The air on the 38th floor of the Indian NSEA Headquarters didn't just circulate; it stagnated. It was a subterranean tomb of glass and polished chrome, buried so deep beneath the red soil of Pune that the weight of the city above felt like a physical pressure on the lungs. The bright white light didn't illuminate the room; it shaded it like the pale, sickly feathers of a dying bird, casting clinical shadows over the dark grey ceiling and the rows of old leather chairs. These chairs stayed occupied by bodies unable to breathe, suffocated by the mere presence of the lady sitting at the head of the obsidian table.
Madam Laurence did not look at the men. She looked through them. Her gaze was fixed on the bright blue luminescence of a wide-angle screen that displayed the collapse of the global order. The world ranking had been decimated by the sudden, violent emergence of the Unbounded Inferno—a blazing star with enough raw, unrefined energy to incinerate a Dealer-level sinner single-handedly. At the very top, So-Jung, the Japanese Dealer, sat like a mountain of 100,000 points. Directly beneath him, closing the gap with the predatory grace of a shark, was Arush at 98,000. Behind them, the icons representing the United States, China, and Brazil flickered like dying embers in a cold wind.
The Indian negotiator in the far corner was a wreckage of human nerves. He looked at Madam Laurence, then back to his Omega watch, fixing his silk collar every sixty seconds as if it were a noose tightening around his throat. The silence in the room flowed over the thirty NSEA negotiators like a river of oil—it was thick, heavy, and it stank. It stank of recycled oxygen, fear-induced adrenaline, and the slow rot of bureaucracy meeting a force it couldn't control. The mechanical hum of the server racks behind the walls provided the only soundtrack to a room where the concept of time had become a weapon.
Every bottle of water on the table was finished, drained to the dregs by men with parched throats who were too terrified to ask for more. Only one bottle stood still: Madam Laurence's. Her pupils moved in a regressive, mechanical rhythm, scanning the data paragraphs while her lips moved in a silent, haunting mumble. The blaze of the sun with strength... the points started over with error... points couldn't be recorded... mission of Shyamamrd completed... healing with instance heat... The words muzzled through the room like a swarm of angry wasps, while the others sat like servants, their foot-tapping on the ground providing a frantic, uneven heartbeat to the subterranean silence.
Then, the shattering happened. It wasn't just the glass of her tablet that broke; it was the atmosphere itself. Laurence turned to the table, her words emerging as razor-sharp shards that cut through the minds of everyone present. Her eyes were numb, not with fear, but with a terrifying silence of fears.
"The meeting is set," she declared, her voice a frost breathe that turned the room into a glacier. "12 December 2032. Every world ranking authority—Chinese, American, Brazilian, and Japanese—will meet with their Dealer. And I want Subject Inferno in a friendly match against So-Jung."
The dead silence that followed was absolute. Faces dipped with sweat. The air from the AC moved in cold, grape-like clusters of mist that clung to the skin. The Indian agent lowered his head in a gesture of forced respect. "But Madam... this is a catastrophe waiting to happen. This is risky. How do we convince him to play a part in this theater?"
Laurence leaned back, a chuckle escaping her lips that sounded like grinding metal. "We won't. We will keep this a secret from everyone—the Japanese, the Indians, everyone. We will manufacture a mess. A conflict so organic that it forces a fight. Make sure some kind of mess happens that will cause a fight and stop it only before someone dies... it's that simple. And you will appoint your best agent to accompany Arush. Do you understand, gentlemen?"
She stood, the "great thub" of her military boots marking her departure like a funeral drum. As the door creaked shut, the room exhaled. Negotiators began to murmur, their violent boot-thumping echoing as they hurried to leave the tomb. Only the Indian agent remained, scrolling through a tablet to open the file of a new operative—a veteran of the AATD with newly minted NSEA credentials. The name on the file was KARMA.
