Long time ago....
In the absolute beginning, before the concept of time had even been whispered into existence, there was only the Void. It was a hollow, suffocating expanse of nothingness—a black canvas that stretched infinitely in every direction. Within this silent darkness, a single, microscopic spark of light flickered to life. The source of that brilliance was...
God.
No mortal records exist to explain His birth or His age, but one truth was carved into the foundation of reality:
He was bored.
To cure this eternal loneliness, God began the Great Creation. He forged the stars to pierce the gloom, molded planets from stardust, and breathed the complex spark of life into the universe. Yet, such overwhelming creation had an unforeseen consequence. As God poured His essence into the cosmos, His raw, celestial power leaked, crystallizing into a physical manifestation known as the God Stone. Exhausted by the sheer scale of His labors, God descended into a restorative slumber that would last for thousands of years.
In His absence, the universe grew crowded. Two ancient and powerful races rose to dominance: the Angels and the Asuras. While a simmering power struggle had always existed between them, the discovery of the God Stone turned a rivalry into a catastrophic obsession. A Great War ignited, a conflict so massive it tore at the pillars of reality for four hundred grueling years.
While the powerful fought for divinity, it was humanity that paid the ultimate price. The Earth became a scorched graveyard. Rivers that once provided life ran thick and crimson with blood; lush farmlands withered into gray ash; and the stench of unburied bodies rose like a heavy fog over every horizon. Famine became as common as the air itself. When God finally awoke and looked upon His broken creation, His fury shook the heavens. He manifested an incarnation of His own power, a being named Shiva.
Shiva descended like a cosmic storm, ruthlessly ending the war and assuming the mantle of the New God. To ensure the balance was never tilted again, He established an elite order of guardians: the Soul Fighters.
"Is that story really true, Dad?" an eight-year-old boy asked, his voice barely a whisper in the gloom.
The child sat huddled on a worn, sagging couch. The room around them was hollow and skeletal, stripped of almost all furniture and life, leaving only the long, dancing shadows cast by a single, flickering lamp sitting next to them. Its small golden glow filled only a tiny circle of safety in the otherwise pitch-black room.
"Yes, of course," his father replied,
his eyes reflecting the warm lamplight with a strange, heavy intensity.
"This story is real".
The boy's eyes widened, glancing toward the dark corners of the room as if expecting to see a Soul Fighter standing guard.
"So... where are they now?".
"They are at—".
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!.
The sound was violent—a heavy, rhythmic thudding that threatened to splinter the wooden door. It wasn't the knock of a neighbor or a friend; it was a merciless demand for entry.
"I'm coming!" the father called out,
standing up with a sudden tension in his shoulders. But the person behind the door didn't stop, continuing to beat against the wood as if they intended to tear the house down. The moment the father turned the lock, the door exploded inward. A shadow lunged.
The boy watched, paralyzed, as a blade flashed in the lamplight. One stab. Two. Three. The father collapsed instantly, his life pouring out onto the floor, but the murderer was a machine of hate, continuing the assault until they were certain his father was dead. The boy's scream tore through his lungs, a high, thin sound of absolute horror that echoed off the empty walls. The killer paused, head snapping toward the sound, eyes locking onto the child. As the shadow began to sprint toward him, the boy's world blurred into a red haze.
"Aaaaaaaaa!!!!".
Rudra Thakur bolted upright in his bed, his chest heaving as he fought for oxygen. The messy, cramped room of his Mumbai apartment slowly came into focus, grounding him in a reality far less grand than his dreams. His heart was still drumming a frantic rhythm against his ribs, but the cold sweat on his forehead began to dry in the humid morning air as he realized it was only a nightmare. He fumbled for his phone on the nightstand, the bright screen blinding him for a second. 7:30 AM.
"OHH No! Shit!".
The panic of the dream was instantly replaced by the panic of the clock. He threw the covers off and lunged at his roommate, Raj, shaking him violently by the shoulders.
"Move your ass! Unless you want the class teacher's punishment, get up now!".
Raj groaned, his face buried deep in a pillow, still trapped in a half-dream state.
"How did it get this late?! Didn't you set the alarm?" Raj asked furiously, his voice thick with a morning-after headache.
"Don't you remember what happened last night?" Rudra shot back as he scrambled for his clothes.
Today was Rudra's 17th birthday. To celebrate reaching the edge of adulthood, Raj had smuggled in two bottles of beer at the stroke of midnight. Rudra had initially been against it—they were still minors, after all—but Raj's relentless persistence eventually wore him down. They had drunk the beer in the dark, laughing and feeling like rebels, only to fall into a heavy, alcohol-induced stupor that made them miss every alarm they'd set.
Reviewing their dire situation, both briefly considered skipping school, but the thought was dismissed as quickly as it came. Today was the weekly test at VMG School. At VMG, one of Mumbai's most prestigious institutions, an unexcused absence on a test day was a one-way ticket to the principal's office. Rudra couldn't afford that. He was the son of Ram Thakur, a man who spent his days covered in grease in a small-town garage. Rudra was only in this city, in this school, because he had managed to secure a hard-won scholarship. He lived hundreds of miles away from his father, sharing this tiny, messy apartment with his childhood best friend while trying to build a future out of science textbooks.
They scrambled into their uniforms, missing buttons and tripping over untied laces. Rudra grabbed his old bicycle while Raj hopped onto the back carrier, clutching Rudra's waist tightly because he had never bothered to learn how to drive one himself.
"Hey, move your legs faster!"
Raj yelled into Rudra's ear as they swerved into the chaotic morning traffic.
Rudra's muscles burned. He stood up on the pedals, pouring every ounce of his adrenaline into the wheels.
"You asked for it now!" he grunted.
He pushed down with a sudden, violent burst of speed—and then, a sickening
SNAP!
echoed through the street.
The chain gave way, whipping uselessly against the frame. The sudden loss of tension sent the bike wobbling uncontrollably until it flipped. Both boys hit the pavement hard, skidding across the dusty road and sustaining minor injuries.
"Shit! Now how cloud this can get any better!" Rudra hissed, checking the raw skin on his palms.
But before they could even stand up and clean the dust from their clothes, the world behind them was torn apart. A deafening EXPLOSION rocked the street, the shockwave rattling the windows of nearby shops. Black smoke billowed into the sky as the morning calm was replaced by the screams of a panicked crowd.
"What is that? Wait... is that..." Rudra whispered, his eyes widening as he stared back at the rising fire.