hesitated. A shadow of doubt crossed her pink-red eyes. "But Grandfather, isn't this forbidden? ... And what about Ruhan? Have any arrangements been made for him?"
"Silence!" Sukumar snapped. "On the path to power, nothing is forbidden, Linara. And forget about Ruhan. He is a dead star. Do not extinguish your own light by wasting time chasing a corpse."
Linara lowered her head and took the elixir in her hands.
Linara held the vial.
It was light.
Too light for something that carried this much weight.
Her reflection shimmered faintly in the glass—
And for a moment—
It wasn't her.
It was Ruhan.
Smiling that quiet, broken smile.
"Am I… moving forward?"
Her grip tightened.
"…or just leaving someone behind?"
✦✦✦
The Main Training Hall of the Ahmed Palace.
A vast room, its walls adorned with the weapons used by the ancestors of the Ahmed Family.
In the center of the floor, a teenager sat in meditation. Akira Ahmed.
Akira's features bore no resemblance to the people of Shitapur. His hair was a wild, chestnut brown. His irises were blue-grey, a rarity in this region.
His jaw was set, his face radiating a wild, raw vitality. He wore the Academy's black sleeveless uniform, exposing his muscular arms.
He was not of Ahmed blood—at least not from his father. His father was a Grandmaster Swordsman from the far East. That warrior blood spoke through his physique.
Akira opened his eyes. Standing before him was Azgaar Ahmed himself.
Azgaar held an old book in his hand. He tossed it toward Akira.
"That is the 'Gale-Blade Style'. A technique from your father's homeland. You are already advanced in swordsmanship, but mastering this style will give you speed that no one here can match."
Akira caught the book. His father's technique! His eyes lit up.
He was grateful, but a question had been scratching at his soul for a long time.
Gathering his courage, he spoke, "Uncle... I have something to say."
Azgaar adjusted his glasses. "Speak."
"You are teaching me so much, bringing me techniques from my father's land... but what about Ruhan? He is your own blood. Why do you give him no advice? No help? Tomorrow is his birthday... yet you..."
Azgaar looked toward the window. The reflection of the afternoon sun on his glasses made his expression unreadable.
He asked in a calm, flat voice,
"Would it change the outcome?"
Akira froze. "No, I mean... at least he would get some courage. He would know his father is with him. He is so alone..."
Azgaar turned his gaze to Akira's blue eyes. There was a coldness in that stare so profound that Akira trembled inwardly.
"If I give him courage…"
A pause.
"…will it rewrite what he is?"
Silence.
Akira couldn't answer. Because deep down—
he knew. It wouldn't.
There was no mockery in Azgaar's voice, only a ruthless analysis of truth. It was as if he knew Ruhan was a dead star. Courage means nothing to something already dead.
Akira fell silent. His fists clenched.
He made a silent vow—If Uncle won't do it, I will. If Azgaar Ahmed abandons his son, then as a friend, I will pull Ruhan up.
Azgaar smiled inwardly. He understood the boy's thoughts.
Azgaar left the room. His long shadow slithered across the floor like a snake, fading into the distance.
✦✦✦
5:30 PM
The Aristocratic District—'Lakeside View'.
A luxurious restaurant floating upon the water. Every table was adorned with expensive flowers and candles.
At a secluded table sat two figures. The second and third rankers of the recent exam—Rubina Chaprashe and Forhad Hossain.
Rubina wore a gown made of fine silk, a diamond necklace around her neck. Her face glowed with the arrogance of privilege. She was the pampered princess of the Chaprashee family.
Opposite her sat Forhad. Built like a statue, wearing expensive sunglasses. His demeanor was nothing short of a prince.
"I can't believe it," Rubina said, sipping her coffee. "Nafiz Forazi took first place this time! But don't worry, I'll show him his place in the Physical Exam."
Forhad laughed. "You are the best, of course. But you know, I heard a hilarious rumor."
"What?"
Forhad leaned in conspiratorially. "I heard the 'Madman' of the Ahmed Family is going to the servants' laundry area tomorrow to wash his own clothes? Can you imagine?"
Rubina burst into laughter, spilling her coffee in her mirth.
"Ruhan? Oh God! How does he still show his face at the Academy? Just looking at him disgusts me. I heard Azgaar Ahmed is planning to disown him."
"As he should," Forhad said, cutting a slice of cake with a silver spoon. "There is no place for the weak in Shitapur. Ruhan is our entertainment. He exists just so victors like us have someone to look down upon."
They both laughed. The sound of their laughter drifted over the lake water.
They did not know that beneath their luxury and arrogance, gunpowder was piling up. And the one coming to light the fuse was none other than the object of their ridicule—the Dead Star.
✦✦✦
6:00 PM
The small, dusty patch of land behind the Storehouse.
The harsh afternoon sun had leaned towards the west, but the sweat on Ruhan's body had not dried.
He stood shirtless. In his hand was the heavy, rusted sword.
"One hundred and one... one hundred and two..."
He counted in a mumble. The sword was too heavy for his gaunt wrist. With every swing, his muscles screamed in agony.
But he did not stop. He had only one stubborn resolve—he must pass the Physical Exam.
Suddenly—
Deep within his brain, the invisible needle shifted.
TWITCH!
Ruhan's hand trembled violently.
The sword slipped.
Clang.
Ruhan blinked.
"I… what number was I on?"
Silence.
He looked at his hands.
No tremor.
No exhaustion.
Nothing to prove he had been here.
"…Ten?"
He smiled faintly.
"Yeah… probably ten."
He picked up the sword again.
"One…"
Far behind him—
The ground was scarred.
Footprints.
Drag marks.
A thousand repetitions carved into the dirt.
Proof of effort.
Proof of struggle.
Proof of a life—
He was no longer allowed to remember.
And tomorrow, he would begin again—without knowing he already had.