In the facility cafeteria, the world felt smaller but no less dangerous. Arush sat across from Karma, the heat from his coffee cup burning into his bare palm. He didn't pull away. He gripped the ceramic tighter, welcoming the sensation of reality.
"What kind of trip?" Arush asked, his voice low and industrial.
Karma looked at him, his eyes suddenly turning a liquid, glowing gold. "Pls keep your cup down," he said, his voice soft but carrying the weight of a command. "It's burning your hand."
He took a sip of his white coffee. "The plan was made by indian authorities for meeting on your successful mission and shyamamrd. They want detailed information for purpose to help other people all over the world, to share the data for the common good."
Sanvi, sitting at the edge of the table, blinked at Karma. She watched his pupils; they seemed to contain stars extended with a profound darkness. She smiled, her voice light but her eyes wary. "Who would be joining him?"
Karma turned his head toward her, extending his hand. "You would be joining us."
Arush looked at Sanvi with a faint, ghost-like smile. His eyes drifted to Karma's hands—the sleeves were soaked with blood at the ends, the knuckles raw and wounded. Arush took a deep, jagged breath that tasted of iron. He stood up, looking at Karma with a predator's detachment.
"Give me the file and yeah I am going to my room for another nap. We will see you tomorrow."
As he walked away, Arush gripped his fist so tight his knuckles turned the color of bleached bone. He walked down the dark hallway, muzzling a song behind his teeth, removing the mask of the smile he wore for the "Hollow" people. He looked at his palms, red with blood pressure, and then the reality beneath him cracked.
The floor didn't just break; it fractured like a frozen lake under the weight of a god. The air within the cracks carried the dust of breaking stars. Arush fell. He didn't fight it. He let the nothingness call him back to the forge. He traveled through the light of eons in a heartbeat, red crimson flames erupting from his core as a tail of inferno tore through his tailbone. His hand elongated into a blade of pure energy. He was looking for the dark flames. He was looking for Kurozaro.
In front of him, the song echoed again: "My turn to become dead... rose of throne turned into bed... hmmm... with life change it's destiny came over the faith..."
A portal of dark flames tore open, and Kurozaro emerged. He looked at Arush with a gaze that had seen empires rise and fall into the dust. He asked a single question that vibrated through Arush's marrow:
"कथम् आसीत् स्वप्नः, वत्स?"
((How Was the dream kid))
Arush didn't answer with words. He lunged, his energy blade cutting a path through the luke-warm water of the void, aimed directly at Kurozaro's head. But the dark lord didn't flinch. He moved a single finger an inch.
The brutality was absolute. Arush's cells began to decay instantly. His skin flaked off like grey ash, turning into dust in the vacuum. His heart swelled, then shattered into smaller and smaller particles until there was nothing left but a consciousness suspended in agony. Even as dust, he could hear Kurozaro's heartless voice speaking directly into his soul:
"स्वप्रभोः उपरि आक्रमणम्... न शोभते, शिष्टाचारं प्रदर्शय। अहं खड्गधारा इव स्पष्टवक्ता अस्मि। मरणकाले अपि अहं त्वां पश्यामि, एवमेव चलतु चेत् अहं त्वां न रक्षिष्यामि। अहं केवलं विनोदं इच्छामि, मम सजातीयः च मह्यं तदेव ददाति... गच्छ जीवन्-नरकम्।"
((Launching an attack on your Lord...is not good have some manners. Let me be blunt as blade I am seeing you even when you're dying and keep that up I won't save you but I want entertainment and looking at my kind he is giving me...get to hell of living.))
Arush bolted upright on his bed, his lungs screaming for air. Outside, the late winter rain lashed against the window. He moved to the sink, splashing his face with water, feeling the crushing weight of guilt. He was a kid in a Kurukshetra of a wrong war, his human capabilities failing him while his heart remained a student of a brutal master. He gripped his fiste tight, the water dripping from his knuckles like silver blood.
