"नियतिः एकं क्रीडनं वर्तते । यदा राजा निष्कासितः, तदा क्रीडापटुः अट्टहासं कृतवान् । यतः राज्ञः पतनेन क्रीडा न समाप्यते, अपितु पुनः आरभते । एतद् क्रीडाङ्गणं शून्यस्वामिनः अस्ति । अत्र किमपि नास्ति । अधुना शून्यतः एव अश्व-उष्ट्र-सहिता ईश्वरी आगच्छति ।"
((Destiny is but a plaything. When the King was cast out, the Player erupted in a jagged, mocking laugh. For the game does not end with the fall of the King; rather, it begins anew. This battlefield belongs to the Master of the Void. Here, nothing exists. Now, from the very depths of Nothingness, the Sovereign Queen arrives, flanked by the Horse and the Camel.))
The frost began to manifest upon the red wood, a crystalline parasite accounting for every leaf until they became a burden too heavy for the branches to carry. Splashes of frantic footsteps erupted from the absolute darkness, the biting frost hitting Arush's face as the path ahead vanished into a freezing haze. Every breath was a struggle; the air turned to ice within his throat, freezing the very oxygen before it could reach his blood. His lungs felt like they were lined with shards of glass, each inhalation a serrated edge carving into his chest. Arush, forced back into his human form, sprinted through the skeletal depths of the forest. Barely a few meters behind, a roar of pure undivinity tore through the silence—Mehung was closing in, a predator hungry for the marrow of his prey.
The giggling of heavy armor, the rhythmic metal-on-metal screech of war shoes, moved through the trees like a funeral march. A momentary lapse in the atmosphere—a refraction of light against the freezing mist—betrayed Arush. His own shadow, cast by a ghost-light, projected him turning right when he had gone left. Mehung, deceived by the physics of the woods, turned his massive frame, his heavy boots crushing the frozen earth as he hunted the shadow down. The sound was deafening, the snap of ancient roots sounding like the breaking of ribs under the weight of a god.
Gasping for air, Arush felt his lungs pushing violently against his ribs, the jagged bone threatening to pierce the source of his own life. He skidded to a halt. Silence. The demon behind him was gone, or perhaps he had never been there at all. Arush's eyes scanned for an energy source, but the woods were dead. Nothing moved except for the frantic buzzing of bugs and the dry, rhythmic rattling of snakes deep in the undergrowth. A sickening thought hit him—had he turned back toward the village? Panic tasted like iron in his mouth, a thick, coppery film that coated his tongue.
In a sudden, violent eruption, a slash of black flames cut through the timber. Arush ducked, his face hitting the freezing mud, tasting the silt and decay of a thousand years. His shirt was instantly saturated in dark filth, but beneath the grime, the Makar logo began to pulse with a golden heat, a divine stain in the middle of the wreckage. It burned against his skin, a reminder of a destiny he never asked for, a light that only highlighted the surrounding filth.
Mehung did not hesitate. He lunged from the canopy, aiming directly for Arush's skull with the force of a falling mountain. Arush rolled left as flames erupted from his own head, a desperate halo of fire that scorched the nearby leaves into black ash. Using gravity manipulation to anchor his weight, he broke through the momentum, landing a barrage of punches into Mehung's chest. The impact was sickening—the sound of knuckles meeting enchanted steel and reinforced flesh. They moved through the mud like twin storms, turning the sacred groves into a slurry of red earth and bile. They were both sons of this land, but the Mother could no longer choose which life to spare; she watched in silent agony as they tore at each other's throats.
Mehung took the hits, his armor groaning and denting, but Arush was pouring his soul into every strike, driving Mehung onto the backfoot. Mehung swung his blade; Arush dodged, but the demon was faster than his shadow. A heavy kick caught Arush in the solar plexus, throwing him backward until he crashed into the water-soaked red wood. The impact snapped branches like dry bone, and for a moment, the world went white with pain. Arush felt the bile rise in his throat, a hot, bitter liquid that spilled onto his chin, mixing with the mud.
