The sky burned like the eye of a blood-soaked beast—an unholy red spilling across the horizon, dripping into the earth below.
Time itself seemed to have frozen… as if the world was counting its final breaths.
The ground had split open.
Rivers of molten lava erupted like living flames, devouring everything in their path—memories, lives, and hope alike. Monuments of civilization had been reduced to ash. Walls lay shattered. Homes were nothing but ruins. What was once a world filled with life had fallen into a suffocating silence of death.
The air was thick with smoke and the stench of scorched earth—so heavy that even breathing felt like a curse.
Bodies of fallen warrior's lay scattered across the battlefield, lifeless witnesses to the chaos that had consumed the world.
And among them…
At the very root of destruction…
He stood.
A towering figure, nearly seven feet tall—as if darkness itself had taken form. Black flames rose from his body, twisting and swaying with the air. In his hand rested a massive sword, its blade glowing with a crimson light, as though even fire feared its edge.
His face was hidden in shadow.
But his eyes…
Two burning embers, watching the world march toward its end.
Without warning, he drove the sword into the ground with all his strength.
A thunderous roar erupted.
The earth screamed—as if its heart had been pierced. The impact echoed across the land, sending a devastating shockwave that tore through the already-broken world.
And then…
A door of darkness opened.
It was no ordinary gateway.
It was an endless abyss descending into the unknown.
From within it emerged twisted forms—distorted bodies wrapped in flames, monstrous shapes whose eyes belonged to another realm entirely. They did not scream.
They resonated.
Their very existence was fear.
Along with those creatures, something else descended into the world—
A darkness without a beginning.
Without an end.
It felt as though a nightmare itself had crossed into reality… and swallowed it whole.
And then—
Everything fell into darkness.
Present Day — 2026
Devaraj Gurukul
Rain poured outside like blood seeping from the wounds of the sky. The air was thick with dampness—and something else. A fear that moved quietly… yet pierced deep.
Suddenly, an old man jolted awake from his sleep.
His eyes flew open. His breath was broken. His heart pounded as if announcing an unseen threat. Cold sweat clung to his forehead—chilling to the touch, yet his soul still burned with the heat of the dream that had torn him from rest.
The room was dark.
Only a flash of lightning from the window briefly revealed his trembling face. Thunder roared outside, as though nature itself had become an echo of his fear.
Slowly, he wiped his face. A quivering whisper escaped his lips.
Raghav Srivastava whispered,
"He is coming… That was no dream. The destruction… it has already begun."
Another bolt of lightning danced across the walls, casting violent shadows around the room. The fear in the old man's eyes deepened, his voice breaking into fragments.
"They will lose to him in the future… how could they not? They do not even know where that power was born… nor when the true destruction truly began."
He sat up slowly on the edge of the bed, using trembling hands for support. Each step he took carried more than exhaustion—it carried the weight of a secret he had borne for decades.
Reaching the desk, he opened a drawer and pulled out an old, weathered notebook. Its edges were torn by time, its cover worn thin. Yet within it slept a truth history had never dared to tell.
For a moment, he simply stared at it—as if opening it would bring that same destruction back to life.
Then, slowly, he opened it.
A blank page stared back at him.
Fear still lingered on his face—but now, something else flickered beneath it.
Resolve.
He muttered to himself,
"Where should I begin… so that they may understand where it all truly started?"
Suddenly—
A blinding flash erupted before Raghav Srivastava's eyes.
The room vanished.
And in its place, within his consciousness, a vision emerged—vivid… terrifyingly real. Like a memory tearing through the layers of time to return to the present.
The sky was filled with dust and fire.
In the distance, a lone warrior stood mounted on his horse. A red cloth was tightly bound around his face, making his eyes burn sharper—piercing through the chaos. His body was encased in deep black armor, armor that carried the weight of countless battles.
In both his hands, swords burned—
as if fire itself had been imprisoned within their blades.
Before him stretched an endless army.
Thousands of shadows stood waiting.
The air was heavy.
The ground trembled.
Yet the warrior stood alone—unmoving.
Unbreakable.
The vision struck Raghav like lightning.
His chest rose violently. His breath faltered.
His eyes widened with fear… and awe.
He whispered, realization crashing upon him,
"The Protector… yes. I must begin with the story of the Protector. After all, he was the one who laid the foundation of the coming destruction…"
Without wasting another moment, he picked up the pen.
The hands that had been trembling moments ago were now steady—as if guided by an unseen force. Before him lay the same old blank page.
Yet it was no longer empty.
It was about to become a witness to the rebirth of history.
He drew a deep breath… and began to write.
The first word of ink pressed itself onto the page like a seal—final and irreversible.
My name is Raghav Srivastava.
I am ninety-nine years old, the Mahaguru of Devaraj Gurukul. I am writing this account in the year 2026.
Whoever reads or hears this story may wonder—why would an old man, standing so close to death, choose this moment to write? What truth could possibly be so urgent that it could not wait?
The answer is simple.
This is the story of a great protector—one whom time itself has chosen to forget.
I write about a warrior whose name my ancestors buried in their hearts eight hundred years ago.
I write about the man whose very arrival on the battlefield was enough to make entire grand armies step back in fear.
I write about a protector whose sword still carries the blood of countless enemies.
The world of today has neither read about him nor heard his name. He belonged to no royal bloodline. He was born of no warrior clan. He came from an ordinary lineage… yet nothing about his deeds was ordinary.
Once he chose to protect someone—no matter who they were—he bowed before no one.
This story is important for one final reason.
Something terrible is about to happen in this world. And there is only one way to stop it.
That way begins with knowing him.
Because hidden within this very story lies the secret to saving the world.
The pen paused.
Raghav Srivastava's breath trembled—not with fear, but with the weight of truth.
Then, with steady resolve, he wrote the final line.
"The warrior whose legend I now record…
His name is Dhruva Devnarayana."