BORDER OF INDRAPRASTH, 13TH CENTURY CE
A hawk soared over the fields of Vranspur, its eyes tracking the carnage below with cold, predatory precision. It dove toward an ancient Wada tree, its claws gripping the wood with a strength that defied the centuries. Below, a woman ran through the burning fields, her shadow elongated by the orange hell behind her. Pursuing her was a dark horse, its hooves striking the earth with mechanical precision. The rider was Vaishasur, holding a sword in one hand and a leach in another.
The hawk watched, its beak curving into a grimace that looked like a smile. In a low, growling voice, it spoke:
"सिंहासनम् एतद् गुलाबानां कृते अस्ति, केवलं तेषाम् एव कृते ये उत्थातुम् इच्छन्ति। तेषां शिरसि क्लान्तिः अस्ति, परन्तु अङ्गारैः रक्तज्वालानाम् अग्निना राज्याभिषेकः कृतः... जीवनम् अनिश्चितं भवति यदा मृत्युः द्वारं ताडयति, यदा च 'अकवाशम्' इति प्रहेलिका साम्राज्यस्य उदयः च समयस्य छलनेन सह श्रूयते।"
((The thrones is the throne for Rose's and only for who wana rise they've been wearied on head while ember have be crowned by the inferno of red flames...life become uncertain even when death knocks and when the puzzle of akvasham and rise of empire can be heard with betray of time.))
Behind the hawk, a low growl emerged from the shadows of the branches. "I will break the vessel to the point where he will enter the cycle."
The hawk turned its gaze toward the horizon where the sun refused to rise. The brutality of the scene below was a symphony to the ancient bird. The smell of burning flesh and the metallic tang of blood in the air were the only things that felt real in this fractured timeline. The hawk knew that the woman running was not just a victim, but a catalyst. Her death would fuel a rage that would echo across seven centuries, straight into the heart of a boy in Pune. Vaishasur brought his blade down, and the world of the 13th century bled into the digital screens of the 21st.
Karma stood in the dim light of the facility hallway, the smell of jasmine masking the iron scent of his own wounds. He had been appointed not just to accompany Arush, but to be the barrier between him and a death that would break the world. His task was to take Arush to Japan, to share details with the invisible architects, and to ensure the Inferno didn't burn out before the meeting on December 12th. He needed someone he could manipulate, someone who wouldn't break under the pressure of the secret.
He looked into Sanvi's eyes, his voice turning soft and hypnotic. "I want you to join me for japan trip... the only work is to stay with arush to keep him alive." Sanvi gripped her jacket tight, her knuckles white as she stared into the star-filled pupils of the agent. She didn't know about Madam Laurence. She didn't know about the 38th floor. She only knew that the boy she cared for was slipping into a darkness that no light could reach.
Arush, alone in his room, watched the rain wash over the Pune skyline. The words turned into milestone on his screen wasn't a triumph; it was a shackle. Every word was a pulse of the red flames in his heart, demanding a sacrifice. He looked at his hands, the skin still feeling the phantom decay of Kurozaro's touch. The "Debt of Destruction" was coming due, and the price was his own humanity.
The countdown to 12 December 2032 had reached its final phase. The puzzle of Akvasham was no longer a secret; it was a weapon. As the dark hallway in Pune echoed with the phantom song of a dying throne, the world began to realize that when the Inferno rises, there are no survivors—only witnesses to the stories raised from dust. The red flames in his heart roared, demanding more than just words. They demanded a sacrifice. And as the cold rain of Pune turned into the frost breathe of Madam Laurence, Arush knew that the only way out of the hell of living was to become the devil himself.
He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he wasn't in Pune or the nothingness. He was back at the wada tree, the hawk watching him with a beck that promised everything and nothing. "It's time," the wind whispered. And the world finally broke. The cycle of the vessel was ready to be shattered. The stories raised from dust would be written in the blood of the rankers, and the throne of roses would be the first to burn.