As Mehung charged again, Arush concentrated the raw energy near his mouth, forming a blinding orb of compressed heat. He filled his lungs with flaming fire and exhaled, blowing the orb toward Mehung. The wet wood ignited instantly, turning the forest floor into a magma of liquid flame. Mehung roared as his right hand was vaporized, reduced to blackened ash and molten slag in a second. The smell of charred meat filled the clearing, a heavy, cloying scent that made the stomach turn.
Mehung gazed at Arush, his expression a mask of cold indifference even as his limb dissolved. Within seconds, his cells began a violent regeneration. It was a grotesque sight—new flesh weaving itself over charred bone like a nest of squirming red worms, armor plating erupting from the skin as if the metal itself was his biology. Arush laughed—a jagged, hollow sound that echoed through the burning trees. He cracked his knuckles, an energy blade manifesting over his hands, humming with a frequency that vibrated in his very teeth.
"Let's settle this," Arush whispered, his voice steady despite the chaos.
Far away in this terror, a small child sat crying near her mother's body. The woman had been torn apart with clinical precision; maggots were already feeding on the open cavity of her chest, washed out by the rain but never satisfied. They writhed in the open wounds, white and sightless. The child wiped his tears, looking at his mother's dead, grey face. Her eyes were still open, staring at a sky she would never see again. An explosion thundered in the distance. Hope. He began to climb through the mud toward an old, forgotten road. Behind him, his mother lay rotting, her ribs sticking out like white teeth beneath the leftover flesh. The smell of chemical decay rose from her skin, a stench of formaldehyde and ancient rot so thick that even the relentless rain could not wash it away.
The child moved through the woods with bare feet, his prints as small as Arush's. "Help!" he screamed, his voice cracking with a desperation that would haunt the wind. A thick, cold mist appeared, swallowing his footsteps as if he were being erased from the world.
Sanvi stood hidden behind a massive oak, her breath held so tight it hurt. She was waiting for Arush's order to strike, but all she heard was the scream—a whisper, an echo of a child's terror. She moved toward the voice in the mist, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The child suddenly erupted from the fog, slamming into her with the force of a desperate prayer. Sanvi looked down at the sobbing boy, her resolve wavering.
"My mother needs help... come with me," he pleaded, pulling her hand toward the darker part of the woods. Sanvi hesitated, her eyes darting back toward Arush's battlefield where the sky glowed a sickly orange. But then she remembered his voice: Our priority is our first civilian. Looking at the boy's helpless, tear-streaked face, she allowed herself to be led into the deep, dark heart of the forest.
Arush was pushing his limits, his vision blurring at the edges. Every strike of his arm, every swing against Mehung's ancient blade, left a scent of burning blood in the air. The wood was now a furnace, the heat peeling the bark off the trees like blistered skin. In middle of them, Arush continuously made his way of survival, dodging attacks that would have pulverized a lesser man. He was moving at a tremendous speed, a zig-zag blur of kinetic energy that defied the gravity he manipulated. But Mehung was a wall of steel, his sword an uppercut of dark flames that left a sonic trail of destruction.
As the flames grew closer, Arush ducked them, but a massive tree was struck with the blow, falling directly onto his hand. The weight was immense, the wood charred and glowing with a heat that began to cook his flesh. Mehung looked at the helpless Arush and took his chance, moving through the flames with his blade pointed directly at Arush's open mouth. Arush didn't flinch. He formed a small orb in front of his lips and blew with the last of his breath. The concussive force pushed Mehung back, giving Arush a second of agonizing clarity.
He couldn't move his hand. The wood was anchored by Mehung's dark energy. He remembered his regeneration was top-tier, but the price would be absolute. He placed his legs against the trunk, his eyes wide and bloodshot. He pulled.
Tissues screamed. Cells bypassed their mechanical limits. Muscles teared and snapped with the sound of wet leather being shredded. Blood slashed onto the ground in hot, steaming bursts as he literally pulled the bones out of his own flesh to set himself free. The sound of the humerus snapping and the radius grinding against the wood was a symphony of agony. A roar of primal scream ran through his nervous system, a white-hot frequency of pain that nearly knocked him unconscious. As the mangled remains of his hand came free, the regeneration began to weave the nerves anew, a process that felt like a thousand needles stitching his soul back together. From the other side of the smoke, the sound of slow, rhythmic claps emerged.
Mehung stood there, his shadow long and terrifying. "I thought I was fighting a bastard... I was wrong. I am fighting a warrior I have never seen before."
Steam rose from Arush's wounds, the smell of cooked meat and ozone lingering. New nerves were knitting together, every one of them screaming with the loss and pain he had suffered. He cracked his knuckles, the burning adrenaline turning his numb, newly formed hand into a literal inferno.
"I never thought I would say this," Arush replied, his eyes glowing with an unholy light, "but... this pain was exciting for me."
Deep in the forest, Sanvi followed the child. The rain was cold, a relentless needles against her skin. As they moved, she noticed something impossible. The child's body remained small, but his footsteps in the mud were getting bigger—longer, heavier—with every step. They were the prints of a giant in the skin of a boy.
"Who are you?" she asked, her hand tightening on her weapon until her knuckles turned white. "Are you fine?"
The kid stopped. He didn't turn around, but his shoulders hunched in a way that wasn't human. "I have grown teeth," he whispered, the sound a wet, clicking noise.
Sanvi froze. The legend. The spirit that wander in forest asking for help for the mother he himself had slaughtered. She remembered the counter-curse. "I know my son," she said, her voice a fragile shield against the dark. The kid moved forward, his footprints now deep craters in the earth. She followed him deeper, into the place where the half-truths become whole deaths.
Arush manifested a fire spear that splintered across his reconstructed hand, the heat so intense it charred his own new skin. He moved with a fury born of pure instinct, a surge of adrenaline that drowned out the world. But suddenly, a surge of dread hit his heart. He felt Sanvi's spirit drifting away, being pulled into an ancient darkness. Before he could process the feeling, a splash of black blood hit his face. It didn't stain; it evaporated instantly, leaving the thick, metallic smell of iron in his nostrils—a scent of a sacrifice already made.
The Maiden ran through the grooves of the earth, the coldness of the grave meeting the dying heat of the sun in her veins. She was following a darkness that had been separated from the coldness, a darkness that was now her only guide through the labyrinth of the woods.
"मम पुत्रम् अहं जानामि। स एव आत्मा अस्ति यः तं राक्षसं त्वां गहनवनं नेतुं प्रेषयति। तत्र स त्वां मम जननी इति मत्वा तव शिरः छित्त्वा मारयिष्यति। तस्य कृते सत्यम् इदमेव—मम पुत्रः नास्ति। यदि त्वं तं 'पुत्र' इति वदसि, तर्हि केवला एका कन्या एव तव सहायतां कर्तुं शक्नोति; यतः तदा सूर्यः ग्रहणग्रस्तः भविष्यति।"
(("I know my son. It's the thing which will carry the spirit with the demon leading her into deep forests. There, he will think that you're his mother, serving your head out and killing you. The real answer to him is: I don't have a son. If you called him son, only a maiden can help you because the Sun would be under an eclipse."))
The words echoed through the forest, a finality that silenced the wind. Arush stood in the center of the inferno, his golden logo stained in mud, his eyes fixed on the darkness. He was the Son of Sun, but the shadow was lengthening. The King was gone, the board was burning, and in the silence of the void, the laughter grew louder. Every nerve in his body vibrated with the realization: the game hadn't ended with the fall of his king. It was only the beginning of his destruction.
He looked at his hand—the one he had torn and regrown. It felt foreign. It felt heavy. It felt like the hand of a killer who no longer cared for the life it was meant to protect. The red wood burned, the frost melted into tears of ash, and the Eclipse began to bite into the heart of the sun.
-ARUSH SALUNKE